Carol O’Connell - Killing Critics

Oren Watt stood at the outer edge of the fray, with the sun on his face. Perhaps that was why she just seemed to appear there. One moment the sidewalk across the street had been empty, and now she stood there, smiling at him. He remembered her from the Koozeman shoot. She was the one who had removed the tapes on the gallery where Dean Starr had died. The young woman had smiled at him then, too, though not exactly a smile, more like bared teeth.

Now she pulled a black wallet out of her blazer and opened it to display a badge. The sun hit the metal and shot his eyes with gold. A truck lumbered between them, and when it had passed by, she was gone.

“I thought you were the technical advisor, Oren.”

He spun around to see her standing behind him. She was looking down at a clipboard.

“Did you tell them they were shooting in the wrong place?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I once asked a nun that same question, same words. You know what she said? ‘I want your soul.’ ” And now she was walking away from him, making a check mark on her clipboard as she left him.

“Well this is wonderful,” said Charles, as he stood at the desk in Mallory’s office and pored through the contents of the brown bag. He held up a brand of mustard he had never seen before. And a full complement of foreign beers filled out the bottom of the sack.

“Sorry about lunch,” said Mallory. She was sitting at one of the three computer terminals which dominated the room.

“Have you given any thought to how Quinn knew you’d be at the gallery today? Perhaps you don’t know much about his habits. New York is overcrowded with galleries. What are the odds he was just passing by? He’s stalking you. He’s not dangerous of course, but still.”

“He’s tied to my money motive for the old murders. Maybe he’s worried that I’m making connections he wouldn’t like.”

“You’re wrong, Mallory. Quinn’s presence kills your money motive.”

“Like hell it does. Having Quinn view the bodies fits very nicely with money. He’s an important critic. It all fits.”

“No, Mallory, the fact that Quinn was called in is an oddity. It doesn’t fit at all. He couldn’t have been called there for publicity value. The murderer would have called in a hack critic for that.”

“A review from Quinn is gold.”

“Well, no it isn’t, not for a bad artist. There was a time when a critic could launch a career. But not anymore. Today, the artist is promoted with media hype and a gimmick, not a critique. To have Quinn see the murder as artwork, well, that would only be important to a really talented artist. That description doesn’t fit Peter Ariel, Dean Starr or Oren Watt. It only makes sense as revenge against Quinn. You may have to accept his idea that Aubry was the primary target. The only other reasonable theory is a random act of insane violence.”

“I’m swimming in people who made money on those deaths. I’m right about this.”

“Why are you so stubborn about the money motive?”

“I need it for the Dean Starr murder. Without it I’ve got nothing. If it’s a random act of violence, then the killer disappears into the crowd, and there’s no trail.”

She wasn’t with him anymore, she was so intent on her computer screen.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m breaking into an artist’s network through an internet server.”

She looked up at him and smiled. He must have found her smile disquieting, because now he was leaving her, softly closing the door behind him, not wanting to witness any breaking and entry.

She had taken quite an interest in the artnets over the past few days. Once into the system, she proceeded immediately to the forum under the heading of Bliss’s Last Column. She passed over the familiar two-day-old comments of artists and interested parties, and happened on a conversation taking place in real time. Two of the players were opting out to a private room. She went into the data base and plucked the passwords to diddle the cyberspace lock so she could follow after them. Invisible to the screens of the others, she stole up on the more intimate conversation printing out before her eyes and learned that Andrew Bliss had spent two years in a seminary, studying for the priesthood.

Robin Duffy sat at the card table in the den of Charles’s apartment. His beer rested on a coaster, and his pile of change lay in the center of the green gaming surface. An overhead light exaggerated Duffy’s jowls and gave him the look of a bulldog. He was pouring out his troubles to Rabbi David Kaplan. Though Duffy was a devout Catholic, this man would always be his rabbi.

“I got another offer on Markowitz’s house today, Rabbi. Why won’t the brat sell it? I hate to see it empty every day. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s Kathy’s home.” The rabbi’s face was composed in a serene smile. His elbows were propped on the table as he scrutinized his cards. “That old house is all she has left of her days with Helen and Louis.”

“Naw, I don’t think that’s it. She hardly ever goes there, and she never stays the night. It should have a nice family in it, some kids-life.”

“My parents died before I turned twenty,” said Charles, looking down at his own cards. “It took me almost another twenty years to sell their apartment.”

“Well, I know seventeen-room condos don’t move all that fast,” said Edward Slope, “but twenty years?”

“It was home. I didn’t always live there, even when my parents were alive. I spent most of my life at schools. But it was home.”

“Kathy should have a real home,” said Duffy. “Gimme two cards. She should have a husband and kids, lots of kids.”

Edward Slope put down his cards and looked to some distant point in the room. “I’m trying to picture a world with a lot of little baby felons who look like Kathy.”

The largest pile of change was in front of Edward Slope. The rabbi’s pile and Robin Duffy’s were smaller but respectable. As always, the obvious loser in this first hour of the game was Charles Butler, who had gambled wildly at the start, and now nursed a rather small pile of quarters and dimes. For the next round, the rabbi held the deck, and five cards were dealt to each player, four cards facedown and the last card showing. The high card, an ace, fell to Charles Butler.

“Don’t pick up your cards,” said a voice behind his chair, Mallory’s voice. The other players looked up in unison.

“Trust me, Charles,” said Mallory. “Just let the cards lie there facedown. Now ante up.”

He put his quarter alongside the other three quarters in the pile at the center of the table, not knowing what his hand held, only trusting Mallory. As he looked around at his friends, he saw three suspicious faces focussed on her. All of these people had known her since she was a child. And now his trust in her increased.

“If you want to play, pull up a chair and do it properly,” said Edward Slope.

“I don’t need a chair in the game to beat lightweights like you.”

There were raises of quarters around the table, and she nodded to Charles when it was his turn. “See that raise and raise him another quarter.”

They went through this ritual until the pot at the center of the table had grown considerably. Charles had only three quarters and a small assortment of dimes and nickels left to bet with. According to the rules of long standing, when he lost his change, he was out of the game. His faith in Mallory was flagging. Logic dictated that he could be cleaned out by the player with the largest store of change, and that was Edward.

“Too rich,” said the rabbi, as he folded his cards. “I’m out.”

It was Robin Duffy’s play. “Give me a minute,” he said, rearranging his cards to make it seem like he had at least two pair. Now he looked to Charles’s hand with only the single ace showing. The graduate of Harvard Law School continued his deliberations over the twenty-five-cent bet.