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- Herausgeber: Valley Publishing Ltd.
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Cayce’s art is well-known and respected among her peers, and, as such, has spawned forgers, copycats … and enemies. But when her favorite model and best friend is murdered—the masterpiece painted on her skin cut off her body—Cayce knows she’s up against a collector of a very different sort.
Detective Richard Henderson doesn’t know much about art, but he knows what he likes. Of all the art mixed up in this case, it is the artist, Cayce, who fascinates him the most. While he understands her work contains an element of something extraordinary, he just doesn’t know what that is exactly or how she embodies it in her creative works of art.
But, when other models show up dead, with more souvenirs taken from their bodies, both the artist and the detective realize much more is involved in this than just Cayce’s art … It’s all about Cayce’s soul.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Stroke of Death
A Psychic Visions NovelBook #17
Dale Mayer
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About This Book
Complimentary Download
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About Ice Maiden
Sneak Peek from Ice Maiden
Author’s Note
Complimentary Download
About the Author
Copyright Page
About This Book
Cayce’s art is well-known and respected among her peers, and, as such, has spawned forgers, copycats … and enemies. But when her favorite model and best friend is murdered—the masterpiece painted on her skin cut off her body—Cayce knows she’s up against a collector of a very different sort.
Detective Richard Henderson doesn’t know much about art, but he knows what he likes. Of all the art mixed up in this case, it is the artist, Cayce, who fascinates him the most. While he understands her work contains an element of something extraordinary, he just doesn’t know what that is exactly or how she embodies it in her creative works of art.
But, when other models show up dead, with more souvenirs taken from their bodies, both the artist and the detective realize much more is involved in this than just Cayce’s art … It’s all about Cayce’s soul.
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KILL OR BE KILLED
Part of an elite SEAL team, Mason takes on the dangerous jobs no one else wants to do – or can do. When he’s on a mission, he’s focused and dedicated. When he’s not, he plays as hard as he fights.
Until he meets a woman he can’t have but can’t forget. Software developer, Tesla lost her brother in combat and has no intention of getting close to someone else in the military. Determined to save other US soldiers from a similar fate, she’s created a program that could save lives. But other countries know about the program, and they won’t stop until they get it – and get her.
Time is running out … For her … For him … For them …
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Chapter 1
Cayce Cormont didn’t want to rush her work today. She didn’t want to rush any day but definitely not today. This was the fifth day she had put into this commissioned art piece, her static part of her art. She had finished the backdrop. Today was all about getting the presentation of the model incorporated in just right, merging perfectly with Cayce’s background art. That she’d been feeling unwell the last two days only made her job harder.
To add to her pain and frustration, the “perfect model” whom the set director wanted was the worst model for the job. Cayce had only found out about the change in the model yesterday. She’d been putting the final touches on the backdrop, when the company brought in the new model to show her. Cayce’s normal approach was not to let others dictate her models to her, not even the client who had commissioned the piece. But this time the client’s representatives had pulled a fast one on Cayce at the very last moment.
To top off that insult, Cayce had taken an instant dislike to the new model, Naomi. Something about the sly curl to her lips and that look in her eyes combined to say that she knew exactly what the world wanted, and she was prepared to give it up—for a price. Cayce had really struggled to find anything good about her. And, in Cayce’s work, that bonding and blending was everything.
But Cayce was a professional and did what she needed to do. Today was no exception. Besides, the sooner she was done, the sooner she could move on. She walked from her vehicle to the art installation, putting down her large cases and turning to study the work she’d completed the night before.
Finally, after a few moments, she stepped back and nodded. “It looks good.”
“Looks darn good.”
At the sound of footsteps, she turned to see her replacement model saunter in, dressed in a bikini and not much else. Cayce nodded in acknowledgment of Naomi’s comment, then said, “Okay, so right back to the same position we set up last night,” she said, motioning to the wall—Cayce’s artwork—where the model herself would disappear into the actual painted background.
“And good morning to you too,” Naomi said in a snide voice.
Cayce shrugged it off. She was short on time as it was and couldn’t afford to waste more by slinging words with Naomi when Cayce needed to be slinging paint. It was hard to be creative if she had adverse feelings for the whole scenario. She wished she had her regular model because Elena would have been absolutely perfect for this job.
Cayce had worked with Elena just two days ago on another art show, highlighting different masterpieces, and it had worked out stunningly, but that had been for a fancy house party, where Elena had been the artsy centerpiece of the ballroom. She had done a phenomenal job, and, when Cayce had told her best model to go home and rest, Elena had laughed at her and said, “Now that I’m off duty, I want to enjoy the party and mingle with the guests.” She had given Cayce a gentle hug, then turned and walked away.
Elena’s happy energy was so very different from the critical scowl Naomi wore, as Cayce tried to sort out what she needed to do next, other than deflecting Naomi’s negative energy.
“You can start anytime now,” Naomi said in a bored voice. “At this rate we’ll be here all day.”
“I won’t be,” Cayce said. She bent down, opened up her cases, brought out her palettes and paints, mixing the first color she wanted. When she was ready, she pulled on the energies around her, looking for that creative light, that rainbow, which she wrapped around her, almost like a blanket of good luck, spreading out into all the different colors. She was a firm believer in the colors of sound and the colors of nature.
When she reached for a certain color, Cayce always called out to Mother Nature to help her make a true representation.
Finally she stood up with her palette and walked over to Naomi and got to work. Cayce started with Naomi’s left shoulder and arm, working down her elbow; Cayce’s strokes were sure, fast, and accurate.
Naomi watched her in surprise. “Wow, when you get going, you get going.”
Cayce didn’t say a word. What could she say? It was beyond her to talk at this point because all the possible colors of the spectrum surged through her heart, through her mind, wrapping around her body and soul. She needed the same energy to wrap around Naomi, to help her model attract and pull in, to blend with the same colors, to blend with the same energy. Only there was no blending with Naomi. Her energy was impatient, irritated—edgy.
Yet Cayce’s work entailed a magical element, and she firmly believed it was due to the energy that she utilized. Something she’d accidentally discovered after practicing her healing lessons with Dr. Maddy, a physician well renowned for her energy work in the healing arts.
When the magic happened naturally, it was great, easy, wonderful. Sometimes Cayce could also make it happen; she was a pro at that. That would desperately be needed here with Naomi. Because otherwise, the art would look flat and feel … off.
Cayce worked relentlessly for two hours, before she finally took a step back. She had the preliminary body-painting on the top half of Naomi, the background blending beautifully into the foreground. Although Cayce still had the other layers to work on, Naomi’s hair was pulled back into a tight braid down her back, and Cayce had to blend Naomi’s face and that hairline yet. She walked closer to the model. “Do you need a bathroom break or some water?”
Naomi nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good.” She walked toward the hallway, disappearing around a corner.
Cayce took a deep breath and let it out, gently twisting and stretching her spine and neck. Then shook off Naomi’s negative energy she’d been working to bypass. When she heard hard footsteps behind her, she stiffened. She hated on-site visitors when she worked. She just wished they’d wait to see the finished piece at the opening event. Not to mention that the energy preceding her visitor had a dark, disruptive influence attached. She pulled in her aura, then turned to face the coming threat.
When she saw a man in a suit walking toward her, her eyes opened wide. His chiseled face was his most striking feature—but a model in a suit with a crisp hard attitude seemed incongruous here.
“May I help you?” She studied his aura, seeing it snugged tightly against his body. A barely visible white line of energy surrounded him. Except it resonated with anger—lots of anger. Yet controlled. She raised her eyebrows slightly.
“Why would you think I need your help?” he asked in a tight, hard voice.
Although he might not be aware of what his aura was doing, he clearly didn’t want her aware of it either. Because now his energy had thinned even more. “It’s just that you look angry,” she said. She waved her hand at the installation. “I’m kind of busy.”
“You are Cayce Matlock?” At her nod, he continued, “And you worked with Elena Campbell?”
“Yes, all the time. We did a piece together two nights ago,” she said, her face softening at the reminder. “She’s a really good friend of mine.”
Just then Naomi returned, instantly shifting the energy in the room. She took her position against the backdrop wall, as she eyed the new arrival with a pretty smile on her face. “Oh, perfect. Somebody to come and watch me,” she said, as she bounced her bare boobs a bit.
It was all Cayce could do to hold back her sigh of frustration.
The man looked at her, then looked at Naomi. “So do you know Elena too?”
“Sure,” Naomi said. “Models in this business usually know each other. She’s pretty decent. I’m better.” She indicated her sleek body. “That’s why I’m here, and she’s not,” she said smugly. “I’m Naomi Star.”
The stranger’s gaze narrowed.
On the side, biting back her caustic response, Cayce watched Naomi’s energy. The deceptive fluffy lights flitting off in a million different directions hid something dark inside, but everybody had something dark inside. Because Cayce had taken an instant dislike to the woman, Cayce had put up barriers, so she wouldn’t have to deal with Naomi’s energy on a firsthand basis, but that also made her painting process go a bit slower, as she had to bypass the barriers to make this work. It would never be as good as with a better model, but, given Cayce had no choice this time, it’s what she would have to do.
While Naomi seemed to think that Cayce was fast and on target, today wasn’t really going as smoothly, as timely, or as well as Cayce would have liked. And she didn’t have time for interruptions. She turned to the stranger. “You haven’t identified yourself,” she said in a cool tone. “What’s going on?”
“I am Detective Richard Henderson,” he said, pulling out a badge.
She frowned, reading the name on the badge. “What do the police want here?”
“Doesn’t matter what they want,” Naomi said with a throaty laugh. “They can send all their hunky detectives my way anytime.”
Naomi’s words gave Cayce everything she needed to know, without even turning toward Naomi to see the same darkness oozing from her pores. Nerves. Fear. Uncertainty. Insecurity. Cayce studied her model for a long moment, then faced the detective, noting no change in his energy. He was completely unfazed by Naomi. Neither was he attracted to the mostly naked woman.
Interesting.
“Detective, why are you here?”
“Because we found your friend,” he said with added emphasis on that last word.
“Which friend?” she asked, not understanding where he was coming from. “What do you mean, found?”
“Elena Campbell,” he said. “Remember her?”
Frustrated now, she gave a quick nod. “Yes, I already told you that she’s a good friend of mine.”
“Her body was found in a dumpster yesterday morning.” His gaze was hard, angry. “What do you know about that?”
Cayce took the blow almost viscerally. Her body bowed against the pain. Her knees sagged, and her heart crushed from the horrific pressure of the shock. “Are you serious?” she gasped out. “Oh, my God.” She sank to the floor, shutting her eyelids, as if that would somehow stop the assault on all her senses.
Her mind was completely overwhelmed, as shards of pain splintered through her. Was that why the last two days had been so rough? She’d fought the headaches and the nausea, and, when a darkness had enveloped her, she’d really wondered what was going on. When she found out Elena had been replaced in this installation, Cayce hadn’t been happy—as in seriously not happy—and had figured the ugly energy was due to that. That, in part, had been behind her bad mood.
Although her being forced to use Naomi hadn’t helped. She liked to choose her own models. Not deal with the ones who were sleeping their way to the top. Naomi hadn’t fit the bill yesterday. She hadn’t fit the bill today. Cayce’s models had to have that extra something.
Naomi didn’t have it.
Elena had it … in spades. No, … had had it. Past tense.
The grief crushed her, and she couldn’t get air into her lungs, as she stared at the detective.
The detective squatted in front of her. “Breathe.”
She struggled, then gasped, and drew in a deep breath, her gaze wide and painful as she stared at him. “How? When?”
“She had already been dead for several hours,” he said softly, as he studied her. “Her throat was cut.”
The shocks just kept reverberating. Her body shook involuntarily. Then she added her own headshake. “Oh, my God, dear God, no.” She continuously shook her head, her lips firmed into a straight line, her eyes filling with tears. “Please, no,” she whispered again, turning to the detective. “Elena was special. Why would anybody want to hurt her?”
“You body-painted her, correct?”
She nodded, her gaze still locked on his, searching for anything to say, but her throat had closed, her heart shutting down at the terrible horrors filling her mind’s eye.
“And what did you paint on her that night?”
She stared up at him, and sadly, she whispered, “A masterpiece. I painted her into a masterpiece.”
“Well, guess what?” he said, his voice hardening. “A collector found something else to collect. Her skin.”
At his last words, her body automatically took a fetal position, rolled over, where her stomach revolted, and she vomited all over the floor.
In her heart of hearts, she knew the murderer hadn’t just collected a masterpiece of art. Something was so very special about Elena. Her energy was pure gold.
When her killer took her life, her painted skin, he’d also taken a part of Elena’s soul.
*
He stared at the beautiful painting in front of him. It would be a challenge to preserve this. He’d taken multiple photographs, and he’d already stretched out the canvas. The stretching bars were ever-so-gently tightened in order to fine-tune the tension to get the look that he wanted. It was a stunning picture—sunsets and an eagle—but something was just luminescent about it. He was desperate to capture that luminescence. He quickly coated it with yet another layer of preservative, trying to keep it as it was, trying to keep that something special. He looked at the discarded masterpieces he had worked on before.
Most of them were no good, but he’d taken photographs and had them blown up, just as a reminder. But they were something. They were a memory, faint, just a shadow of what they should be, what they could be. This one, however, he had high hopes for. He studied the piece again carefully, analyzing the stretchiness of it. And then quickly tightened just one millimeter on one of the top bolts to stretch that one portion back out again. Satisfied, he sat back and took more photos. He was obsessed with the painting. It was just so good, so stunning. He’d hadn’t realized she’d become so big, until he’d seen the artist at a huge installation.
She had created a great big wall painting and was doing an incredible job of taking people from their normal reality, dropping them right into the fantasy world she wanted the observer to experience. He’d watched the artist work, as she painted a doorframe and walls, all the way down, giving it a 3-D effect, as if you could walk right in, and yet into what? And that was the thing that she invited you to play with—into the world beyond, into the world within, into the world that you had yet to explore. He’d spent most of the day there, absolutely enthralled with her work.
And he hadn’t been alone. A lot of other people busily worked, standing and staring in surprise, shock, and wonder. He couldn’t leave it alone. He’d become obsessed, knowing he had to own a masterpiece himself. Only she didn’t sell them—at least not at a price he could afford. But so much life existed in her paintings. So much life force.
He’d painted at her side for a time, but she’d taken off, and he hadn’t.
He pondered the idiosyncrasies of fate that left him here in this dreary hidden space, while she was queen of the art world.
When he realized he’d never own a Cayce masterpiece, he’d become inspired to pick up his paintbrush again. He’d been an artist for years. Surely he could copy her work. Make something so similar that he’d be happy. But it hadn’t happened yet. Those failures had fueled his determination to not only own one of hers—now something he’d succeeded in, even if it was only a tiny piece of Cayce’s art—but it was here beside him for him to copy, so he could become the king of the art world.
Through his phone he heard his mother yell out.
“You were supposed to bring me milk for my tea,” she said in that querulous voice.
“I did bring you milk, Mom,” he said ever patiently. “I brought it to you yesterday, and I brought it to you again today.”
“Well, I’m out,” she said, in that sad voice, denying the evidence in front of them, which was that she couldn’t remember anything.
“Open the fridge, and you’ll see the milk in the left-hand door.”
He heard her shuffling across the room, heading to the fridge, and the small click that said she had opened it.
“Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said. “The milk is here. I just didn’t realize you came and went without stopping to visit.”
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mom, I came and had lunch with you.”
“Are you coming today?”
He looked over at the clock and frowned. “If I do, it’ll be late.”
“That’s okay,” she said in delight. Her words were followed by the click of the phone.
It made him really sad to think of the bright fresh mind of his mother, now reduced to an old lady who couldn’t even remember if he’d brought in the milk. He knew he wasn’t alone in this scenario, and he knew that maybe a good son would have brought his mother in to live with him. But no way he could. No way she’d understand the obsession with his artwork.
He stepped back from the piece he’d been working on, moved the canvas under the lights, nodded, and set up his own easel. People had been capturing and imitating the great artists of the world since time began. He was determined to do the same with the work of Cayce Matlock. The woman was a genius. If he could just figure out how to capture that very essence that made her paintings so special.
He picked up the paintbrush and made his first stroke.
Chapter 2
Cayce sat on the bench in the police station. She kept checking her watch because, damn it, her appointment was twenty-five minutes ago. She understood that they considered themselves busy, and this was important, but she was the one who just had to wait. In her world, she had things to do too, and twenty-five minutes late was unacceptable. She shuffled once again on the hard bench seat. She looked up for the tenth or thirtieth time and searched around her. She swore she was being watched, but she couldn’t see anyone. Finally she pulled out her phone again and checked the time yet once more, groaned, and sat back. She’d already told her assistant she would be late. She just hadn’t realized how late.
“Cayce Matlock?”
She looked up to see the detective, Richard Henderson, staring at her. She bounced to her feet and frowned at him. “How long will this take? I’m already late.”
He gave her a slight tilt of his head, his gaze hard and assessing. He motioned for her to follow him. She was okay to do that but wished she knew what this was all about. She was led into a small interview room.
He motioned at a chair on the opposite side of the table and said, “Please, take a seat.”
She sat down, dropped her oversize purse on the floor beside her with a thunk, put her folded hands on the table, and said, “I hope this won’t take long, Detective. I’m really late.”
“It’ll take as long as it takes,” he said in a mild tone of voice, as he opened up a file folder in front of her.
The flash of a photograph before her had her breath catching in the back of her throat as she stared at it. She snatched the headless picture, just a torso shot, her other hand covering her mouth in shock. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Is this Elena? Is this what he did to her? He ruthlessly hacked away at her body like that?”
He looked at her, then down at the picture, and she shook her head wordlessly. Tears flowed down her cheeks. He grabbed a tissue box she hadn’t seen and switched out the photograph for the box. She quickly plucked several from the package and covered her eyes with them, as the tears flowed in an incessant stream.
When she finally regained her voice, she asked bitterly, “Did you do that purely for shock value?” She closed her eyes again, more tears flowing, trying to stop them with tissues again. “She was my best friend, you know?” When she had dabbed her eyes enough, she looked up, catching just a hint of regret on his face as he stared down at the photograph.
She sniffled, wiping her nose, still taking short, halting breaths. “Did he mutilate her back too?”
Richard frowned.
“The painting continues on her back.”
Richard shook his head. “How did you identify her?” he asked quietly.
She swallowed hard, clenched her fist around the tissues, then reached for the photograph again. “See this portion here? He didn’t take all of it. At the collarbone it’s much harder to paint. I have to take a lot of extra care when we get close to the surface of the bone because the light hits it differently as she moves.” She pointed out the deep purple color still along the top.
“I know it’s probably an impossible thing to ask, but is there any way to know if that color was changed or altered in any way?”
“You mean, other than the fact that it’s been brutally and haphazardly cut off?” She stared at him suspiciously.
He nodded. “We need to know anything that might help make sense of this.”
“My best friend was skinned by some crazed hack,” she said softly. “There is no making sense of this.”
“No,” he said, “but there’s a reason. It made sense to somebody.”
“A psycho,” she said immediately.
“That’s because, in your mind, you can’t see any real value to skinning somebody, I presume.”
“I’m sure there are cultures where it’s done for either reasons of tradition or revenge,” she said, “but no.”
“We do it to animals all the time,” he said mildly.
She raised her head in shock, looked at him, saw the note in his gaze, but couldn’t pin a description to it. Then she glared at him. “Is that some kind of a joke?”
“It’s not,” he said, “but, of course, we have to consider cases in the past where people have tanned the hides of people. Turning them into atrocities, like little purses and things.”
She could feel the bile rising up in the back of her throat at his words, her right hand instinctively going there. It was hard to consider.
“Don’t pass out on me,” he snapped at her.
She swallowed, blinked rapidly, pushed back her chair, and dropped her head into her hands. Just the thought of somebody doing something like that to such a beautiful and vibrant woman like Elena made Cayce want to scream and rail at the world.
“Why do you paint?”
Stunned at the question, she turned to look at him and asked, “Pardon?”
“I asked, why you paint?”
“Because I’m an artist,” she snapped. “Is that really the question you wanted to ask me?”
A ghost of a smile appeared as he shook his head, picked up a pad of paper, and said, “No, you’re right. We do have specific questions. So tell me. When did you last see her?”
“At the installation. I already told you that.”
“And how long was she there with you?”
“We’d been working all day,” she said. “The show opened at seven o’clock in the evening.”
“So she was there from seven until when?”
Cayce had to stop, took several deep breaths, corralled her brain cells that were already firing off in a million different directions, most of them in horror. “I think she was there until ten. And then I’m not so sure. At ten she walked around, separated herself from the installation, and became a moving art piece.”
“What does that mean?”
She groaned. “One of the things that I do a little differently at times,” she said, “is I paint the installation behind her, then I paint her, but this time I carried the image all around to the back, so, when she walks, she’s covered.”
He stared at her. “Covered?” he asked delicately.
She glared at him. “It’s a very intimate process. It’s a very intimate job. Elena felt naked if she wasn’t 100 percent painted, especially if she was expected to walk around and to visit with people.”
“Being covered by paint is hardly being covered,” he said.
“It’s covered enough,” she said with a sigh and sat back. “Look. Each model feels a very different way about being painted. For Elena, as long as it wasn’t her bare skin, she wasn’t nude. So, when I knew that she would be walking around, and not just going home afterward, I made sure that her back was fully covered as well.”
“And is that normal?”
She shook her head. “No, not at all. A lot of artists don’t want to use any more paint than they have to, and, to a lot of the models, the special artistic ones, it’s like that two-sided part of their personality, as in, the front is covered, and the back is not. It shows the two sides to who they are.”
“So, they’re exhibitionists?”
“That’s a judgment call, Detective,” she said tiredly, as she pressed her fingers through her long strands of blond hair. “Elena was not an exhibitionist.”
“She appeared nude in all kinds of art pieces for you,” he said. “How is that not being an exhibitionist?”
“She’s an artist.”
“You’re the artist,” he corrected.
She shook her head. “I am the artist, but to say that the model isn’t also an artist would be to minimize what their role is.”
“I don’t get it,” he said, shoving back his own chair slightly. “What does the model do except be still?”
“Sure, being still is one thing,” she said, “but consider the fact that she has to be still for hours, that she has to maintain the exact same position, and that she has to find that same position again, no matter what. She has to hold it. She has to know which muscles to engage, which facial expressions she was in, in order to regain that exact same look.”
“And can they hold it for hours?”
“Yes,” she said. “Every hour, or every couple hours, we give them a break, but we definitely keep it going.”
“And you have to paint the models for hours too?”
“Depends on how complex the installation, yes, but what I’ll often do is I’ll paint, say, her legs, and then I’ll do something else, so she can walk around and take a break. Or I’ll paint her torso and carry on. I do the last layer when she’s in place, in position, and I tune her right into the background painting itself.”
“So, she’s a part of the bigger masterpiece, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t this about hiding? Isn’t this about not seeing what we’re seeing?”
She stared at him thoughtfully. “You mean, body-painting?”
He nodded slowly. “I’m trying to understand the mind of the killer.”
She winced at that, her gaze darting to the photo and back again. “I so wish we didn’t have to,” she said sadly.
“But that’s not helpful,” he said. “This person has taken the life of somebody you care about. But the why of it is what I need to know.”
“I have no idea,” she said.
Then realizing she hadn’t answered his other question, she took a deep breath and said, “I don’t think this body-painting artwork is about hiding anything. I think it’s about making you look deeper.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “Do you think maybe somebody looked deeper and found something they liked?”
“Obviously.” The tears choked her again. “Why don’t we get off those kinds of questions before I start bawling again?” she asked. “Can you ask the rest of your questions, so that I can leave?”
“Yes,” he said. “I have some information that I need to confirm.”
They went through some of the basics in her world. Quickly they ran through Elena’s address, phone number, and circle of friends, which was so vast that she shook her head at that one. “Elena was a butterfly. She had a lot of social connections. A lot of people wanted to be in with a model, especially Elena. She had a lot of surface relationships, but I’m not sure that she had very many intense, deep ones.”
“Other than you?” He hesitated before continuing, “Just how deep was your relationship?’
She stared at him for a long moment. “If you’re asking if we were lovers, the answer is no. But did I love her? Yes. I loved her like a sister. I loved her like an inspiration.” She hesitated, not quite sure how to make him understand. “The thing is, an artist has something inside them that helps to keep them inspired. Elena was that person for me.”
“And was your love maybe a little more than just platonic?”
“Absolutely not.” She smiled. “Elena loved men. But again, she was that social butterfly. She would have a relationship, and she would leave. She would slide into somebody’s life and leave. Unfortunately she left a trail of broken hearts.” She understood he didn’t like hearing that. “She was light,” she said, trying to explain it. “She was a good soul.”
At that wording, he froze, slowly raised his gaze, and looked at her. “Interesting wording.”
“No, she came from the heart. Everything Elena did was to help bring light and laughter to the world,” she said sadly. “And, if you can’t understand that, I’m sorry.”
“I understand very well,” he said. “Unfortunately.”
*
Richard walked out of the hallway door and into the lobby, watching Cayce as she strode away, her tall, lean frame moving rapidly, as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. He understood that, for it was a reaction he saw again and again with suspects. Though she wasn’t really high on his suspect list, except that, in her own words, she had loved the victim. Who knew exactly what had been behind that love?
He’d asked her about a few of her own relationships, but there hadn’t been anything major or recent, according to her. Now, if only he had somebody else to confirm that. That just meant losing Elena was all the more heartbreaking, if she’d been the main friendship in Cayce’s world, but it didn’t answer the question of whether Cayce had had a hand in Elena’s murder. Being within a masterpiece, maybe Elena had done something to ruin it. Maybe she’d upset the artist somehow, or maybe she had done something with somebody else, gone to another artist?
More questions to ask Cayce.
She had disappeared from sight now, but he pulled out his phone and quickly called her. “Did Elena model for anybody else?”
“Yes,” Cayce said, on the other end. “Several people.”
“Email me that list,” he said in an urgent tone. “I need to contact them as soon as possible.”
“As soon as I get back to the office,” she said in a resigned tone, “I’ll send it to you.”
“And, if you think of anything else, of anybody who might have had something to do with this, let me know.”
“That’s your job, Detective,” she said. “I’m a busy person too.”
“Unless, of course, there is some reason why you don’t want to help the police,” he said, his voice hard. He walked outside the police station, his gaze quickly scanning the crowds, moving rapidly up and down the streets.
She groaned. “If I don’t cooperate, I’ll look suspicious, and, if I do cooperate, I have to keep reliving everything to do with my friend’s death.”
“Yep, that’s about the way it works,” he said. “Deal with it or don’t. But I’m not going away until I solve this.”
“Nobody wants you to solve this more than I do, Detective,” she said.
“Then prove it,” he snapped. He hung up the phone, walked across the street to a food vendor, and checked out the huge pretzels they had. He smiled, reached for one, and said, “How much are these?”
“Two bucks.”
He quickly paid him. It was wrapped up with a paper napkin because it was still quite warm, and Richard stood here, studying the gray morning. Seattle was many things, but it typically wasn’t exactly a bright blue sunny day. It was gray, cloudy, and threatening to rain. Just like yesterday.
This new case was bothersome. Something about it was wrong on so many levels. And not just about the skinning.
When his phone buzzed, he looked down to see a text from one of his team, saying they were pulling the next meeting ahead twenty minutes and asked if he could be there.
He messaged back, saying he was on his way. With half a sigh at the crazy dark world around him, he headed back inside. He needed to find answers, and he needed to find them soon. They’d already missed the crucial twenty-four-hour window. Hell, he had already missed the forty-eight-hour window as well.
Chapter 3
Cayce returned to her gallery, deeper within, toward her small dingy office that she deliberately kept cramped and crowded, in order to force herself in and out as quickly as possible, so that she could go paint again.
As she walked in, her assistant looked up with her eyes full of tears. She got up from her desk and came racing over, throwing her arms around her. Cayce wasn’t terribly demonstrative, but, if she understood one thing, it was grief. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel the pain of losing her friend yet, and it hurt her already to know how many other people would be affected.
“I can’t believe what they’re saying. Please tell me that it’s wrong.”
“It’s not wrong,” she said sadly. “Elena is dead.”
“But not just dead.” Anita stepped back, tears pulling the mascara all the way down her cheeks, like streaks of rain on a windshield. “But murdered, skinned apparently,” she snapped.
“Where did you hear that?” she asked.
“The news.”
She frowned at Anita. “The news shouldn’t have had those details.”
“Well, you know what the news is like,” she said. “It’s a cutthroat business.”
“That may be, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t pass on rumors.”
At that, Anita gasped, stepping back. “Do you think they’re wrong then?”
“No,” she said. “They’re not wrong at all. But we don’t want to keep spreading that information for shock’s sake.”
Anita nodded and smiled. “We need to do something to memorialize her.”
That thought alone caught Cayce in the back of her throat, because, of all the things, that was the hardest about Elena’s death, the fact that somebody had taken her skin, and they’d already planned to memorialize her in a way nobody else would understand. “If you want to come up with some ideas,” she said, “I’m in.” She reached up and rubbed her face.
“Oh, my God, did you get any sleep last night?”
She shook her head. “No, it was a pretty rough night.”
“I heard Naomi was pretty blasé about the whole thing.”
In defense of the replacement model, Cayce shrugged and said, “We were at an installation, and she was doing a job when we found out. She was definitely calmer than I was.”
“I am surprised she wasn’t cheering at the news,” Anita said with a waspish tone. “That would be more in character.”
Naomi was a very different kettle of fish in terms of personality. Where Elena had been lightness, sunshine, and butterflies, Naomi was darkness, storms, and shadows. She had a graspy greediness to her. But she’d never been a top model, and she was trying to gain in rank. With Elena’s position now open, it gave Naomi another spot to climb into. And that made Cayce frown. Was that a motive for murder?
Cayce made her way back to her small crowded office in her gallery, wondering if that attitude put Naomi on the detective’s watchlist. Or if Cayce should add Naomi to his list if it hadn’t. Somehow that felt completely wrong too. As if she were betraying the other model. She shook her head and decided that it was definitely not a road she needed to go down.
As soon as she sat down at her desk, her phone rang. She groaned as she realized business intruded into her day once again. The problem with being an artist was the fact that she didn’t get to be an artist all the time. The business aspect remained there always; people who wanted things from her, that she didn’t always want to give. But, since they provided the avenue for her to make a living with her artwork, she was forced to deal with them. It sucked big-time.
She lifted her head a little while later and wasn’t at all surprised to find that two hours had passed.
Just then Anita popped her head around the corner. “Hey, how you doing?”
She shrugged. “Doing. Whatever that means,” she said, “but everything is going ahead for next week’s installation.”
Anita’s face broke out into a smile. “They finally went through with it?”
She nodded and returned the smile. “Yeah, they just returned the signed contract.”
“Yeah, right at the last minute of course,” she snapped, shaking her head. “Good God.”
“I know, but, hey, … it’s work, right?”
“The trouble is,” Anita said, “that’s really tight. Do we have enough paint?”
“That’s what I’m about to find out,” she said. “Plus that installation design was done with Elena in mind.”
Anita’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Wow,” she said. “She will really be missed.”
“In many ways,” she said. “I don’t even know how to express what her absence will mean.”
“But we can do this.”
“We can,” she said with a smile, “but I’m not sure I want Naomi in this one.”
“Who are you thinking then?”
Cayce sat back and thought about the models that she’d used recently. “Why don’t we see if Candy is available? But I’ll want the hair gone right off.”
“Skullcap?”
“I can’t paint that either,” she said, frowning. She tapped her pen on the desk. “Unless we can find a way to make her hair fly out off to the side.”
“Part of the wind, you mean?”
“Something like that. Leave it with me while I figure it out.”
“That’s fine,” Anita said, “but you have a whole twenty minutes to figure it out.”
She glared at her, then snapped, “You’re wasting my twenty minutes.”
Anita chuckled and left.
“And put on some damn coffee,” Cayce yelled behind her.
“Will do,” she said.
With that, Cayce went back to looking at the diagram for next week’s installation, wondering which model she needed. She could try somebody new. It would certainly be a way to go forward after Elena. Cayce had seen an interesting model a few days ago.
She quickly went through a portfolio that she kept on various models. This one. Her name was Hartley, which was unusual in itself, but her looks were even more unusual, with a very angular jawbone, angular cheekbones. Somewhat masculine, but not quite. Determined maybe. Cayce didn’t have any problem with determination. That was a requirement of life.
*
“The bitch is gone,” the woman cried out, dancing and laughing through her apartment. “A spot opened above me,” she said with a chuckle. “Who knew?” She stopped, looking at herself in the mirror, then smiled, reached a hand through her long luxurious black locks, and said, “I’ll make it to the top! Yeah!”
Behind her, her best friend and coconspirator, even though he had no clue, Derek called out, “You know what happens to people at the top?” he asked.
“They fall,” she said, “but that’s got nothing to do with me.”
“You keep saying that,” he said, “but it really is something you need to keep an eye on.”
“Well, I didn’t kill her,” she snapped.
“Of course not. That would be too easy.”
She turned and glared at him.
“You’re just happy she’s gone.”
“Well, of course I am,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you could be a little more conservative in your joy.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” she said with a laugh.
He sighed. “I’m heading out with Benjamin soon. Are you coming with us for breakfast?”
She looked over at her friend, then smiled and said, “Sweetie, you go eat. I’m eating on the fruits of my emotions right now.”
“Those are the emotions,” he said, “that will choke you.”
“They can try,” she said, “but, honest to God, I’m just too happy to be worried about it right now.”
He frowned, nodded, and said, “Yeah, and that’s a little disturbing too.”
“You know exactly who and what I am,” she said with a smile.
He nodded. “I know that,” he said. “You’ve never been anything but what you’ve appeared to be.”
“So stop being so glum about it.”
“I’m not.” He straightened his tall slim frame, dressed in a beautiful three-piece gray suit.
He always looked elegant, never a hair out of place. She was a little more on the rough-and-tumble side and had to work out to look like he did, but his look was effortless. He was that role model ahead of her on her path, who made her just want to be him, only in female form.
He gave her a gentle hug and said, “Stop for a moment and just enjoy living instead of always conniving for your next step.”
She smiled, kissed him gently on the cheek, and said, “You go meet Benjamin for breakfast and enjoy.”
He nodded, and, as he headed to the front door, he turned and looked at her. “Don’t let other people know how you feel, right?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I’m not that stupid.”
He nodded, and, though he was obviously a little worried, he headed out the front door.
She could hear his footsteps as his long, lean legs ate up the yards. Something about Derek almost set her teeth on edge. They’d known each other since they’d been little kids, and he’d been warning her about her scheming ever since.
She’d often asked him, “Why are you even friends with me?” His response had shocked her the first time, and now she feared it was just a joke because he kept saying it was his job to keep her on the straight and narrow.
She often told him how he was failing terribly on the job. He would nod and say he was, indeed. But he was working on it. She didn’t understand half of what he said, and Benjamin appeared to be just the same. But Benjamin couldn’t stand her, and she couldn’t stand him, which just added to their animosity. The fact was, her longtime friend had somebody in his life who was the polar opposite of her. Again it made her wonder why she and Derek were even friends.
Benjamin was another one of those well-dressed, smooth, clean, always perfect-looking guys, but the difference between the two men was obvious. She couldn’t stand the one. Now Derek had often told her that she had a serious case of jealousy and that he would be her friend no matter what. But she’d already seen a change in his attitude, a change in his affection, and a change in the amount of time he spent with her and his willingness to talk with her.
She knew Derek was tired of listening to them fight, but it didn’t matter to her because anything she could do to keep that asshole away from Derek would be good for her. Yet she already knew that she couldn’t do it directly; otherwise Derek would turn on her. Hence her wanting to send him off to have breakfast with his lover.
Why the two of them didn’t live together, she had no idea. But that only helped her out, as she was the one who had crashed at Derek’s place last night. She needed an alibi, and she needed what he could give her—that little bit of stability. Which was often.
She needed her wits about her for what was happening next. She somehow had to maneuver herself into a position to take over the modeling world.
She had no intention of being a body model for long, but, for now, it provided an excellent opportunity for everybody to check out her personal assets and to make sure they were in prime condition for whatever was needed next.
One of the clothing designers she’d really admired had told Naomi that she was too heavily endowed. She’d been horrified, but he had refused to let her wear any of his creations on the runway. Heartbroken, she had seriously considered getting her breasts reduced, but Derek had stopped her, saying she’d been given that beautiful body, and it just wasn’t the right market for her to show her wares.
She had agreed, then promptly did her best to disrespect the designer. She carefully started rumors that caused the designer to break up with his current lover in a most unbecoming public display causing the designer to be removed from the current fashion show, and she realized just how much power she had. Since then he had bounced back, but she didn’t care. She had made her point. And, just in case he hadn’t understood that she had done it, she’d sent him a little note saying, Thanks for nothing, from Well-Endowed.
She didn’t know if he would recognize that as being her because he saw so many models all the time. But it had given her that sense of satisfaction nonetheless. Still, she didn’t want to go too far. Not only did she not want Derek to know what she was up to, but she also didn’t want anybody else to know either because that would impact her ability to model. And that would never happen, if she could help it.
She reached for her bottled water and her morning meds.
“Pretty soon,” she said to the empty room, as she popped two of the pills that she needed. “Pretty damn soon.”
*
“How is the case going?” Andy asked, standing beside Richard. “Any new leads?”
“No,” he snapped. “You?”
Andy shook his head. “No, I’ve just come back from setting up witness interviews for everybody who was there at the end of the evening. Unfortunately, well over two hundred attended. So that’s a lot of phone calls. I can’t get hold of about sixty of them, and we don’t have names for a bunch of them.”
“There was a guest list,” he said, looking at Andy in surprise.
“And apparently a lot of the guests brought guests,” he said.
“Are they talking?”
“No, and they’re not only not talking but, in many cases, they’re saying stuff like, ‘You know? It was just a friend of a friend.’”
“Great,” he said. “That’s not helpful.”
“No, it’s not. What did you find out?”
“Only that Elena was there as part of the installation, and, when she stepped away, the guests were all shocked to realize that the painting continued on her backside. She had been painted all the way around. But those who knew Cayce’s work said it was fairly common in some cases. I don’t think any of them realized it was only common in Elena’s case.”
“Was Elena with anybody?” Andy asked.
“She had several glasses of wine and enjoyed mingling and talking with various people,” he said, “but she didn’t appear to be with anyone.”
“Did she leave alone?”
“She called a cab and stepped out as soon as the cab pulled up.”
“Anybody see her get in the cab?”
“Apparently somebody pulled up, who she must have known, and offered her a ride instead.”
“So, we don’t have an actual cab that delivered her anywhere?”
“No, but I did track down the cabbie,” Richard noted. “He said that he had been called for the fare, but then she gave him a twenty and told him that she had another ride.”
“Shit,” Andy said. “So we still don’t know who she left with. No video cameras?”
“Tons of them,” Richard said. “Steven is running through them right now.” He groaned and sat back. “I’m about to reach out to some of her other friends again.”
“Nobody answering?”
“Either not home, not at work, or not answering.”
“Are they ghosting you?”
“It’s possible,” Richard said, “but deliberate? I don’t know.” Just then his phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Detective Richard Henderson here.”
“You’ve left several messages on my phone,” a tired male voice said. “I’m Mr. Johnson. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Have you heard about Elena?”
After an awkward silence at the other end, Mr. Johnson spoke, his voice hoarse from tears. “Yes, that’s why I haven’t been taking calls. I was very good friends with her.”
At that, Richard launched into his list of questions.
“No, I didn’t see her that night at the installation.”
“Why not? Wasn’t it a big deal for your friend?”
“Of course, and I was delighted for her, but I’ve been to many, many of them, and that night I wasn’t feeling well.”
“When did you hear from her last?”
“Just before the installation. I sent her a good luck text.”
“When did you hear the news?”
“Through the news media yesterday,” Mr. Johnson said, and then he broke off to clear his throat. “There’s no good way to hear it, but a personal message would have been better. A lot better. Hearing it like that was … horrible.”
