The Frick
November 21, 4.30 p.m.
Across town, after the day shift, Tom met Denise at the Frick. He wasn’t sure whether she thought he was uncultured and needed an injection of art or whether she was keen to pick his brains about the job.
Walking the east side of Central Park in the fall dusk was a pleasure anyway. The wealth of New York had lined these avenues with grand houses, beautiful gardens and a peacefulness that you couldn’t often find in the city.
The Frick was a New York treasure. A beautiful house that was now a museum and art gallery. Harper stood around staring at the visitors, trying to guess at their lives. It was hard to know. Creative types, rich types, students — people who didn’t do nine to five or shift work to make ends meet.
Denise arrived in a yellow cab. She was dressed in a long black coat with her fair hair loose about her shoulders.
‘You not tried dyeing your hair like the rest of New York?’ asked Harper. He’d read that morning that New Yorkers had given up being blonde since news of the killings had come out. Everyone was turning brunette.
‘Mine’s natural and I like not being taken seriously.’
Harper laughed. ‘What’s the idea with the museum?’
‘I was thinking about things. Thinking about Williamson’s murder.’
‘I was going over it myself. It’s cruel.’
‘Then I remembered something. Something I want to show you.’
They talked low as they went into the museum. It was quiet and hushed inside the beautifully ornate rooms. It was obvious that Denise spent some of her spare time in the Frick, as she moved purposefully through the rooms to one in particular.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘See if you can spot it.’
Harper looked around the room. Lots of pictures hung closely together. Harper didn’t know what he was looking for, so he moved slowly from picture to picture. Denise watched him closely. She was comfortable with Harper. He had a rare commodity: he didn’t interfere, he let you be. It was just a quality he had and it was something she liked about him.
Suddenly, Harper shouted out, ‘Fuck!’
A guard took a step into the room and hushed him severely. Harper apologized. He turned to Denise. ‘Is this why you brought me here?’
She nodded and moved over to his shoulder. They stared together at the picture.
A classical figure, muscled and toned, tied to a tree, stripped naked except for a loincloth. His face was turned upward towards the sky, his eyes transfixed in pain and hope.
Harper’s eyes dropped down his body. The first arrow went through his neck, there were two in his chest and another in his shoulder. His stomach was peppered with three and then one in his thigh.
‘You think the guy who killed Williamson was an art connoisseur?’
‘Dunno,’ said Denise. ‘I count seven arrows and I don’t like coincidences.’
‘You think there’s a connection?’
‘Read the label.’
Harper read the title and sucked in his breath. Sebastian was the name the American Devil gave himself on the phone. ‘You think he was making a reference?’
‘I think that an arrow is a strange way to kill someone.’
‘Good work, Denise. But what does it mean? You think he’s into art?’
‘He killed Williamson as if he was a martyred saint, he posed Elizabeth Seale like a nude. Amy and Jessica might reference paintings we don’t recognize.’
‘It’s worth looking into,’ said Harper. ‘If your idea is right and he knew the first three girls better than Jessica and Amy, then this might be something. We need to check up on their interest in art.’
They stood there shoulder to shoulder, staring at the Renaissance images of the martyred saint.
‘What’s the significance of St Sebastian?’ said Harper after a while.
‘His motto is Beauty constant under torture. Our killer thinks he’s a martyr. He thinks he’s the one who suffers most of all.’