By Jonathan Santlofer
Homicide is an exceptional artwork… A killer is preying on New York's artwork group, developing grotesque depictions of recognized work, utilizing human flesh and blood as his media. Terror stalks this international of genius, greed, concept, and jealousy -- an international Kate McKinnon understands all too good. A former NYPD cop who traded in her badge for a Ph.D in artwork background, Kate can see the strategy in the back of the psychopath's insanity -- for the grisly slaughter of a former prot?g? is drawing her into the predator's course. And as each one new homicide exceeds the final in savagery, Kate is trapped within the twisted obsessions of the demise artist, who plans to exploit her physique, her blood, and her worry to create the final word masterpiece.
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Additional info for The Death Artist
Example text
He hugged the cell phone to his ear. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. ” He sighed, clicked off. ” Mead nodded, without looking at her. One more time, Kate managed to go through the necessary motions: Maneuver her car up the West Side Highway, pull off the exit, stop at red lights, open her wallet, remove her New York State driver’s license and show it to the uniformed guard posted outside Tapell’s West Side brownstone. Now she sat behind the wheel of her car, head back against the padded headrest, eyes closed, tears pulsing down her cheeks while a montage of images played in her mind: the face of a defensive twelve-year-old who’d won her heart; snippets of conversations over so many dinners; the two of them arguing like any mother and daughter about the practicality of a thin cotton coat right in the middle of Urban Outfitters; Elena’s Juilliard graduation; and again, Elena’s performance piece at the museum less than a week ago.
Now she sat behind the wheel of her car, head back against the padded headrest, eyes closed, tears pulsing down her cheeks while a montage of images played in her mind: the face of a defensive twelve-year-old who’d won her heart; snippets of conversations over so many dinners; the two of them arguing like any mother and daughter about the practicality of a thin cotton coat right in the middle of Urban Outfitters; Elena’s Juilliard graduation; and again, Elena’s performance piece at the museum less than a week ago.
Yes. Let me die. Hail Marys, bits of the Lord’s Prayer, fragments of Sundaymorning service in Latin that she didn’t think she knew were buzzing in her head. She swiped the tears from her cheeks, opened her eyes. Just that one garish pillow out of place on a bare wood floor. The place was too damn neat, that was for sure. As if nothing had happened here. No blood on the living room floor or walls. In the bedroom—How did she get there? She had no memory of moving. The patchwork quilt was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.