The Dead Man

Chapter Sixty-one

Today was Thursday. I checked Corliss's calendar for yesterday. He had nothing scheduled. Neither did Maggie, Janet Casey, or Gary Kaufman.

I reconstructed what I knew of their movements over the last two days. I had talked to Corliss on Tuesday morning just before Kent and Dolan took a crack at him but I hadn't seen him since. I rode down the elevator Tuesday evening with Maggie, commenting what a good thing it was that the employees had been given Wednesday off, Maggie replying that a day of rest suited her. Neither had said anything about a meeting at the Gallery. I knew less about Janet and Gary's movements since I'd last talked to them on Monday.

Kent's and Dolan's interrogation may have convinced Corliss that the walls would soon come tumbling down, pushing him over the edge. He could have reserved the gallery by phone and instructed Gary to pick up the key, using the fact that the institute was closed on Wednesday as a reason to meet there.

I got a key to the gallery from Sherry's secretary and called Quincy Carter after Lucy and I were in the car. He didn't answer, confirming Rachel's warning that he had cut me off. I left him a message telling him about the gallery and that Lucy and I were on our way there.

"I know why you called Carter but why make sure he knows that's where we're going?" Lucy asked.

"Motivation. Even if he doesn't think it's a good lead, he'll want to get there before we do. All things considered, I'd rather he go through the door first."

My back arched as I spoke, wedging me against the headrest, spasms genuflecting me in my seat, my gun pressing on my spine.

"Hey, Sparky," she said. "Remember me. Lucy Trent. Kick-ass in the clutch."

"You'd like that, being first through the door, wouldn't you?"

"Damn straight I would."

We were northbound on Main, climbing the long, steep hill from the Plaza. The snowplows had done their best, but the ice was stubborn and cars were stranded on the slope, turning our drive into a slow motion slalom. Lucy goosed and cajoled the car, keeping the tires rolling but not spinning, cresting the hill with a broad smile.

A few blocks later, we did the downhill run on Main, a sweeping descent, the Liberty Memorial on the left, Hallmark Cards' headquarters and Crown Center on the right, Lucy nudging the wheel and working the brakes, turning right on Twentieth, grill smoke coming from the Hereford House cutting the late morning air.

"Stop here," I said, after we crossed Oak.

Lucy eased to the curb half a block from the gallery. We walked the rest of the way. There were no cars, civilian or police, parked along Twentieth. The street had been plowed, obliterating tire tracks that would have been left by anyone going into or leaving the gallery and there were no footprints in the snow on the sidewalk or on the three steps leading to the entrance.

The maroon brick building was narrow across the front, set long and deep into its lot. A heavy wooden door was cut into the brick and shrouded beneath an arch. The parking lot on the east side was empty.

I looked east and west on Twentieth, then north and south on McGee, the next cross street east of the gallery. Traffic was light. I gave Carter a few minutes and then turned to Lucy.

"Showtime."

She held her hand out to me, palm up. "Me first. Give me your gun."

"Carter shows up and sees you with a gun, could be a lot of trouble."

"I'll tell him I took it from you so you wouldn't accidentally shoot yourself."

I smiled. "Kick-ass in the clutch. I can't wait to see this."

I handed her my gun and the key card and followed her to the front door. She tried the handle but the door was locked. She ran the card across the sensor, the lock giving way with a firm click.

Holding the gun with both hands, arms extended down in front of her, she leaned against the door, pushing it open an inch, testing the sound it would make, waiting a beat for a reaction from the other side. The door and the gallery were silent. She looked back at me, one step below her. I nodded and she ducked her chin, slammed her shoulder into the door, and we blew across the threshold. Lucy went to the right and I went to the left, dividing the field of fire for anyone who may be waiting for us.

The door opened into the main gallery, a broad, high-ceilinged hall with smaller rooms on each side. Paintings hung on the walls, interspersed with sculptures mounted on pedestals and the floor. There were no lights on, the only illumination coming through the open door and the windows, leaving the recesses of the main hall in shadow. Wide stairs at the back led to a landing, an additional set of stairs at each end continuing to the second floor.

Anthony Corliss was the only one waiting and he was dead. His body lay across the stairs. He was nude, his chest and belly a torn quilt of stab wounds, his blood running down the stairs into a dark puddle on the floor, his right ear gone, another souvenir, a serrated gash on the side of his head taking its place.

We kept our distance from Corliss's body, not wanting to disturb the scene any more than was necessary to make certain no one else was in the building. Lucy made a quick check of the side rooms and the second floor.

"It's clear," she said.

I walked outside, standing on the front steps, and started to punch in Carter's number on my phone when I saw him turn the corner from Oak, his partner McNair riding shotgun. Lucy came up behind me and slipped my gun back into the holster. I leaned against the wall and shook, the bricks absorbing the tremors, Lucy squeezing my arm.

McNair got out of the car, pushed past us like we weren't there, and into the Gallery. Carter stopped at the foot of the steps.

"Who is it?" he asked me.

"Anthony Corliss. He was stabbed to death. The killer stripped him and cut off his ear."

"Naked and mutilated. Staged for us. Just like Anne Kendall."

"The way it looks."

"It's not being wrong about Corliss that bothers me," Carter said.

"I know. It's being late."