“Are you?”
He composed himself, straightened his posture. “I’m an artist. Just an artist. I haven’t buried anyone in my entire life.”
Casey swore the African mask with the Technicolor tears leapt off the wall right at him. More middle-eastern music set to techno played over the stereo system: riffs from violins and woodwind instruments danced atop a combination of hand drumming and electronica beats.
Nell relaxed her stance, smiled at Hailangelo, and said, “You are a terrific artist, Hailangelo. You do beautiful work.”
He grabbed the stuffed Siamese cat off the shelf. “Thank you, Agent. This is my favorite piece.”
“Nice taste in music, too,” she tried.
He strode to Casey, held the stuffed cat in front of the reporter’s face with one hand and brandished the dagger with the other. “Cat got your tongue?”
Casey’s heart pinged around in his chest like a ball in a racquetball court. This was it. He would die right here, right now. It would end, just after finally finding someone who could see past his narcolepsy, someone beautiful and intelligent and cultured. Just his luck.
Hailangelo laughed, expecting a reaction, but Casey still couldn’t give him one. Hailangelo looked at Nell for an explanation.
She shrugged. “Still narcoleptic.”
Hailangelo sneered at Casey. “Freak.” Disappointed, he set the cat down next to Casey with a thump. For once, Casey thought, narcolepsy actually helped—it took the fun right out of it for Hailangelo. The sculptor kicked over a wooden rack of scarves.
Nell broke for her purse, dove to the ground, and unzipped it.
Hailangelo turned.
She rolled to her back, pulled her gun, and aimed.
He lunged, swung the dagger, knocking her Glock off target— BLAM! A bullet went into the wall. The blade slashed her blouse diagonally across her chest. She shrieked, pressed forearms against her wound, and moaned.
Casey finally snapped out of sleep paralysis and shook his head. Hailangelo kicked Nell’s gun into the corner of the room and fled toward his office.
Casey reached for Hailangelo’s bicep as he raced past, but the sculptor shook off the reporter’s arm tackle. Casey grabbed the rain stick and pursued.
They entered the office in the back of the store and Hailangelo sprinted across to the left and reached for the door, above which was a sign reading, “Emergency Exit Only.”
“Stop!” Casey shouted, catching up across the room, knocking the book on Duane Hanson to the floor. He raised the rain stick above his head and Hailangelo opened the door. No alarm sounded.
Casey whacked him square on the shoulder. The rain stick cracked. Splinters flew; beads scattered on the floor like sleet on a tin roof. Hailangelo staggered through the door, dazed, swinging the dagger back behind him but missing his pursuer.
Casey had expected the alarm to sound and cold air to rush in, but instead of an exit, the door simply led to steep stairs en route to the basement.
Hailangelo tried to slam the door behind him, but the reporter stuck his hand in the way. As Hailangelo ran down the stairs, Casey threw the remains of the rain stick down the staircase at his feet, tripping him. Hailangelo fell down the last two steps but bounced off the basement wall and rolled to the ground out of view.
Casey looked back for Nell, but didn’t see her. He descended the stairs cautiously, peeked around the wall, and scanned the room. A brushed-chrome post-modern lamp illuminated the room from a black coffee table. No sign of Hailangelo.
Casey had expected a dungeon, but this place looked immaculate, inviting. The décor was swanky, including a black leather sofa. Hanging along the wall at the base of the steps was a framed print replicating Edgar Degas’s masterpiece “Stage Rehearsal.” It depicted a man in a top hat and tuxedo fixatedly watching young ballerinas stretch and dance. Casey had seen the original painting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. On a shelf along another wall rested a diamond necklace on a black mannequin bust.
A thin hallway about ten feet long led out of the room into the larger portion of the basement. Since the hallway was dark, Casey couldn’t see into the room from the end of the hallway. He could definitely smell a stench emanating from somewhere in the basement.
Casey had neither a weapon nor any idea how to defend himself. Hell, he’d have broken his beloved guitar over Hailangelo’s head. Instead, he retreated up the stairs, the smooth soles of his black loafers slipping on the linoleum surfaces. “Nell?” he called, darting through Hailangelo’s office like a kid playing tag.
Back inside the store, he spotted her. She had wrapped a scarf around her chest as a makeshift bandage. She tied a second scarf diagonally in the other direction, forming an “X” on her chest. “Nell! You okay?”
“Never been better.” She winced.
“Is it deep?”
“Deeper than a paper cut. Where’d he go?”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Downstairs.”
“There’s a downstairs?”
“I whacked his shoulder, but the rain stick shattered and he made it down there.”
“You hit him with a rain stick?”
“That thing was heavy.”
“Where is he now?”
“I didn’t follow him without a weapon.”
“Good call, sleepyhead.” Still sitting, she opened her cell, winced in pain, and dialed. “Meyer? Listen, I need your help. I found him, I found the bastard I’ve been hunting for three years. Name is Thom Meintz, at least that’s his most recent alias. Goes by Hailangelo. Yes, the Hailangelo. No, I’m serious. I’m at his store.”
Meyer said something, but Casey couldn’t hear it.
She answered, “Well, for starters, the bastard slashed me and ran. We lost him. He could be in the basement, or he might have fled the building. No, I’m fine. What I need is for you to set up a ten-block perimeter around his store. Great. We’ll make sure he’s not hiding in the back lot.” She hung up.
Casey went around behind her, laced his arms under her armpits and helped her to her feet. “Now what?”
“Would you grab my gun?” she said, adjusting her makeshift bandage and wincing. Blood had saturated the scarves.
Casey retrieved her gun and handed it to her. “You should rest.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Lead the way.”
31
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26
Casey hesitated, stared at Nell and, when he could tell arguing would be futile, led her back into Hailangelo’s office, past the stuffed rats guarding the computer. She extracted a small black flashlight from her coat, turned it on, held it out backhanded, and braced it under her gun.
“Wow, that thing is bright,” Casey said.
“It’s a CombatLight. Standard flashlights don’t cut it at La Casa de Psychopath.”
Casey headed for the door to the basement.
“Wait,” she said, motioning with the gun to let her go first down the stairs.
He let her pass.
She descended. Downstairs, she cleared the initial room.
“This guy’s a piece of work,” Nell said.
“It’s strange that his place is so swanky,” Casey said.
“There’s a reason. This was part of his ruse. He’d woo them with his dark looks, his vocabulary, and his artistic achievements—then close the deal in this tempting environment.”
“Creepy, if you ask me,” Casey said. He headed toward the hallway to the right, the last place he had seen Hailangelo.
“Wait.” Nell spotted a door Casey had missed to the left. The scarves around her chest had turned reddish-black. Nell paused for a second, gathered her strength, then kicked open the door.
It released a rotting odor. Nell pointed her flashlight and gun around the room to make sure they were alone. She took a tiny jar out of her pocket and rubbed something that looked like VapoRub under her nose, then did the same for Casey. It
blocked most of the stench.
Inside this room, Nell flipped a light switch with the barrel of the gun. Blood had stained the cement floor, especially around the drain in the center. The wall paint had chipped. Industrial sinks and butcher tables lined the exterior. Knives and cleavers of various shapes and sizes hung on one wall. A desk was covered in tubes of paint and brushes. In the center of the room lay a wooden stool and crate. On one wall hung a replica print of Madame X, on the other Pygmalion and Galatea.
Five large green rubber garbage cans stood in the far right corner. Casey peered into the largest sink: Empty.
Nell grabbed a pair of latex gloves out of her pocket and pulled them on, releasing them with a snap.
She opened the lid on one of the five garbage bins. The smell bombarded them.
Casey turned away as if punched in the jaw.
Nell slammed the lid back down on the bin. “Mercy!”
“What’s in there?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, it’s empty now. Obviously, it contained something nasty very recently.”
“Maybe it’s dinner scraps,” Casey squinted, “like pork or chicken.”
“I wish,” Nell said as she walked a few feet to an old, rusty, white refrigerator with a slot-machine handle.
She opened it. Inside, there were no shelves, and nothing except for the body of Rihanna in the fetal position, an elaborate golden cloak wrapped around her from the chest down, turquoise flowers in her hair.
Casey had a sleep attack. He could have sworn he saw Rihanna come to life, step out of the refrigerator, and giggle.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Nell said, pointing her weapon at the floor with one hand and gently placing her other on Casey’s shoulder. Nothing about it was okay. She shook him out of the narcoleptic episode and the life-like Rihanna evaporated, leaving only the corpse in the fridge.
Nell bent over, holding her wound in pain. After a moment, she examined the body. “No signs of struggle, no blunt-force trauma to the head, just a needle mark.”
Casey turned away from Rihanna’s body, took two steps and placed his forearm across his face, trying to collect his thoughts. He thought about Shantell, and what might become of her. Foster care? Adoption? He didn’t cry. Somehow, to his surprise, his brain compartmentalized everything without any conscious effort. Everything in this basement seemed surreal. He struggled to believe that the very woman whose daughter he’d found outside their apartment hours ago had been murdered.
“Which poison caused her death is undetermined,” Nell said. “But at least now we know who’s behind it all.”
“What do we do now?”
“We need to leave her here for authorities so they can photograph the place and collect evidence.”
“We can’t just leave her here.”
“Backup is coming.”
Casey stared at the refrigerator.
She grabbed his wrist. “Come on, she’s already gone.”
He slowly turned and exited the room. They walked through the door past the couch. Nell handed Casey the flashlight and motioned to him to switch it off.
Pitch-black darkness encased them. They slid down the narrow hallway with their backs against the wall—the only way to be sure Hailangelo wouldn’t sneak up behind them. With every step, Casey wondered if Hailangelo would grab him, or worse. They continued down the hallway wall until they reached the end of the corridor. It opened to a large room. Where was Hailangelo?
Nell paused a moment. Silence.
Casey flipped on her flashlight. On the far wall was a bulletin board displaying at least two hundred photographs printed on regular computer paper. Casey’s stomach tightened as taut as the threads inside a baseball.
“Oh my God, there’s Elena,” Nell whispered.
“Which photo?” Casey whispered back. “How can you see that far?”
Nell shook her head and pointed instead at a mannequin. “Over there. The statue.”
Casey moved the flashlight, flinched, and stepped back, afraid it was the killer.
Nell slowly walked along the wall, feeling for the switch, and flipped on the overhead light. “Don’t move,” she instructed, aiming her gun with two hands in front of her as she checked the room for Hailangelo.
Casey squinted, fighting the brightness as his pupils constricted. After a few seconds, he could see a statue that looked just like Elena, in her bra and panties, posed bent at the waist with one arm reaching out for an embrace. Her hair was down and her skin flawless. Airbrushed? Had Hailangelo built this statue to taunt Casey for not finding the real thing? This was personal.
There were five other statues of beautiful young women. “They’re more realistic than even the Narziss statue.”
“No kidding.” Nell checked behind each, and behind a bar with a marble countertop. “We’re clear. He’s not in here.”
“Where the hell is he?” Casey’s eyes darted around the room. He spun in place, and his heart pounded so fast he could practically hear it.
Nell pointed at a staircase in the far corner of the room. She slowly approached it, ready to fire her Glock.
Casey approached the Galatea statue. Elena’s eyes were glassed over, or were they fake? She stood still as a boulder. Yet, she was breathtakingly beautiful. He couldn’t make sense of it.
Nell joined him, reluctantly touched Elena’s bare arm—only to recoil. “Oh my God!”
“What?” Casey said, stepping back, afraid of it but not sure why. His head and tailbone bumped into the wall, but his adrenaline peaked, masking any pain.
She touched the statue again. “It’s…warm.”
“Warm?” Casey guffawed. “Come on.”
“It feels so real. It’s like…”
“Like what?” Casey said. “Nell?”
“Like she’s…alive.”
That didn’t make sense. “It’s just a statue,” he insisted.
Nell nodded an invitation for him to join her.
“It’s not breathing,” he said. “Not real.”
“You’re right on both counts,” she said. “Come here.”
Casey pressed up against the wall. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Nell looked at him. “I’ve touched statues, mannequins, and corpses. They all feel cool to the touch.”
Casey stubbornly remained in place and pulled at the collar of his shirt. “It is sort of warm in here.”
“It’s not the ambient temperature. Not the humidity, either. Come here.”
He knew he had to move sometime if he wanted to get out of there and away from these…things. He sighed, pushed away from the wall, and joined Nell.
Nell felt Elena’s wrist. “No pulse. Touch her.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Touch her.”
He touched her arm and squirmed. “Ah!”
“See?”
“It feels so…real.”
“It should,” Nell said. “That’s really her.”
32
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26
Casey stared at Elena, transfixed, confused. Even in death, she looked radiant. “No…no-no-no-no.” He shook his head, chuckled maniacally, and suffered a sleep attack.
“Casey.” Nell shook his shoulders and he snapped out of it.
He crouched to the ground and whispered, “First Skeeto, now Elena.” Tears welled. He sniffed, wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He gagged then breathed through his nose to get past the initial nauseating shock. Your most important breath is your next one.
Nell placed her hand on his shoulder, but this time it was for comfort. Tears streaked her cheeks, too. They hugged and cried.
“We failed,” Casey said. “Weren’t fast enough.”
“He killed Rihanna within hours. We didn’t stand a chance with Elena.” Nell pulled away from him and paced, wiping tears. She recovered quickly, no doubt due to her training at Quantico, like flipping a switch. She thought out loud. “He’s no sadist, though. Doe
sn’t torture, because he views these as art. He’s punctual, efficient, clean. I see no signs of a struggle. He probably killed her before the abduction.”
“How does he do that?” Casey said, looking up at Elena’s face.
“Hard to say until the autopsy.”
“No, I mean: how does Hailangelo get his statues to look so alive?”
“He’s an exquisite craftsman.”
“It’s not just that. There’s a spark there. It’s gorgeous…and terrifying.” He removed his blazer and held it out to drape it over Elena’s body, but Nell intervened.
“Crime scene,” she held out her hand. “Don’t contaminate it.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Never mind that they had already touched her. He put the coat back on and bashfully looked down at his feet, like a teenager at his first dance. He had admired Elena for so long, first as a friend with whom he’d never thought he stood a chance. With nothing to lose, it made it easier to ask her out. To his surprise, she had responded, “I would love to spend time with someone genuine.” Genuinely drowsy, he remembered thinking, having no clue at the time she was comparing him to someone else. Narziss? Oleysniak? Her father? All of them?
He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away. Another victim sat on a chrome stool before the chic bar. A thin, blue, fluorescent string of lights traced the underside of the marble.
“That’s Jenny, from Galesburg,” Nell said. “I think she was his first victim. I interviewed her parents about Thomas Meickle right before he left town.”
Casey shook his head. “We have to stop him.”
Jenny had blue eyes, long-brown hair, and exquisite cheekbones. She had been clothed in a skimpy black dress and matching heels. One elbow rested on the bar and her hand was nestled under her chin, bored for all eternity.
He pulled himself away from Jenny’s eyes and glanced around the room at the other women. They looked alive, unnervingly erotic. He hated himself for thinking it, but his instincts and hormones took over. Aside from what this said about Hailangelo, what did it say about the onlooker? “How does he do it?”
“He used taxidermy techniques,” Nell said, prodding Jenny’s arm with a gloved hand, “and airbrushed them.”
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