Chapter 22 #2
She gestured toward the back of the gallery. “We keep detailed records of our preservation work. Perhaps we can trace the shipping information.”
Tori squeezed Blade’s arm as they followed Laelanie deeper into the gallery. Anonymous shipping. That meant paper trails. Records.
Maybe even an address.
“It’s understandable you’d be drawn to those pieces,” Laelanie said, navigating around stacked canvases and shipping crates. “They’re abstract fractals.”
Tori’s foot caught on a wooden frame leaning against the wall. Blade’s hand shot out, steadying her before she could fall.
“Oh yes, watch your step,” Laelanie called over her shoulder. “There’s junk everywhere back here.”
Tori’s heart slammed upward like it wanted out. “What’s an abstract fractal?”
“Well, back in ninety-eight or ninety-nine, a physicist proved that Jackson Pollock’s drip paintings follow fractal patterns.
” Laelanie stopped at a cluttered desk, waking up her computer with a mouse click.
“That just means that paint splatters repeat at different scales, just like you see in nature when you look at flowers or shrubs.”
The screen flickered to life, displaying a shipping database.
“Some people think you can authenticate a Pollock using mathematical equations, though that’s debatable.” Laelanie’s fingers moved across the keyboard. “But I can see how these pieces would be soothing. There’s something about abstract fractals that speaks to us.”
Tori gripped Blade’s arm tighter. Fractals. Mathematics. The same obsession that connected Damien Sullivan to their killer.
“Ah, here it is.” Laelanie’s finger traced across the screen. “The paintings are shipped from The Mandelbrot Group.”
“Mandelbrot,” Blade corrected gently. “Like ‘bro,’ not ‘brot.’”
“Right, thank you.” Laelanie smiled, but Tori barely heard the exchange.
Mandelbrot.
Damien’s rambling about fractals. Dr. Stone’s casual lecture on Keplerian patterns. The mathematical staging of each crime scene.
She forced her breathing to remain steady, her expression mildly interested rather than electrified. She’d been reading about the Mandelbrot set. The most famous fractal equation in mathematics. Self-similar patterns repeating infinitely, beautiful and terrifying in their complexity.
Just like their killer’s methodology.
She flicked a look at Blade. His gaze locked on hers, sharp and lit with the same strike of recognition. He pinned his jaw shut, muscle ticcing once.
“Oh.” Laelanie’s voice brightened with discovery. “Looks like we have a painting that just came in from them. Would you like to see it?”
“We’d love to,” she managed, her voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system.
Laelanie guided them through a maze of shipping crates to a sterile viewing room lined with adjustable track lighting. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. Everything designed to eliminate visual distractions.
“This keeps the dust away and gives us perfect color temperature,” Laelanie explained, lifting a wrapped canvas from a shipping box.
Tori clasped her hands behind her back, fingers interlaced so tightly her knuckles ached. The woman moved with infuriating slowness, smoothing her white cotton gloves before peeling away each layer of protective paper with museum-quality care.
Rip it off already.
But the gloves were a blessing. No fingerprints contaminating evidence. No blown cover requiring explanations about chain of custody.
The final layer of tissue paper fell away.
Tori’s breath caught. Violent brushstrokes erupted across the canvas. Aggressive slashes of crimson and black that mimicked arterial spray. The same strokes she’d studied in the conference room painting.
She scanned the chaotic composition, searching for the hidden pattern. There. In the lower right quadrant where the paint formed a spiral of decreasing circles.
Donald Florek’s face emerged from the fractal geometry. Eyes wide with terror. Mouth open in a silent scream. The killer’s latest trophy.
Tori’s gasp escaped before she could stop it.
“I know, right?” Laelanie beamed, misreading the sound entirely. “This one’s even more breathtaking than his last. The artist is really growing in his craft.”
Growing. Tori’s stomach lurched. Each murder refined his technique. Each victim taught him something new about staging, about violence, about transforming death into art. Laelanie was right. This . . . this . . . Mandelbrot killer was perfecting his masterpiece, one corpse at a time.
“It’s incredible,” Blade managed, clearing his throat. “Where is this headed? I’d love to see more of his work in person.”
Laelanie consulted the packing slip. “Interesting. The final destination is TBD. The Mandelbrot Group has instructed us to hold it until they provide shipping instructions.”
Tori’s heart sank. A dead end wrapped in a breakthrough. They had irrefutable proof connecting the murders. Florek’s terrorized face stared back at them from the canvas. But the killer remained a ghost, hidden behind corporate anonymity.
“How frustrating,” she said, forcing disappointment into her voice instead of the rage building in her chest. “We were hoping to meet this artist.”
“I’ll keep your information on file,” Laelanie offered. “If they contact us again, I can pass along your interest.”
Perfect. Another waiting game while the killer planned his next fractal masterpiece.