Chapter 9 Art and Shadows
The Whitney Museum looked elegant under the evening lights. Well-dressed people streamed through the entrance, their voices mixing with the sound of traffic on the busy street. I adjusted my black dress and checked my earpiece one more time.
"Surveillance team, radio check," Jameson's voice crackled in my ear.
"Detective Jenkins in position at the main entrance," I replied softly.
"Agent Martinez covering the east galleries," came another voice.
"Detective Chen monitoring the upper levels," David's voice followed.
We had eight officers scattered throughout the museum, all dressed for the art opening. I wore a simple black dress and carried a small purse that concealed my weapon and radio. To anyone watching, I looked like just another art lover enjoying the exhibition.
But I was hunting a killer.
The main gallery was crowded with New York's art elite. Women in designer dresses moved between paintings and sculptures, wine glasses in hand, discussing the latest artistic trends. Any one of them could be the next target.
I moved slowly through the crowd, studying faces, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. The profile Alex had given us was specific: medical training, familiar with the art world, someone who could blend in but was really watching the women.
"Detective Jenkins," a voice said behind me. I turned to see a tall man in an expensive suit approaching with two wine glasses. "You look lost."
My hand instinctively moved toward my purse, but I kept my voice casual. "Just admiring the art. Are you familiar with the exhibition?"
"Very familiar." He handed me one of the wine glasses. "Dr. Michael Harrison. I'm on the museum's medical advisory board."
Doctor. Medical training. My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral. "What kind of medicine do you practice?"
"Emergency surgery. I see a lot of trauma cases, unfortunately." He sipped his wine, watching me carefully. "What brings you to the Whitney tonight?"
"I love art," I lied smoothly. "Especially contemporary pieces. There's something about modern artists—they capture the darkness in our world so perfectly."
His eyes lit up with interest. "Darkness is fascinating, isn't it? The way people cope with tragedy, with violence. I see it every day in the emergency room."
Warning bells were going off in my head. I pressed the small button on my purse, sending a silent alert to the team.
"That must be difficult," I said. "Seeing people at their most vulnerable."
"Actually, I find it quite beautiful. There's something pure about someone facing death. They become completely honest, completely real." His voice had a strange quality, almost dreamy.
This was him. I was sure of it.
"Detective Jenkins, your signal came through," Jameson's voice whispered in my earpiece. "Describe your location."
I couldn't respond directly without alerting Harrison, so I tried a different approach. "Would you like to see the sculpture exhibit? I heard there's a fascinating piece about mortality near the east wing."
"I'd love to," Harrison said, setting down his wine glass.
As we walked toward the east wing, I caught sight of Agent Martinez across the room. She was pretending to study a painting but watching us carefully. I nodded slightly, hoping she understood.
"Tell me, Dr. Harrison," I said as we moved through the crowd, "do you come to gallery openings often?"
"Whenever I can. Art and medicine have more in common than people think. Both deal with the human condition, with beauty and suffering." He paused by a dark abstract painting. "This piece, for example. Look at the way the artist positioned the figures. So respectful, so peaceful."
My blood turned to ice. The painting showed abstract human forms, but the positioning was unmistakable. Three elements extended, two folded back. Just like the victims' hands.
"It's very... specific," I managed to say.
"The artist understands death," Harrison continued. "Most people fear it, but there's a beauty in the final moment. When someone stops fighting and accepts their fate."
I pressed the alert button again, more urgently this time. We needed backup now.
"Dr. Harrison," I said carefully, "it sounds like your work has given you a unique perspective on mortality."
"Oh yes. I've helped many people through their final moments. Always respectfully, always with dignity." His eyes had a distant look. "There's an art to it, really. The careful positioning, the peaceful arrangement. It's almost ceremonial."
"Like a ritual?"
"Exactly." He turned to face me fully, and for the first time, I saw something cold in his eyes. "You understand, don't you? The beauty of a perfect ending?"
My hand moved slowly toward my purse. "I think I do."
"I thought so. You have an appreciation for the finer things. Not like the others." His voice dropped lower. "They never understood what I was trying to show them."
"The other women?"
"They were all so... ungrateful. Fighting until the end, refusing to see the beauty in what I was offering them." Harrison stepped closer, and I could smell his cologne mixed with something else. Something antiseptic.
"Dr. Harrison," I said, backing away slightly, "I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"No misunderstanding," he replied calmly. "You sent the signal. You understand what this is about."
He knew. Somehow, he knew I was a cop.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, but my hand was already on my weapon.
"Detective Rachel Jenkins," he said with a smile. "Did you really think I wouldn't recognize you? I've been watching you for days."
Before I could react, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was stronger than expected, with the steady control of a surgeon. In his other hand, I caught the glint of something sharp.
"Dr. Michael Harrison," I said loudly, hoping my team would hear. "I think we need to continue this conversation somewhere more private."
"I couldn't agree more," he replied, the blade pressing against my side through my dress. "Shall we find somewhere quieter? The upper galleries are lovely this time of night."
As he guided me toward the staircase, I prayed my team had gotten the message. The Whitney Museum had just become a trap, and I was the bait.
The Alley Killer had finally revealed himself, but I was far from safe.