Free The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer

of a pacemaker had made her painfully aware of the man’s age, and the inevitable fact that this man who she loved would not be running the foundation forever.
    “Have you seen this?” His fist came down so hard on the New York Post article, his desk shook.
     

    SCHOLARSHIP GIRL

    SLAUGHTERED!
     
    James started to cough, the veins in his forehead standing in high relief against his reddening face.
    “Please, Arlen. Take it easy.”
    “I will not!” He snatched up the Post. “Listen to this . . . ‘The victim, Elena Solana, was a graduate of the educational foundation Let There Be a Future, brainchild of high-flying billionaire-philanthropist Arlen James.’ ” He shook his head. “ ‘ High-flying?’ Me ? And I’m not a billionaire, for Christ’s sake. Where do they come off writing this?”
    “It doesn’t matter, Arlen. It’s just some writer–”
    “And here . . . ‘Police have no motive for the crime as yet, but it looks as if it might be a case of bad luck. One of those Looking for Mr. Goodbar stories. Woman picks up man. The wrong man.’ ”
    “What?!” It was Kate’s turn to explode.
    “Wait,” he said. “There’s more. ‘The only suspect the police have is another foundation graduate, but his identity is being withheld. The suspect is no longer in police custody, the police claiming there is not enough evidence to detain him. It has been suggested, by an unnamed source at police head-quarters, that the do-good foundation has stepped in to protect one of its own.’ ”
    “ ‘The do-good foundation’? Let me see that.” Kate snatched the article from Arlen’s hands, picked up from where Arlen left off. “ ‘Or could it be that our new mayor has put a lid on the case, now that he’s been funding the foundation as part of the city budget?’ ” Kate threw the paper on the desk. “Jesus.”
    Arlen James sighed. “And I hear this is nothing compared to the News. ”
     

    PERFORMANCE ARTIST’S

    LAST GIG
     
    No way. Her eyes must be playing tricks on her, thought Kate, staring at the Daily News clipped to the top edge of the kiosk. But no, it was real. Headlines, no less. Whoever said that a culture gets what it deserves was really onto something.
    She knew she shouldn’t buy it, but what the hell, her day was already ruined.
    Below the banner: “Young Woman in East Village Stabbed to Death. Story on page 5.”
    Kate turned the flimsy sheets of newsprint.
    Three grainy pictures, side by side: Elena’s high school graduation, Arlen James in a publicity shot, and one from the back of Kate’s book. “Katherine McKinnon Rothstein,” read the small print, “well-known art and philanthropic figure.” Then a couple of lines copied off the dust jacket of Artists’ Lives, a mention of her PBS series and the fact that it was Kate who discovered Elena’s body. But the real surprise was that the reporter had done some homework, come up with Kate’s past life as a cop, even her specialty, missing kids.
    Oh, yes. Her day could get worse.
    He drags a finger across the steel tabletop to create a path in the thick dust.
    How thoughtful, considerate, really, that this should be left here, as though someone were watching over him, thinking about his needs. A guardian angel. He likes the sound of that, the image, too. He looks up–thin shafts of light stream through the cracked ceiling–pictures a naked winged angel riding the ray like a rodeo cowboy, smiles.
    He spreads all three New York newspapers out on the long steel tabletop, opens them to the story of Elena Solana’s murder, which, he would say, not one of them has gotten right. He flips from one paper to the other, looking to see if anyone has commented on his signature. He sits back, disappointed.
    Fools !
    But a moment later, he’s got his X-Acto knife in hand, carefully cutting out the newspaper photo of Kate, turning the grainy image this way and that. Then, with his cheap disposable auto pencil, he begins to sketch a