Thomas Cook - Sacrificial Ground

“Just a few minutes,” Cartier said. “As I told you, Derek would not have been interested in Angelica.” He thought about it for a moment. “But Angelica was quite persistent,” he said. “She actually followed him out to his truck. I was quite surprised. As a matter of fact, I must have been quite taken with it, because I walked out on the porch and watched them for a while.”

“What did they do?”

“Just talked,” Cartier said. “Derek was in the cab of the truck and Angelica was standing beside it.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, as you can see, we don’t have much of a parking lot,” Cartier said. “So after a while, another car tried to get in, and Derek pulled out to give it his space.”

“About how long did they talk?” Frank asked.

“It couldn’t have been more than three or four minutes,” Cartier said. “At least that time.”

“Did they meet again?”

“Yes, they must have,” Cartier said. “I know because Derek complained about it.”

“About Angelica?”

“That she had come over to his house and imposed upon him a bit.”

Frank quickly wrote it down. “What did he say exactly?”

“That he had no time for this sort of thing,” Cartier said. “I remember his exact words. I started to joke with him about being chased by a beautiful young girl, and he said, ‘In my faded condition, I don’t need a Queen of Ice.’”

Frank scratched the words into his notebook. He looked at Cartier. “Do you have this man’s address?”

“Yes,” Cartier said. Then he gave it to him.

“That’s in the Grant Park area, isn’t it?” Frank asked.

“Yes, it is,” Cartier said. “Derek’s lived there almost all his life.”

Frank continued to look at the address, 124 Bergen Street, staring at it so hard that his eyes seemed to bleach the blue ink into a blazing white.

20

Even over the phone, he realized suddenly, Karen’s voice drew him toward her like an invisible wire.

“Hello,” she said.

“Karen, it’s Frank.”

He waited for her to respond in some intimate way, with a sudden caught breath, a sigh, a whisper.

“Frank Clemons,” he added.

“Yes, I know, Frank,” Karen said with a small laugh. “You’re such a formal man.”

He wanted to stop right there and ask her what she meant, but he knew he couldn’t.

“Listen,” he said quickly. “Have you ever heard of a place called the Knife Point?”

“A gallery?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Karen said. “James has mentioned it a couple of times.”

“But you’ve never been there?”

“No.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Not much,” Karen said. “James has always treated it as a joke, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s very rigid when it comes to art.”

“So you don’t know anyone who is connected to the gallery?” Frank asked.

“No.”

“Did Angelica ever mention it?”

“No. Why?”

“How about Derek Linton? Have you ever heard of him?”

“Yes,” Karen said. “He’s a painter. He’s very good.”

“Did Angelica ever mention him?”

“No,” Karen said. Her voice tightened. “What’s this all about, Frank?”

“I’ve found out that Angelica sometimes hung around the Knife Point.”

“Hung around? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Frank told her. “But I also found out that she knew Derek Linton.”

“And they met at the Knife Point?”

“Yes.”

“But what would Angelica be doing at a place like that?”

“She’s been there a few times,” Frank said. “The owner recognized her.”

There was another silence, and in his mind, Frank could see Karen’s eyes as they grew softer and more somber.

“Frank,” he heard her say finally. “Be careful.”

There was a strange, insistent quality in her voice, and Frank could still hear it echoing faintly in his mind as he pulled the car up to 124 Bergen Street. It was a small woodframe house, but it was well-kept-up compared to the rest of the neighborhood. It had been recently painted a gently muted white, and the bright green shutters shone cheerfully in the hard afternoon light.

But there was still something sad about the house, and as he got out of the car and headed up the cement walk, Frank could feel that sadness gathering around him. It was in the soft sway of the flowers that bordered the walkway, and the gentle, lonely tinkle of the stained-glass wind chimes that hung on the front porch. It was in the huge wall of shrubbery that all but blocked the end of the walkway, and which turned the porch into a lush green cavern, one whose moist leaves seemed already to be fading toward a crackling brown.

The door opened not long after Frank knocked, and he saw a tall, very lean man staring at him from behind the screen.

“If you’ve come to collect some bill or other,” he said, “you can forget it.”

Frank pulled out his badge.

The man squinted at the gold shield. “There’s no possible reason why the police would be interested in me.”

“Are you Derek Linton?” Frank asked.

“Yes.”

“Frank Clemons. I’m investigating a murder.”

“Murder?”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “I understand you’re a painter, Mr. Linton.”

“Is that a crime now?”

Frank returned the badge to his pocket. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes. It’s important.”

“You don’t mind a mess, do you?”

“No.”

“All right then,” Linton said. He swung open the door. “Come in.”

The front room looked as if it had never been straightened, and yet, Frank noticed, it did not have the same sense of hopeless confusion which he found in his own apartment. There were spots of paint on the floor, walls and furniture. Stacks of frames leaned haphazardly against the walls, and assorted canvases were gathered together in jagged piles in all four corners of the room. A rickety, paint-splattered easel stood near a large open window as if it were the still-surviving testament of an undefeated heart.

“I do love this place,” Linton said as he eased himself into a light blue overstuffed chair. He took a bottle of red wine from beside the chair and poured himself a glass. Then he lifted the bottle to Frank. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Because you’re on duty?”

“Because I don’t want one,” Frank said.

Linton smiled. “Sit down, Mr. Clemons.”

Frank sat down in a small wooden rocker and took out his notebook.

“Very thorough,” Linton said. He picked up a single plastic bottle from an array of medicines which covered the top of the small table beside his chair. “Just a moment, please,” he said, “it’s time for this one.” He placed a large white pill in his mouth and washed it down with the wine. “They’re not supposed to go together,” he said, “but I do what I like.” He replaced the bottle on the table. “Quite a collection of medicines, don’t you think?”

Frank nodded.

“Dying,” Linton said, as he gazed at the assorted drugs. “And don’t want to.” He motioned toward the collection of medicines. “These are all parts of the resistance,” he said, “and they are as far as I will go.” He ran his fingers through his great mane of white hair. “Don’t want to lose this. I’m too vain. Cancer has a way of taking your dignity before it takes your life.”

It had once been a beautiful face, Frank thought, as he gazed at Derek Linton, and although it had now grown slack and terribly pale, it still retained a certain heroic loveliness.

Linton reached for a framed photograph and handed it to Frank. It showed a tall, robust man with beautiful white hair and wild, blue eyes. “That’s the way I looked just a year ago,” he said. He took another sip of wine. “But that’s not what you’re here to talk about.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now, you said something about a murder?”