By Jonathan Santlofer
Homicide is an exceptional paintings… A killer is preying on New York's paintings group, growing ugly depictions of well-known work, utilizing human flesh and blood as his media. Terror stalks this international of genius, greed, concept, and jealousy -- a global Kate McKinnon is familiar with all too good. A former NYPD cop who traded in her badge for a Ph.D in artwork historical past, Kate can see the tactic at 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 dying artist, who plans to take advantage of her physique, her blood, and her worry to create the final word masterpiece.
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Additional info for The Death Artist
But at the top of the third-story landing Willie came into sharp focus, slumped against the wall, his head forward on his chest. Scraping her knees against dirty floorboards, Kate got a hand under his chin, lifted his head, listened—Yes, he’s breathing—fumbled in her bag for a mentholated Chap Stick, got it under his nose. He blinked. “Jesus—Willie! Are you all right? ” There were tears in his startling green eyes. Kate followed his line of vision to the open apartment door. She turned back, gazed into his eyes, and in that one terrible moment she knew.
Richard gulped down the watered-down Scotch, flipped the switch of a modernist zigzag lamp. It cast a yellowish light under one of his recent purchases, a mask from the Ivory Coast, for which he had outbid the Museum for African Art. The piece looked absolutely perfect beside the one-eyed Picasso, a sketchy self-portrait the artist had tossed off in 1901. Just when he was wondering how an East Village performance could go on past midnight, he heard the front door. ”—then peered into the darkened hall to find his wife leaning heavily against the wall.
Yes, life could be sweet. In the gray, windowless Interrogation Room there was no sense of time. Kate checked her watch. M. Could that be true? It could be days. Weeks. To Kate, it felt as if time had broken. That from this day forward her life would be divided: Before Elena’s death. And after. And yet, she managed to do what was required of her: Follow the cops down to the Sixth Precinct, repeat her statement, sign forms. She stared at the mirror. For a split second her reflection startled her.