As they passed through the entrance doors, the hugely magnified sound of a heartbeat greeted them.

“I hate it already,” Elliot remarked.

Roland gave him a pained look and snagged a flute glass of champagne from a circulating caterer. “Changeling. Have a drink and chill out.”

Elliot took a glass but he didn’t think there was enough champagne in the city to chill him out. He wandered through the gently drifting tails of white balloons bobbing against the ceiling, brushing aside the long silver streamers hanging like glittering seaweed. Outside the tinted windows the lights of Tacoma shone like stars.

Anne Gold waved to him from across the room, and he lifted a hand in greeting. She was talking to a tall, good-looking man and seemed more animated than she had in days. The man turned and, meeting Elliot’s gaze, smiled.

At the front of the room, Corian was being photographed by the museum’s board of trustee officers. He was smiling widely as the cameras flashed. He made some comment that had the ladies tittering and the men guffawing.

In this crowd Corian was most definitely the darling. His exhibition kicked off a month-long museum fundraiser, and it was clear no expense was being spared.

The amplified heartbeat was getting on his nerves, so Elliot wandered outside. The plaza outside the museum was draped in glowing strands of tiny white lights and featured several large and dramatic pieces from local artists. A giant hand proffered a scattering of real conch shells and starfish. Three dimensional blue marble stars were stacked in rows. Dirty mattresses and worn out tires were heaped in preparation of a bonfire.

Elliot pulled his cell phone out and called Tucker.

Tucker didn’t pick up, so he left a message. “Eight forty-five. The eagle has landed.”

He disconnected, disappointed not to have actually spoken with Tucker. He knew exactly what Tucker would make of this kind of event and it would have been entertaining to share it with him. More and more he was conscious of wanting to share things with Tucker, looking forward to talking with him at the end of the day.

He went back inside the museum, stopping in front of a large hanging placard that offered a grungy glam shot of Corian about fifteen years earlier and described his “artistic vision” in nearly unintelligible terms. There was mention of the dimensional constants of space and time and the dissolution of the line between art and life.

And what the hell that meant, Elliot had no clue. But he disliked it on general grounds.

He snagged another glass of champagne and proceeded through the exhibit. The deep, resonant heartbeat triplets forced everyone to raise their voices as they moved admiringly through the displays and he caught snatches of conversation as he wove his way through the crush of people.

“Look at nature. Nature abhors a vacuum.”

“We should be able come up with a different kind of art. Something really new.”

“God no, they’ve been divorced for years. Can you imagine what a PIA he’d be to live with?”

Corian was a sculptor working primarily in marble, which—according to what Elliot had just read—was the only stone with a fine-grained lustrousness and translucency reminiscent of human skin. And, in fairness to the artist, Corian did manage to evoke work that seemed to glow with life.

His style was much more traditional than Elliot would have expected: a series of young, beautiful nudes—male and female—in various positions. The females were beautifully done and gracefully, almost modestly, posed. The males were striking both for the boldness of their postures and the sheer gorgeous perfection of their bodies. As good as Corian was with the female form, he was better with the male.

That lavish appreciation of detail seemed odd given that Corian was not gay. Or maybe it wasn’t odd. Corian was male and unsurprisingly knew the male form better. He was also an egomaniac and was bound to consider anything he was—male—superior.

Something was odd, though.

What was it?

Perhaps these youthful male figures were a subconscious representation of Corian himself? But no, each one was utterly unique. Right down to the appendix scar on that kneeling youth. Elliot frowned, considering.

His cell phone rang and he reached for it, smiling, expecting Tucker’s return call.

But it was not Tucker. The icon for a text message appeared. The hair rose on the back of Elliot’s neck. Anonymous call from Anonymous@Anontxt.net.

He pressed accept.

Are we having fun yet?

All at once the background music seemed unbearably loud, but perhaps that was Elliot’s own heartbeat pounding away in his ears. He turned his head, rapidly scanning the packed room. There were several people on cell phones. The dark-haired man who had been speaking with Anne Gold was either dialing or texting.

Elliot stared down at his phone. He texted back Let’s meet.

He waited.

Nothing.

He looked around the room. The dark-haired man was now laughing with a red-haired woman in a paisley jumpsuit.

Elliot’s phone chirped.

Text message from Anonymous@anontxt.net. He clicked on the message.

Soon.

He had no proof the Unsub was in this crowd. It was more likely that he wasn’t in this crowd. Except this guy liked risk, liked the thrill. He wasn’t afraid of being caught because he was confident he was stronger and smarter than everyone else. He might easily have followed Elliot this evening.

Or he might think Elliot was following him.

Now where had that thought come from? Elliot wasn’t sure. He stared around the room at the laughing, talking, drinking faces. No one was paying him any attention. No one was watching him. Roland was talking to three attractive older ladies with the long, straight hair and baggy peasant dresses that so many of his dad’s admirers favored. Anne was helping herself to another glass of champagne. Charlotte Oppenheimer had just arrived. He saw her wince at the human heartbeat soundtrack overhead.

No. There was something he was missing. Something obvious. Something as plain as the nose on his face.

The thought sank in. Elliot slowly turned back to the forest of marble bodies. Like human tombstones. He knew now what was odd.

Every single male nude was headless.

Chapter Twenty-Six

He wasn’t mistaken. He walked quickly through the exhibit. The female nudes were anatomically if coyly correct. All body parts present and accounted for. The male nudes were blazingly, flagrantly alive—and headless.

Every single one of them.

Elliot began to examine the statues for distinguishing marks or scars. Corian was too much of an artist—of an egotist—not to put them in, even if they could prove incriminating.

He looked around the sparkling room. The streamers wafted gently in the breeze from the main doors. Where was Corian?

If he had been watching Elliot closely, he probably had a very good idea of the deductions Elliot was making. Would he try to make a run for it?

No.

He had too much to lose. He might try to destroy any incriminating evidence, though. Yes. That seemed more like it. Depending on what that evidence might be.

Elliot pulled his cell phone out and called Tucker. Tucker’s phone was busy and the call went to message.

“I think the Unsub is Andrew Corian,” Elliot said quietly. “I think he knows I’m onto him. He may try and head back to his place. If he’s still here, I’ll try to see that he doesn’t leave.” Fuck. It was stupid trying to have this discussion with a message box in cyberspace. He hung up, searched the room for Anne and went to her.