CHAPTER FIVE #2
But today's Williamsburg, he thought, as he carried on down the street, was almost a parody of itself.
Food trucks selling snacks at a price he still associated with a sit-down dinner, people sipping oat milk lattes, a lone juggler trying to draw a crowd in spite of the wind.
Shops with one shoe in the window and young men with phenomenal facial hair.
The 'burg was seriously pretentious, but he'd take pretentious a thousand times over in preference to war-torn, starving, divided, smashed to bits by bombs and bullets and bad ideas.
He moved with purpose, weaving through the crowd, his destination scribbled on his hand.
He was expecting premises with exposed brickwork, tinted windows, a neon sculpture, something achingly cool, with a receptionist to match.
Instead, sandwiched between a vegan bakery and a shop apparently selling unicycles, there was a nondescript, whale-colored front door.
There were three bells to the side. He pressed the one that said ‘Crendell Agency’.
Up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor and he found himself in a small, cluttered office. Kathy Crendell, Brandon Ashworth’s agent and former partner stood in the doorway, a ginger cat in her arms.
‘Sorry, are you allergic?’ she asked, in a rich Texan drawl. ‘She can’t see, so she likes to sniff everyone who comes in.’
‘She can sniff away,’ Marcus said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Sally,’ replied Crendell. Standing close to the woman while the cat inspected him, Marcus could see that Crendell’s eyes were red and her nostrils inflamed. Tissues on the adjacent desk suggested she’d been crying.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Marcus said, taking a seat at her invitation.
Sally returned to her bed in the corner, her interest in him quite gone.
Crendell didn’t reply, concentrated on adjusting her office chair, perhaps as a distraction.
She was a tall-ish woman with short blonde hair and a pale complexion.
She wore dungarees on top of a striped shirt, making her look slightly like a mime artist.
‘Thank you,’ she said, eventually. ‘As you probably know, Brandon and I were together for several years, and we remained friends.’
‘And you… you’re a sculptor yourself, is that right?’
‘I was, but I was always better at the business side. I can pay my bills, too, which was something I never quite managed to do when I was an artist.’
‘What about Mr. Ashworth’s work? Did that pay the bills?’
'It wasn't all Christ-as-a-rent boy, Mr. Reid. Brandon had a very lucrative sideline in abstract works, which sold to hotels, cruise lines, corporate HQs, and private collectors. Here – '
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, then she angled her monitor so that Marcus could see.
There was an array of forms, some faintly egg-like, others reminiscent of some creature in flight and a third category for which he could summon up no description whatsoever.
He guessed that was what ‘abstract’ truly meant.
But there was nothing abstract about the prices.
Twenty gs for an egg-shaped thing? He was in the wrong racket.
‘He called them his bread-head pieces. Knocked ‘em out just for the money. That was what he said, but of course, he wasn’t being truthful.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘It was typical of Brandon to pretend that he didn’t care. That he just did these works for money and that they contained nothing of himself. But he was being flippant. I’d say, with all due respect to his recently departed soul, that was his worst attribute. Flippancy.’
‘What about the religious works? I mean, the anti-religious works. Was that just flippancy?’
‘Actually, no. He genuinely had something to say there. And it was all about the power of the image. In the 21st century, people still believe in the power of an icon, to the point where the cockpit of a Russian tank is built with a little interior ledge so that a protection icon can be put there when it goes into battle. Similarly, in the same 21st century, an artist like Brandon might depict Jesus as a male prostitute, and receive death threats.’
‘So he wanted them to get angry to prove his point?’
‘He wanted to ask questions about it. About the power of the image, and the nature of belief.’
‘Pretty dangerous way of going about it,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘That was insensitive.’
She shot him a look that came straight from the bottom of the cold sea. ‘You seem to be suggesting that Brandon deserved to be killed.’
‘He didn’t deserve that. And we want to catch his killer. Which is why I’m wondering if he received many threats.’
‘There was a lot of hoo-ha around his last exhibition back in June. But you’d need to talk to the gallery about the specifics.
We got letters, though. We’re still getting letters.
I got one today, hand-delivered, that was almost polite.
It said they were very sad about Brandon’s death, because he would be burning in Hell. Do you want to see it?’
‘Yes, please.’
She stood up and started rummaging in the shelves next to her desk. The cat looked up expectantly.
‘I also want to ask about your call to the police. When was that?’
She turned round from the bookcase. ‘Last month. There was a guy hanging round outside. I mean – he was definitely interested in this building, I don’t know if it was specifically us, but the other premises are a Hebrew teacher and two young men from Pakistan who mend laptops, so.
.. I went out to speak to him one time but he ran away.
He moved fast for a big guy. Anyway, he came back again two days later so I called the local precinct. ’
‘What happened?’
‘Inevitably, he’d gone by the time the patrol car came, and I didn’t see him again. But I did mention it to Brandon.’
‘What was his response?’
‘He looked worried.’
‘Worried?’
‘That’s the only word I can use. He looked kind of spooked, to be honest. But he didn’t say anything or ask me any more questions about it, so it just got forgotten about.’
‘But he was a big guy,’ Marcus said. She looked at him blankly. ‘You said he moved fast for a big guy.’
‘Oh! Oh yes. I’m afraid I can’t do any better than that, though, sorry. Oh – and… a baseball cap. Either gray or very dirty white. He wore it in the old-fashioned way.’
‘What’s that?’
‘As in, with the peak facing forward, not left or right or backwards.’
She paused, taking a step back from her overcrowded shelves.
‘I’m looking in the wrong place, sorry. It’s a big file.
’ She went over to a large, deep-drawered metal cabinet.
‘I kept everything,’ she said, resuming her search.
‘It’s in roughly date order, going back to the first one he got back in 2018.
I used to write back with a comps slip, saying ‘thank you for your interest’ but it got to be a drag. Nowadays I just file them, in case.’
‘Wait, if you wrote back… does that mean they included an address?’
‘Mostly, yes,’ she said, as she located the folder – a large lever-arch file. ‘Though I’ve never checked if the addresses were real. Here – you can file this one at the front for me.’
She passed him the letter that had arrived today: hand-written, as well as hand-delivered.
The handwriting was relatively sane in appearance, the content a strange mixture of condolences and hell-fire.
Just as Crendell said, the author believed Ashworth would now be burning in Hell, a sadly avoidable outcome, if he’d only been able to leave the second commandment alone.
The address was a rented mailbox, right here in NYC.
But it was signed with a name. Henk Steensma.
‘Can I hang onto these?’ Marcus asked.
‘By all means,’ she said. ‘But I want them back.’
‘There’s just one more thing,’ he said, as he stood up.
‘Really? You’re doing that?’
Marcus blinked. ‘What’s the problem?’
She smiled. 'Isn't it what that TV detective does? He says he's going, the suspect relaxes, then he says "oh, one last thing" to catch them out.'
‘Lieutenant Columbo,’ Marcus said. ‘I can assure you I’m not trying to catch you out, Ms. Crendell.
I wanted to ask you about the uncompleted work in the studio.
It was a wooden sculpture, I think. It’s been quite badly bashed up, and it’s in pieces, but as it’s part of the crime scene, I wonder if you could shed some light on it. ’
‘God and Ready,’ she said. ‘That was the working title. It was his attempt to display the dichotomy between pagan and Christian religion. The pagans celebrated sexuality, the Christians were horrified by it.’
‘So it was…’
‘It was a sculpture of Christ in a… shall we say, highly excited state.’
‘In a… Oh. I get it. Right.’
‘You’re embarrassed,’ she said, with a faint smile.
Anger flashed through him. She saw him as the dumb cop who didn’t understand art. What the hell did she know? About the things he’d seen. The things that moved him. What right did she have to sneer at him?
‘I believe in free speech, ma’am, and I especially believe that artists should be free to create. Nobody should seek to silence somebody else, with violence or the threat of it. I’ll email you a receipt, and I’ll bid you a good day.’