The address was a warehouse several blocks the studio Axel had been renting. Inside the storefront I showed a young man in a blue apron the picture on my phone.
He didn’t recognize Axel, or his name, but he called someone else over. Jed, my age, with a grizzled beard and broad shoulders, looked at my phone and nodded. “Yeah. I remember him ‘cause he had lots of big packages coming and going. Some kind of artist?”
“Can you tell me where he lives?”
Jed shook his head. “No. Can’t give out any addresses.” He looked me and Rachel over. Mostly Rachel. I’m used to it. “What’s it about?”
“There have been two suspicious deaths,” I told him. “He might know something about them.”
“He might be next,” Rachel added quickly.
Jed blinked. “Okay. But . . .” He stared through the storefront window. “Okay, he’s close. I can’t tell you where, but he carried some big packages in and out of here without a car that I ever saw. From the south.” He pointed left. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“Thanks for your help.” I slipped him a twenty. He smiled, and we left.
“ “He might be next?’” I grinned at Rachel outside. “You might get good at this detective stuff yet.”
She smirked. “It helps to be a hot babe.”
“That’s what I appreciate about you.”
“Is that what you appreciate about me?” She punched my arm.
We headed down the street, stopping at every apartment building we saw. Some had door staff, none of whom recognized Axel’s name. Others had electronic directories out front. We didn’t find Axel’s name listed on any of them. We called the building manager at one building. He wasn’t happy with us, but said no one named Parris lived there.
At the corner we looked at each other. “Which way?” Rachel asked.
“You’re the psychic.”
She rolled her eyes. “Eenie, meenie, money—mo.” She pointed left. “I have no idea.”
“Good a direction as any.”
The first apartment building we found had a surly doorman. The second one had an electronic directory. I searched—and found PARRIS, A. “Yahtzee.”
“Now what?” Rachel asked. “We go up and ask, ‘Hey, did you somehow kill two people with your paintings?’”
“I wouldn’t lead with that.” I pressed the code.
A moment later: “Yeah? Hello?” The voice was hoarse and rough. He coughed. “Who is this?”
“Tom Jurgen and Rachel Dunne. We work for Marian Krantz. Can we come up?”
A moment. Then the door buzzed. ”I’m on two. It’s 204.”
Inside Rachel grabbed my arm “What are you going to do?”
“What I always do. Ask questions. My winning personality is my secret weapon.”
“Riiight.” We took the stairs to the second floor and found 204. I knocked.
After ten seconds, the door opened. “Okay. Come in.”
I recognized Axel’s face from the photo—thin, pale, sparse hair. Unshaven whiskers covered his cheeks and chin.
He was skinny, in a dirty white T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, his arms covered with scars and blotchy skin, his neck red and raw. We followed him into a living room. Discarded clothes and empty boxes of cereal and pizza were scattered over the floor.
The apartment was long and narrow, almost a tunnel. The blinds were drawn across a row of tall windows on one side, and a single lamp in a corner cast shadows across the room, flickering every few seconds. Paintings hung on the walls like they were guarding the place.
One showed a tall black mountain with lighting flashing from its peak. Another was a nude figure stretched out on a rock, missing one leg. A third was a dark cave with a pair of scarlet eyes glowing menacingly from deep within.
All Axel’s work. The same ominous style.
Axel made his way to a couch and slumped into it. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood on a table next to it, along with an ashtray filled with pills. “What does Marian want? She could have just called.”
“She says you mostly do email.” I looked around. “Your paintings?”
“Mostly. A few friends.” He shifted on the sofa and scooped up a handful of pills, then washed them down with the whiskey. His eyes were red—bloodshot and irritated at us. He glanced at Rachel, then back to me. “What’s going on?”
“You painted a portrait of Marian Krantz wearing a scarab necklace. She hasn’t worn that necklace in years. Where did you see it?”
Axel leaned back and smiled, his eyelids drooping. “In a vision.”
“How does that work? Are you psychic?”
I felt Rachel stiffen beside me. Axel looked at her again and laughed. “Yeah, I’ve got my ways.”
“You’re—sick, aren’t you?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Cancer.” He laughed again, bitter. “Blood cancer. I’m 32 years old, and I’m dying of leukemia. They can’t operate. All they can do is pump me full of chemicals and zap me with radiation. It won’t help. Nothing helps.” He scratched at a red spot on his arm.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah.” His voice was flat. “I get that a lot.”
I looked at Rachel. She was checking the paintings out. “You okay?”
She nodded, her eyes flickering from one canvas to the next. “Okay.”
I went back to Axel. “You heard about Archie Hammond last night?”
“Asshole.” He coughed. “Fat pretentious twat. Self-appointed lord of the art critics. ‘Did I mention I wrote for the Tribune? Did I? Did I mention my awards? Let me tell you again.’” He coughed again. “He probably jerks off to Jackson Pollack.”
“What about Gabrielle Keyes? What did she do to you?”
“Gaby?” His eyes froze. For a moment he stood motionless, and I wondered if he was going to have a seizure.
Then he blinked. “That bitch.” He picked up the Jack Daniels for another swallow. “Started cheating on me the day I told her about my diagnosis. If she wasn’t before.” He wiped a hand across his mouth.
“You know she’s dead?”
He smiled. “Now I do.”
I glanced at Rachel. She was staring at Axel, but she shot me a look of warning from the corner of her eye.
Asking questions is what I do. Even when I think I know the answer. And when I’m not sure I want to hear it.
I took a deep breath. “It was your painting. A dagger. Just like Hammond.”
Axel nodded. “Yeah.”
Rachel and I exchanged glances. Her glance said, Now what, you idiot? I couldn’t blame her.
“How did you do it?” I asked Axel
He stared at me—at both of us. Making up his mind about something? If it was a test, we passed. With a grunt, Axel grabbed his bottle and lurched to his feet. “Come on.”
We followed. Rachel leaned close to me. “What are we doing?”
“Finding the truth,” I whispered. “What are you getting?”
She stared at the back of his neck. “He’s dying, and he’s in the anger phase. Big surprise. And it’s ready to burst out. Maybe literally.”
Great. On the plus side, he looked so weak from the cancer I could probably push him down and run away. On the minus side—daggers from nowhere. Maybe this was not my best idea. But it was too late to back out now.
Axel stood inside a small bedroom. The shades were down here, too, and the small lamp near the bed cast more shadows than light. On the other side of the room, a canvas waited on an easel.
It looked like a cat, half-finished. Black fur, one golden eye, one paw with claws outstretched. Brushes and bottles of acrylic paint stood on a small square table next to a three-legged stool.
He perched on the stool. Next to the brushes was a small ceramic bowl, a jar of dirty water, and a black pouch. After a cough, he unzipped the pouch.
A short, sharp knife fell out. It looked just like the knife that had killed Archie Hammon. And Gabrielle Keyes.
He picked it up, took a close look at the edge and tested the tip with his thumb until a drop of blood popped out. Satisfied, he peeled off his T-shirt, revealing a skinny torso—bony ribs, a sunken chest, and more blotches over his skin.
“Sorry.” He seemed momentarily embarrassed. “I need this for later.” He slung the shirt over one shoulder.
Rachel and I watched as Axel held his arm over the ceramic bowl and picked up the knife. He pointed it at his forearm, his hand trembling, and bit his lip, as if working up his nerve. Then he pressed the edge of the knife into his flesh until blood started to seep out in a short, jagged wound.
Axel grunted in pain, moving his arm to let the blood drip into the bowl. He dropped the knife and squeezed his arm, trying to coax more blood from the gash, gritting his teeth. Sweat ran down his face.
Finally he grabbed his T-shirt and wrapped it around the wound, tying it as tight as he could with one hand. He was gasping, his shoulders shaking, but gradually he regained control of himself and sat up with a smile.
“Shouldn’t you put something on that?” Rachel pointed to his arm. “Alcohol or something?”
Axel laughed. “I’m dying, remember? You think I’m worried about a goddamn infection?” He wiped a hand across his forehead and picked up a brush. Then he opened a jaw of yellow acrylic, so pale it was almost transparent, and dipped his brush in.
Then he dabbed the tip of the brush into the bowl, mixing the paint with his blood.
He filled in the cat’s golden eye, then swirled the brush in the jar and started working on an ear, using black and pink, again mixed with blood. I forgot everything for a moment, watching Axel create something from nothing, the face of a cat with just a few flicks of his brush and dabs of color. It was magic—without magic. Just talent and skill and practice.
And blood.
“When did you start doing this?” I asked.
Axel dipped his brush for more blood. “After they found the leukemia. That was a year ago. I started having visions. I used them for inspiration. Some people liked them, other people hated them. And then I didn’t care.”
He flicked the brush against the canvas. “I was doing what I liked. Then I thought of using my blood. It was killing me, so I decided to use it to make me live forever. In my work, you know?” He grinned. “Then I started feeling something. In the paintings. This was a couple of months ago. The more blood I used, the more I could feel it, there, inside my paintings. I had one in a group show at the U of C., and I went. Nobody knew I was there, it was like I was a spy.” He grinned again. “I saw people looking at it. Judging it. And—the painting could feel their judgment. I could feel it in my fingers, in my arms. It wanted to judge them. It wanted to strike back.”
I looked at Rachel. She was staring at the cat as it came closer to life. Its golden eye glowed in the light from the lamp.
“The more blood I used, the stronger it got. And I was getting weaker.” Axel took a long, labored breath as he painted. “I was trying to finish up for Marian’s show. I don’t even remember finishing some of the last few pieces. Getting them down to the shipping office—I slept for a day after that..”
“Did you know what would happen?”
Axel put the brush down and looked up at me. “I don’t care anymore. I’m—liberated now. Soon I’ll be dead anyway. I don’t care about anything but art.”
“And vengeance?” That came from Rachel.
He crossed his arms. “What have I got left?”
“Can you feel it?” Rachel asked, stepping closer to me. For protection, maybe—although I wasn’t sure if I was protecting her or she was protecting me. “When the knives strike?”
Axel smiled and tapped his chest. “In here. Where the blood flows strongest.”
“So when Archie Hammond was looking at Murder of Crows—”
“Archie.” Axel snorted. “That hack. Yeah, I could feel it. My heart pounding, faster, faster, then—for a moment everything stopped.” He took a breath. “I thought I was the one dying, not him. Then it started up again, and I knew. I knew.” He smiled.
“And Gabrielle Keyes?”
“Not until you told me.” He shivered. “I felt it right then. I saw it—her eyes. And I felt it go into her chest. I heard one scream—” He smiled.
“Why?” Rachel crossed her arms, her eyes dark and angry.
“She dumped me. I told you. Right when I told her about this.” He slapped his blotchy chest. “And she was cheating. All the time. I could just feel it. All your bitches are alike.” Axel glared at her.
“Hey.” I took a step toward him. Rachel grabbed my arm, but I had to say something. “Don’t talk about Rachel.”
“My hero,” she whispered sarcastically.
“Oh, screw you. Screw both of you.” Axel threw down his brush and stood up, rocking unsteadily. “What are you doing here? Get out!”
Fine with me. I’d gotten what we came for. Whether anyone would believe it was another story, but not my big worry now. I took Rachel’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She nodded. “Best idea you’ve had today.”
“Wait!” Axel grabbed his bottle. “You can’t—what are you going to tell Marian?”
Uh-oh. “What she hired me for. To find out how you knew about that necklace.”
“And the rest of it? Who’s going to believe you?”
I only wanted to get out of there. Yeah, I’d give the whole story to my client. And I’d tell Metzger, but he wouldn’t listen. But I didn’t need to admit that right now. Despite what Rachel says, I’m not stupid.
I sighed. “Believe me? Probably nobody.”
We turned. Axel shouted, “Wait!” again, but we ignored him and walked away, out into the living room. It was darker than before, with only what was left of the faint afternoon sunlight filtering through the blinds, just the lone lamp flickering in the corner.
Rachel’s breath was quick and ragged as he made our way toward the door. “Something—something—” she whispered. “Watch out—”
I felt a sharp sting in my arm. “Ow.” I looked down, reaching over. “What the—”
I felt the blood on my fingers before I saw the knife. It was just above my elbow, hanging down from my jacket, small with a short black handle. Just like Axel’s.
“Run!” I ducked my head, grabbed Rachel’s arm, and charged forward.
Axel was still shouting somewhere behind us. Rachel cursed, almost tripped, and I held onto her as she staggered for balance. I felt something fly close to my neck, and ducked lower.
Something whizzed over my head. I tried to cover Rachel with my arm and body but that just slowed us down and Rachel pulled away. I could feel the blood dripping from my arm as the pain started shooting through my body.
Rachel yanked at my jacket, her head low, and we stumbled another few feet until I hit the door with my foot. Something jabbed at my butt. She fumbled with the lock and shoved me through into the hall outside. I fell and rolled over, and she jumped past me, panting. I saw blood on her fingers.
I sat up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, stupid, just—” She turned, one hand on the doorknob to slam it shut, but froze. “Oh, no.”
Axel staggered through the room, clutching his Jack Daniels and gasping. A dagger was buried in his leg, another one in his arm, and a third one dangled from his shoulder. He roared, cursing us, and then another dagger flew from nowhere and dove into his stomach.
Axel toppled forward, grunting now instead of cursing. The bottle slipped from his fingers. He twisted his neck to look up, to peer at us with his bloodshot eyes.
“The blood,” he whispered. “The blood.”
His head drooped. One arm twitched and went still.
I groaned. Axel was dead, and even though he’d been a murderer, I hated seeing anybody die. But mostly I thought of what I’d have to tell the police. “Oh, Metzger’s going to love this. Call my lawyer after you call 911. I hope we have enough for bail money . . .”
My arm throbbed. “Shut up,” Rachel hissed, clawing for her phone. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Yeah.” I closed my eyes.
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