Page 77 of Fatal Pattern

While Kristin clicked through her computer, Blade studied the painting. His eyes searched for another hidden face, but either he was looking too hard or it wasn’t there. The swirls of color remained just swirls.

Tori nudged him and leaned close. “Bottom left. Follow the blue spiral down.”

He shifted his focus, and there it was. The angular features of Scott Kaufman, the software developer from Orlando. The face emerged from the brushstrokes like a photograph developing in a darkroom.

“Here we go,” Kristin said. “They came from Gallery Showcase in the Miami Design District.”

“Would it be okay if I took a picture?” Tori asked. “I have a few friends who would just love to see these.”

“I don’t see why not.”

Blade’s phone vibrated against his hip. He’d been so focused on the paintings that he’d missed several calls. The screen showed Corbin’s name. He couldn’t wait to bounce this off him, but later.

When Tori finished photographing, they thanked Kristin and returned to the conference room. His phone buzzed again.

“Your phone’s been going off,” Tori said.

“It’s Corbin.” He answered with a grin. “Brother, you’re not going to believe this—”

“Blade.” Corbin cut through his excitement.

The grin died on his face. “What’s wrong?”

Tori moved closer, close enough to hear.

Silence stretched for three heartbeats before Corbin spoke again.

“My father was murdered.”

22

Tori closed the conference room door with a soft click. Damien Sullivan. Murdered. Probably because of them.

She turned back to the painting. A massive abstract composition mounted on the wall the way some people mount a taxidermy trophy. She stepped back to take in the entire piece.

The brushstrokes pulsed with violent energy. Broad sweeps that mimicked arterial spray. Aggressive slashes that echoed knife wounds. The massive canvas allowed the artist complete freedom to recreate the crime scene. Each mark documented process, not just product.

“He was reliving them,” she said.

Blade moved to stand beside her. “I’m sorry, Corbin, I can’t talk here. I’ll call you back in twenty.”

“Each fling of the brush is another strike of his victim.” She traced the violent arcs with her eyes.

The pattern matched what she’d seen at Florek’s house. The blood spatter on the walls, the trajectory of the attack. The pivot of a shoulder guided the sweep of the paint. The killer traced the memory of the resistance he’d felt when the knife hit bone.

“Come with me.” Blade’s hand found her elbow. He glanced at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling.

He guided her toward the door, and she had to pull her gaze away from the canvas. She forced herself to look at the floor. If she looked at the painting again, she’d start counting the slashes.

In the hallway, his stride remained measured.

“We need to be chill,” he said under his breath, nodding to a passing paralegal.

They stopped at Florek’s office, where Gino crouched beside the desk, photographing papers arranged on the carpet. Crime scene tape crossed the doorway.

“Gino.” Blade crooked a finger, and the tech walked over. “Take over in the conference room. We’ve got to go.”

Gino looked at Tori. “Everything okay, bro?”