Nick had braced himself on the way over, knowing he was going to have to come clean. He imagined walking through the door and his mother screeching, ‘Divorce?’ at him. But she hadn’t. She just looked at him with desperation, begging to know what was going on.
‘We’ve been arguing a little lately,’ he said, and saw the look of disbelief on their faces. ‘All right, maybe a lot. But it’s okay. We’re working on it.’
‘What could be so bad you’re sleeping in the spare room?’ his mother asked. ‘Has something happened? Is it Karen? Has she…?’
For a moment, Nick thought his mother was suggesting that Karen had cheated on him and did a quick calculation. Could he plant that seed so that when the inevitable time came and he had to tell them the actual truth, he could put the blame on her? But then his mother made a strange gesture which Nick interpreted as a physical euphemism for going crazy.
When Karen had tried to kill herself, his parents had rushed to be with him, bombarding him with questions about why Karen would do such a thing. As Karen had no desire to discuss it, Nick had free reign to spin things in his favor. Karen’s own mother had died not long before and things weren’t going so well with the bookstore. Things had gotten on top of her. His parents accepted it, even if they didn’t understand. They seemed to look at Karen differently after that, treading carefully as if she were a bomb that could go off at any time.
Nick thought he’d got away with it, that his parents would never know the truth, his own part in it all. But then Karen announced she wanted a divorce and Nick realized that he was far from in the clear. He’d tried out all kinds of excuses, but none seemed like they would be good enough for his parents to accept their marriage would end in divorce. Karen was unstable and he couldn’t deal with it any longer? Not good enough. A husband should stick by his wife no matter what. Karen was unstable and didn’t want him anymore? Not good enough. He should be able to convince her to stay.
‘I think it’s…’ Nick started, unsure what to say. Could he blame it on Karen, agree that she had gone crazy again? But then his parents would insist on staying, trying to help, and Karen would, without doubt, spill the beans. ‘It was the anniversary of her mother’s death and things are still difficult with the store. And then I’m working all the time. This case…’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just a rough patch. We’ll work it out.’
His parents looked at each other. Usually they believed anything Nick told them, but this time he could see the shadow of doubt. They weren’t buying it and why should they? It was a terrible performance.
‘Nicky,’ his mother said. ‘If something’s really wrong. If you’re getting…’ She looked to his dad, her lip trembling.
Nick wondered why he didn’t tell them. They were already halfway there. He needed to pull the band aid off in one go, that was all. But then she couldn’t even bring herself to say the word. He couldn’t do it to her.
‘Everything’s going to be fine. But it’s getting late, you should get back to the hotel.’ Nick ushered them towards the door. He could see disappointment on their faces and he felt a wave of fury. How could Karen have done this to them?
When he was finally alone with his anger, he poured himself a drink. Maybe he should’ve told them the reason they were in separate rooms was because Karen was cheating on him. They probably would’ve bought that more than the idea of their precious son being the cheater. Besides, maybe she was out there right now with some other guy.
Nick got up and went to the window, the anger pulsing. Would he care if she were? Not really. In fact, it could work out in his favor. Level the playing field a little.
He finished his drink and kept on pacing, fueling his anger, until finally Karen rolled in. He could see she was drunk as she stumbled into the doorframe. She looked surprised to see him and almost spoke, as if they were a normal couple. But she obviously wasn’t so drunk she’d forgotten to hate him, and after she’d kicked off her shoes, she pushed past him to the kitchen.
Nick caught her arm and she tried to shrug him off, but he kept hold.
‘You said you’d go along with it,’ he said, and she laughed.
‘And you swore you’d always be true,’ she said.
Nick let go of her and she went to the sink and poured a glass of water, before turning to him, smiling. ‘Are they very disappointed in you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘They think we’re just having a few problems.’
She laughed again. ‘They really will buy any old shit you sell them, won’t they.’ She gulped the water and pushed the glass onto the counter, knocking it into the sink with a clatter. ‘What’re you going to do when this is all over? Do you really think I’m going to keep lying to them?’
‘Maybe you won’t have to. Who were you out with? Some other guy?’
‘Jealous?’
Nick laughed. ‘Was it Jamie?’
‘Please. If I wanted to fuck Jamie I would’ve done it a long time ago.’
‘So who was it?’
Karen opened her mouth to speak but then stopped. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re not jealous. You want to be able to say it’s my fault.’ She pushed away from the counter and shook her head at him. ‘You’re pathetic.’
‘You should be careful,’ Nick said, and Karen turned.
‘Why? What’re you going to do? Finish the job?’ she said, holding up her hands so he could see the scars.
‘Didn’t you see the news?’
‘I tend to turn it off these days. Can’t think why.’ She walked away, slamming the bedroom door.
Fuck her then, he thought, and went into his own room, slamming the door louder. He glanced at his phone. He felt a ball of anxiety in his gut but it was less to do with his wife and his parents, more that he knew he was in for a showdown with his boss the next day after his performance on the evening news.
That was why he’d turned off the phone after he left the station, to avoid Lynch’s wrath. But he wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. Someone had to tell the people the truth, it was in the public’s interest. And that was what he’d tell Lynch. But what really irked Nick was that all the while his phone was turned off, he’d no doubt missed dozens of opportunities for more interviews, more exposure. And while he was hiding away, dealing with all this bullshit that wasn’t his fault, people like Peter Aronsen would be stealing his spotlight.
12
Karen
Karen slammed the bedroom door and slumped onto the bed. She was so angry. Angry with herself for ever agreeing to Nick’s little games, angry with him for asking and for his veiled threats in response to her refusal. She wished she had gone home with Mark, wished she had let herself go for once, done something for herself, something irresponsible. She’d always been too much of a worrier for casual hook-ups. What if the guy was some sort of weirdo? She was forever panicking about her friends when they left some bar with some guy, anxiously waiting by the phone. But nothing ever happened. At least nothing worse than bad sex.
And then Karen had got married and solved the problem. She didn’t have to consider one-night stands or whether the guy she was thinking about getting involved with was a lunatic. She had found Mr. Right and he was a cop and she was safe for the rest of her life. How stupid she was.
She heard Nick slam the spare room door and felt a surge of anger again. She wanted to go back out to that bar and find Mark and bring him home. She wanted to show Nick she wasn’t afraid anymore, she wasn’t scared of his threats. What could he do? It was too late to make her infidelity the reason for the divorce, that train had already left the station.
Nick was grasping because he needed it to be her fault. He couldn’t possibly let his parents know what kind of man he really was. How hadn’t she seen it before? She’d always thought he was the strong one, but he was afraid to tell his mother his marriage had failed. Karen wouldn’t have even insisted on telling them the truth, she would’ve walked away, one more couple who drifted apart. But Nick refused to do that. He was such a child.
He wasn’t strong, he was weak; pathetic, just like her.
She looked down at the scars on her wrists. Sometimes she couldn’t believe she’d done it. She didn’t want to die, she just didn’t want to live the life she was in. Finding out about Nick and Zoe was the final straw. There’d been others, more than Karen knew about in all likelihood, but she’d never had any proof and Nick always explained things away. He was a good liar, she’d give him that. But if she was honest, had she really cared about his betrayals as much as she thought?
Those days lying in the hospital bed she’d had plenty of time to think, and she had to wonder if she’d been as hurt by the affair as she previously believed. Things hadn’t been right for a long time. And then her mother had died and the business was struggling, and then to discover her friend and her husband were sleeping together… In truth, it was the deception more than anything, the disrespect. She couldn’t get past that. The humiliation. She wanted it to be over – her marriage more than her life. She traced her finger across the scar. She was glad she’d got a second chance.
She started thinking about a divorce before she’d even left the hospital. Nick had actually been shocked when she’d told him. He literally couldn’t believe it. He assumed she would sulk for a while (his words) and then things would go back as they were. But she was done.
In those first few weeks after making her decision, she felt like a new woman. She wouldn’t take any shit anymore. She felt certain he would leave, that they’d work something out. But he didn’t. And now they were in this limbo, this hell. And all the fire in her belly from those weeks had died down and she was still agreeing to keep quiet for him. She hated herself more than him at times. She was worthless.
But she thought of Mark, how he’d listened to her, how he’d made her laugh. She thought about telling him she wanted to be a writer. Why had she stopped? Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe Mark was what she needed. Maybe he could be the one to get her back on track.
Or at least he could’ve been. She didn’t have his number, and had no idea how to find him. She’d missed her chance, like she always did.
13
Michael
Michael sat back on his bed, looking at the photo of Karen he’d snapped in the bar. Had she noticed him taking it? Maybe she was too drunk. Or maybe she didn’t care. There were usually two reactions to him taking someone’s photo – either they turned away, refusing to play the game, and then begged him to delete it if he’d already managed to capture them. Or else they would play up to the camera, making a face either to turn it into a joke or to try to look their best. Karen had done neither. In the image, she was facing the camera but her eyes were somewhere beyond Michael, perhaps seeking out the barman for further lubrication.
Michael looked her over. The more he thought about it, the more perfect she seemed. Not her appearance, the project’s look was irrelevant. But her circumstances seemed ideal. She had mentioned the husband, the soon-to-be ex. They were still living together but she had inferred that he was rarely at home, something that contributed to the death of their marriage in the first place, more than likely. And it had seemed as though she was searching for something – a way to get back at this husband? Or grasping for happiness perhaps. She seemed so easy. But then she’d gotten away.
Michael berated himself for letting it happen. If only he’d got her surname or her number. Why hadn’t he made sure before he let her wander away to the bathroom? It was careless. Sloppy. That was what happened when he drank while working.
Was it possible to find her again, if he knew only her first name? How many Karens would there be in the city? How would you even go about tracking them all down? He supposed he could hang around that same bar, but he didn’t want to attract attention to himself. Not yet, anyway. If he went back to search for her, it was possible the same barman would be there, that further visits could make him stand out. Then it occurred that she wasn’t a regular anyway. She had been there to prove a point, that she could be alone on her birthday, that she no longer needed her husband.
Her birthday. Could that be a way to find her? Maybe. Maybe not. It was entirely possible it hadn’t been her birthday at all. People always claimed it was their birthday to get free drinks or cakes in restaurants. Could Karen have been lying?
Maybe Karen wasn’t even her real name. Did people do that? Lie to strangers in bars about their names? People who weren’t planning on murdering anyone, that is.
Michael admonished himself once more. Another missed opportunity. He rolled over, pulling the quilt on top of him, trying to dampen down the thoughts of failure. It was times like this he heard his father’s voice. His teachers’ voices. Telling him he was nothing, less than nothing. But it wasn’t true. He refused to believe it was true.
He jumped up and walked to his wall of photographs. Look at what he’d achieved. Had any of them achieved this much?
Michael took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, remembering how it felt to slip the knife into Jonathan Lauder’s flesh. How it felt to squeeze the life from Irene Okafor. He was not a failure.
But he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Perhaps he should work on a backdrop. He was itching to get on with Elena’s. The sooner he was rid of her the better. He unfurled the half-done canvas, his gaze sweeping over it. It wasn’t right. He’d already abandoned one attempt. He couldn’t work out how to do it in order to position Elena’s body within the piece. Nils Dardel’s The Dying Dandy.
Michael had considered abandoning it, finding something else for her. But that would be admitting defeat. He refused to be beaten. He could do it, he knew he could. Besides, it was the most fitting painting for Elena. A symbol of artificial beauty. He had to make it work. But not now. Alcohol was still coursing through his veins. He didn’t have time to start from scratch again. He couldn’t let a drunken mistake derail things.
How many of the great artists were drunks? How many of the world’s most famous masterpieces had been created under the influence? But Michael couldn’t do it. Maybe that was one skill he lacked. He knew from experience that any work he produced while drunk was no better than that of a cheap sidewalk caricaturist.
He rolled the canvas up once more. He would have to find time later to complete the piece. He knew he could do it if he put his mind to it.
Still wide awake, Michael turned on the TV, switching channels until he found the news. The detective was center stage again, and though it irritated Michael, at least he knew that if Nick Kelly was onscreen, he was talking about Michael.
He settled back in his chair to hear what the detective had to say.
‘It appears this person brings equipment into the victim’s home,’ Detective Kelly said.
Michael leaned forward.
‘What sort of equipment?’ the reporter asked, and Kelly paused for a moment. Was he finally going to acknowledge Michael’s work? Was this it?
‘It’s possible he’s posing as a decorator. People should be on the lookout for someone carrying a large canvas covering.’
Michael threw the remote at the TV before standing up and turning the damn thing off.
A decorator? A fucking decorator?
Michael took a breath, tried to calm himself. He knew they were trying to piss him off. They knew he wasn’t a decorator. They knew exactly what he was. An artist. It was all just a game. A game to make him angry. To try to get him to make a mistake. He wouldn’t fall for it. He wouldn’t play Nick Kelly’s game.
Michael paced the small room, feeling the air go in and out of his lungs, trying to concentrate on it, to let his awareness of it calm him. He wouldn’t listen to them. Great artists didn’t listen to critics.
Michael snatched up his diary, flicking through the pages. Who was next? What did he have set up? Nothing for a few days. No dates, not even a hint of possibility. He threw the diary down. Maybe it was for the best. If he were anxious, he might rush things and rushing meant messing up. He needed to calm down, to ignore what they were saying about him. F
ocus on the work.
He sat down again, almost switching the TV back on. No, not the TV, it would only make him more angry. He stood and reached for a book. Reading calmed his mind. He would read, then he would sleep, and by morning he would be back on track. The alcohol and the anger would’ve left his system. Things would be fine.
With barely three lines read, something came back to him. Karen owned a bookstore. Had she told him the name? Where it was? He searched his memory but nothing came. But it wasn’t nothing. She said she owned it, so it had to be a small store, an independent. Possibly secondhand, possibly not. But how many could there be in the city? It was a dying trade, wasn’t it?
Michael scuttled to his bedroom and took out his laptop. He searched, making a list of all the bookstores in the city. He checked websites, seeking her name, but came up empty. But it was something, wasn’t it? There was still a chance.
14
Nick
Nick tried to ignore Dan’s laughter. He never should’ve told him about the night before. Sometimes he wished he’d never told him about the divorce at all. What had he been expecting? Sympathy? Probably not. But at least for his friend to side with him. Instead, Dan usually pointed out how Karen had a right to be pissed off.
‘I’ve got to hand it to Karen,’ Dan said. ‘She really screwed you over without actually telling them.’ He laughed again. ‘So how does it feel now you’ve let your parents down? Did they say “We’re not angry, just disappointed”?’
‘No. I think I managed to talk my way out of it. For now. Who knows when she’ll decide to pull some other shit.’
‘Wait,’ Dan said. ‘They bought it? That you’re going through a rough patch?’
The Art of Murder Page 6