The Art of Death

By Richard Fliegel

Stuck in traffic on the Cross-Bronx Expressway, Detective Sergeant Shelly Lowenkopf finds himself in the middle of an apparent attack by young black Indians with rubber-tipped arrows when another motorist fires back. Shelly takes the shooter down to the station, where he learns that the event was a staged performance, one in a series of events arranged by performance artists competing for a prize around the Bronx. To the surprise of both the police and the artist, the blanks in the rifle have been replaced with real bullets. Someone is turning performance art into the art of death. 

The Art of Death is the 2nd book in the Allerton Avenue Precinct Novels, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497663589

Richard Fliegel

Richard Fliegel is a writer and associate dean at USC Dornsife College. He has published several detective novels and short stories in collections. His book A Minyan for the Dead was nominated for a Shamus Award by the Private Eye Writers of America. A member of the WGA West, he has written for Star Trek and ABC network television. He lives in California with his wife, Lois; his dog, Cleo; and occasionally, with his sons.

Book preview

1

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ONE STRETCH OF the Cross Bronx Expressway always felt to Shelly Lowenkopf like the set for a cheap horror movie. It marked the midpoint of his nightly route from the Allerton Avenue Precinct House in the east Bronx to his apartment in Washington Heights, in northern Manhattan. For about half a mile, the red river of taillights passed through a vale of apartment buildings that had been gutted by insurance fires or set upon by vandals until only the shells remained. The effect was something like the pictures he had seen of Dresden after the firebombing. All of the windows were gone. In their places, large black holes had stared at the motorists backed up from the George Washington Bridge until the city, moved by the plight of the poorest of the poor, had covered the gaping rectangles with pictures of window frames.

People lived inside those buildings, Lowenkopf remembered, though he did not recall where he had obtained that information. It typified his thinking: brisk sympathies and a ragtag trail of details. To sharpen his policeman's eye he counted habitations. Five lit windows in the nearest building, three and two in the next. He guessed four residences, maybe five. And how many residents? A late October chill whistled, penetrating with a muffled suck the masking around the windows.

Inching between the tinned facades were six lanes of automobiles, their drivers glancing neither right nor left beyond the elevated highway as yard by yard the macadam was surrendered and reclaimed. Above, the clouds were clearing quickly. Night stained the autumn sky methylene, cyanine, midnight blue, punctured here and there as handfuls of dingy stars broke through. In the yellow haze from a chimney stack he read the wind direction: everything over Shelly's head moved freely toward the bridge.

His radio was out, a twist of yellow wire dangling suspiciously from the dashboard. But his heater worked only too well, issuing a thick, mechanical warmth and an irregular series of clicks. He slid the lever on his temperature control, but the moist clicks continued—one, one, two together, a long, breathless pause during which he thought the thing had expired, then another sudden flurry. He wiped condensation from the top of his windshield, did the same for his wire-frames and tried to keep his temper from rising.

Looking in the rearview mirror, he straightened his glasses and considered the face obscured by the collar of his green corduroy overcoat. The line of his jaw was still firm, but forty-two years, almost fourteen of them on the force, had inscribed a melancholy gravity in the lines of his mouth. His eyes, which wavered between blue and gray, blinked through lenses overhung by bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Beyond a ridged forehead, graying hair sizzled in several directions as if picking up distress calls from the evening air.

Ahead of him, beyond the column of cars spiraling around the curves, Ruth would be double-parked in front of his building, waiting to drop off their son. She was headed for a health spa while Clem was out of town, and thought it might be a good time for Thom to spend with his father. He pictured her daubing on lipstick as Friday drivers snarled at her, and imagined her response in the traffic sounds around him as an awful nasal blare jarred his nerves.

The man in the Ford behind him wasn't helping. It was an old Falcon with squarish lines, in deep forest green. Despite the evidence of bumper-bumping immobility, the man apparently believed what Shelly was confronting could be overcome with a little more gumption. To help provide the necessary will, he leaned on his horn every few seconds. Lowenkopf studied his rearview mirror. The man craned forward expectantly, scowling through the windshield. He honked again, a long, nasty drone, until drivers in nearby cars began honking back in protest. Shelly deliberated whether to open his door and hold up his police badge, but doubted that anyone would pay much attention. He decided instead to ignore the noise, rub the smudges off his steering wheel, and wish the bastard a stroke.

From the insistence of the man's horn, he thought his tactic might just have worked. A new note of panic had crept in, and the blare had risen to a crescendo that continued unabated for half a minute at least. The reply from other cars was deafening. Shelly turned in his seat to give the man his heartfelt opinion when he saw what all the honking was about.

At the edge of the highway, a pedestrian appeared, followed by another half-dozen. Something in the way they hunched forward, their conspiratorial air, and the word Cheer lettered on the backs of their jackets suggested at first a gang. But the style of their clothes was uncomfortably uniform: red satin trousers striped with blue, blue satin jackets to match. Like a team of renegade gymnasts, they stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the cars, their hands behind them. The tallest was black, wearing a feathered armband over his gleaming jacket. In smooth glides he paced the perimeter while a colleague wearing a quilled headdress beat out a rhythm on a Pontiac's fender with a pair of rubber-tipped drumsticks. A Hispanic with a doeskin bandanna raised his fist as a signal. The others, wearing war paint on their cheeks and feathers in their hair, raised narrow objects with weirdly shaped ends and moved toward the trapped cars.

Shelly rolled down his window and rested his arm on the sill, but before he could shout, something struck his elbow, bounced off, and landed on the back seat. It was an arrow with a blue suction tip and yellow feathers—an unusual weapon in the Bronx. As he was climbing out of his car, he heard a shot, like a muted firecracker, echo through the buildings. The man behind him was leaning on the roof of the green Falcon, aiming and firing a rifle. The attacking gang members kept jumping on the cars, whooping war cries, loosing arrows from little toy bows.

Lowenkopf grabbed his badge and waved it, hollering, What the hell is going on here? but no one paid much attention. The driver of the Falcon fired again, once, twice, a third time. An adolescent on the trunk of a Buick crumpled with a groan, clutching his belly. Shelly extended his gun toward the sniper's head, braced his wrist with his free hand, and yelled, Don't move, mister. Police. You're under arrest.

As Lowenkopf stepped forward, seized the rifle, and recited Miranda, the gang members hopped from the cars and edged back off the highway.

Aren't you gonna stop ‘em? the shooter demanded. He wore an ankle-length raincoat, which made frisking difficult. He was nearly bald, with thin strands of hair sweeping from one side of his head to the other. Under the weight of watery eyes, his nostrils flattened, and he thrust his lips forward at the least provocation. But there was something fragile about the jaw, a fine line held precariously in place.

Lowenkopf took no chances. He kept his .38 trained on his prisoner as the gang members slipped between the headlights and vanished into the night. If I've got to choose between you and them, he said, I'm taking you.

The man broke into a grin. Wonderful. The city should be proud of you. I know I am.

Lowenkopf snapped on the cuffs. I'm proud of me, too. Now get in my car. We've got some driving to do.

The man slapped his forehead with his manacled wrists. Of course. I'm forgetting myself. Lead the way.

Lowenkopf opened the passenger door of his Volkswagen square-back and tossed the rifle in the rear. The man sized up the orange car doubtfully, tested the yellow fender, and climbed in, squeezing himself politely into the cramped space. Shelly called to the motorists crowding around the Buick, How is he?

A teenager with drowsy eyelids answered, Bleeding all over the back seat.

Lowenkopf had no radio in his car. We've got to get him to a hospital. He took a bubble from under his dashboard and stuck it on his roof. It started to flash and he gunned the engine. With a tremor, the traffic parted as Lowenkopf shouted to the drowsy teenager, You in the Buick—follow me.

They pulled out slowly and crawled to the nearest exit ramp, where he switched on the siren and picked up speed. The story, he knew, would cut no ice with Ruth, who with a flick of her wrist would dismiss gang, sniper, and wounded boy as another of Shelly's excuses. But the kid in the car behind him was a precious cargo whose deliverance rested with him. He adjusted his speed to keep the Buick on his tail but urge the driver on, like a trail master leading a wagon train. He felt good, capable in crisis, until he rolled up the window and his glasses fogged.

At least we're moving, the prisoner observed.

They turned right at Jerome Avenue, headed north between the girders of the elevated subway tracks. Steel gates already closed off many of the storefronts, but fruit stands and news vendors were still trading briskly to legions of homebound workers trooping from the hooded station stairs. The siren caused little stir in these streets as grilles nudged over to let them through. Lowenkopf swerved among double-parked cars and jaywalkers, slowing to give warning at the corners, his siren dropping in pitch, then speeding up when he got past the intersection.

His passenger leaned forward against the dashboard, watching their progress through the streets. Where are we headed?

To Montefiore. To save your victim's life, if we can.

And then?

To the precinct house on Allerton Avenue.

At that the shooter showed concern. That's not the closest, is it?

Shelly nodded. It is to me.

The man thought a moment, tapping his lip with his forefinger. It'll have to do. I should have expected there'd be some personal judgment involved.

Lowenkopf said, It's the fastest way I can think of to lock you in a cage.

And fill out forms, remember. An arrest report, at least. Possibly a crime report as well.

The detective eyed him sourly. You know all about this, don't you?

I should, the man said. It wouldn't have come off so nicely if I hadn't done my homework.

Nicely?

Maybe ‘nice’ isn't the word for it, the shooter admitted slowly.

Maybe not, Shelly agreed.

The man caught the yellow wire dangling by his knee and began untwisting it idly. Do you know the time?

Lowenkopf didn't want to. I wouldn't plan on keeping any appointments if I were you.

But I do, the suspect said cheerfully. And we're right on schedule.

Lowenkopf glanced over. If this is your way of confessing, go right ahead. You've heard your rights. Are you telling me the crime was premeditated?

He paused before answering. Let's say I've been meditating on it for some time now.

Close enough.

Lowenkopf cut the siren as they pulled into the emergency bay of Montefiore Hospital with the Buick right behind them. It was an aging entrance of large red bricks with an overhang of green wood supported by square pillars. The doors were glass on a sliding track, opening automatically as the cars rumbled by.

An orderly, attracted by the noise, glimpsed the flashing bubble on the Volkswagen, ran out of sight, and then reappeared with a gurney and a nurse. Shelly drove past the door, and the Buick braked suddenly, pitching forward. The drowsy-eyed teenager jumped I out and threw open his back door just as the two medical professionals reached him. They lowered the wounded kid from the car seat and lifted him onto the cart in a single smooth curve. The shooter watched approvingly, waving to the nurse, who glared back. Her uniform was spattered with blood.

They wheeled the gurney past the windshield of the Volkswagen to the nearest curb-cut, and Lowenkopf had a chance to make his own first diagnosis. It was not promising. The victim lay motionless on his back, head lolling listlessly, eyes closed, lips pale, jaw hanging loose. The cloth above his belly was already stained a dark purplish brown. He looked unconscious and likely to stay that way.

Shelly's passenger was still examining the untwisted wire in his hand. He bit the end, stripped back the yellow plastic, and wound the copper strands together. Then he reached under the radio, feeling his way, eyes raised heavenward. After a moment the light came on and a jazz saxophone wailed.

Lowenkopf watched him adjust the tone and volume. You knew there'd be trouble on the expressway tonight?

The suspect waited out the sax solo, nodding to the beat, before answering. If there hadn't been, I would've arranged it myself.

Did you?

For the first time he smiled. As a matter of fact, I did.

2

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THEIR RIDE BACK to the precinct house was faster by far than Shelly's trip to the scene had been. When they arrived, desk sergeant Pliny looked up from his cross-word and complained, I thought you just left.

I did, Lowenkopf said. Now I'm back.

So's Greeley, Pliny jerked a thumb over his huge shoulder. Working on that bone. You guys must like this place.

There wasn't all that much to like by day, and nights were even worse. The fluorescent hall lights blinked and buzzed, throwing a harsh white light on the radiator, which spit back steam in return. Underfoot, black scuff marks smeared the tiles. Somewhere a typist clacked out a report, each key striking the page with uncanny distinctness in the echoing hallway. The squad room was drearier still, with half the overhead lights out and individual desk lamps burning here and there. In the captain's glass office, the watch commander hunched over the desk, a shadow among the shadows. The night shift, it seemed, were all on calls or had phoned in sick or left town.

The chair across from Shelly's was empty when they approached, but Lowenkopf knew that Greeley was somewhere nearby. There was a dry cell battery on his desk, from which a wire ran around a lead pencil near a cracked soup bone on a plate. The desk was otherwise clear but for an empty in-basket, a full out-basket, a telephone, and a pen stand with built-in calendar and clock. Lowenkopf dropped the rifle on his own cluttered desk and eased back into his chair.

When do I get my phone call? the prisoner whined, watching the desk clock uneasily.

Not yet. Sit down. Lowenkopf unbuttoned his corduroy coat and cranked an arrest report into the typewriter. Name?

The man hesitated dramatically as if to heighten the suspense, then dropped his voice but enunciated each syllable: Pietr Albert Nevski. People do, however, call me Albert, rather than Pietr.

Lowenkopf adjusted his glasses. What's that?

It's Albert rather than Pietr.

Albert Pietr?

Pietr Albert, Nevski insisted, showing the first sign of strain since his arrest. He glanced at the clock again.

Occupation? Shelly asked.

Nevski scrutinized Lowenkopf as if the question were tricky. Finally he said, If you don't know, I suppose I'll have to show you.

They usually just tell me.

Awkwardly, Nevski reached into his coat pocket with his cuffed hands. Lowenkopf leaped up, aiming his gun at his prisoner, who lifted one eyebrow with amusement and handed over a newspaper clipping. It had a photo of Nevski, in a feather headdress, standing next to a fireman, and it carried the caption, Two Chiefs. Shelly looked up suspiciously.

Go on, Nevski urged him. Read it.

Lowenkopf scanned the text. You're an artist?

A performance artist, Nevski declared, raising his shoulders as if posing for a bust. If you'll let me make my phone call, we can get on with it.

With what?

The man remained stubbornly silent until Lowenkopf slid the phone across the desk.

All right, he said. It looks like the only way I'll ever get home.

Nevski accepted the phone and thanked him excessively, depressing the numbers with greedy fingers. He waited a moment and announced, City desk, please.

Lowenkopf sat forward. Who're you calling?

Nevski put a finger to his lips. Hello, city editor? This is Pietr Albert Nevski. I'm here at the police house on—where is this place?

Allerton Avenue.

On Allerton Avenue, where I've just been arrested for shooting a gangboy on the Cross Bronx highway. With a rifle. Yes, a pedestrian. Do you think . . . ? Well, fine. You wouldn't be willing to call the other papers, would you? I don't think they'll let me make another call.

Lowenkopf shook his head.

I didn't think so. Well, one is enough, really, if it's a good one. Hello? Please don't forget to send a photographer. I look sensational. He opened his raincoat to reveal a purple suede jumpsuit. How long do you think? . . . That'll do.

When the receiver clicked Lowenkopf said, Address?

Nevski gave it quite happily, his good spirits restored by the call. He consulted the clock one more time, but all the anxiety had run out of him. Ask whatever you like, he said. I've got plenty of time tonight.

At that moment, Greeley came out of the men's room. His blond hair was impeccably combed, but the bottom three buttons of his vest were open. Shelly could only guess at the deductive strain that had driven his partner to such an extremity. In his hand he cradled the steel cylinder from inside the toilet paper roll. When he saw Lowenkopf, his grip tightened. Shelly? You're working late.

No later than you, Homer. Haven't given up on that union lady, have you?

Look at this, Homer said, kneeling on the floor beside his desk. He unwound the wire from the lead pencil, wrapped it around the toilet paper cylinder, and very slowly passed the cylinder over the soup bone. See that? He pointed to something invisible in the marrow. "Metal filings. That's how she did it. She poisoned his T-bone."

Nevski watched closely. That's the most incredible thing I've ever seen.

Homer shrugged. I've seen your face, haven't I? You're Pietr Albert, aren't you?

Yes, that's right. Pietr Albert Nevski.

I've admired your work in the streets. There's a sense of social conscience to it that I find lacking in the efforts of some of your more whimsical contemporaries.

Lowenkopf pushed back his chair and rubbed his face. You know this guy?

Yes. He stages events in public places. He's the one who papered the Statue of Liberty's toe with eviction notices last year.

Lowenkopf scowled. Why?

I saw it as a protest against the gentrification of ethnic neighborhoods, Greeley ventured.

The artist nodded vigorously. Precisely. A lost battle, that one, utterly lost. But it's important to keep the mythic dimension alive. To provoke the imagination.

I saw enough provocation tonight, Shelly muttered, to start a race riot.

Really? Greeley crossed his legs, picking some lint from his knee. Tell me about it.

He shot a kid on the highway.

That doesn't do it justice, Nevski objected, waving his shackled arms as if clearing a space. "Attend, if you please: a motley gang of ruffians swarms over a highway in the most desperately poor section of the city. All of the sedans are trapped in place, like Conestoga wagons by Cheyennes. There is a moment in which