The body's face was identically transformed with the waxy layer. That, she saw immediately. It was spooky how it gave the victim a lifelike glow.
She'd most likely been attached to the bench in a sitting position, from the witness account, and the gleam of sun on hair-fine wire at the back of the bench gave Juliette a hint about how this beautiful, young woman had been kept in such a realistic pose.
Something drew her eye. That same thick, gray eyeshadow had been applied, the only odd note in an otherwise perfectly made-up face. Why was he doing it? she wondered.
"What are your findings so far?" she asked the coroner quietly.
He glanced up.
"The postmortem will show more, but it looks like she’d been moved a couple of times. Death was most likely two days ago. She’d been kept somewhere cool. Not cold, as in on ice, but cool. Not out in the summer heat. And she has no phone on her, but there is an ID card in her pocket, and she's Sophie Elder. For sure. She's the other missing woman."
"Please!" Harris's voice was like the crack of a whip, making both Juliette and the coroner jump. "Please, only authorized personnel can obtain the case details. We must insist you do not give out privileged information to all and sundry."
That meant: to the Americans. Juliette seethed. There was a massive agenda at play here, and she was starting to think it had deeper roots. Perhaps, in the past, there'd been historic bad blood between the FBI and this particular pair of Scotland Yard detectives. This felt like payback, a particularly nasty and targeted form of power play.
Juliette beckoned Wyatt and Sierra over. In a low voice, she said, "We need to look at the logistics and see if we can figure out how or when this killer got her here. But we can do that when we get a chance. For now, I've got another idea."
"We sure need one," Wyatt said. "Because I don't see any cameras at this park entrance."
"I think we need to start asking ourselves this: how did he get the victims' faces to look like this?"
"That face?" Sierra nodded vigorously. "That face is so realistic; it's so lifelike. It doesn't look fake. It must take specialized materials, like the people who do the waxworks? And the ability to paint?"
Juliette nodded. "I think this has been done by someone who's used to working with these materials. Used to working in this medium. Perhaps, in his own way, he thinks he's an artist, and perhaps he is. I think instead of standing here like unwelcome guests, we should go and look into the London art world. We might just find that there's someone who worked with wax, and who's had a reputation for antisocial behavior."
"So, we're looking for that rogue artist, that one who cracked and started killing people to take his work a step further?" Wyatt theorized.
Juliette nodded. "Along those lines, for sure. In the art world, people know people. If someone was disturbed, or acting strangely, or has a past history of violence, he'll be known."
Wyatt made a face. "To do that, we'll need to go and ask an expert in the art world. How can we find such a person fast, and how do we decide who’s best?"
"I have an idea. Come with me," Juliette replied.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"We're headed to the Portrait," Juliette said. "It's the closest art gallery I know of, and I'm sure that the owner knows what is going on in the art world."
The Portrait was just a ten-minute drive away, and Juliette remembered it well. It had been established for decades, and she'd accompanied her father on several visits there, which had felt more like pilgrimages, thanks to the combined enthusiasm of him and the owner. He'd loved the place so much that he'd organized a few diplomatic functions there.
She remembered him speaking to the owner, who was then a young, dynamic force in the art world. Since then, the gallery had expanded. She was sure the owner was connected to everyone who was making waves. And with everyone who was creating darkness too.
Would she remember the way? This was a challenge. Channeling into her younger self, Juliette drove away from Regent’s Park, turned left, then right, and then she was on track. The gallery was up this road and then around the corner, in a magnificent three-story converted mansion, where it occupied all three floors.
"Sierra, while we go in, do you think you can research online?” she asked. “We’ll find out about the art world in here, but what if there are people outside the art world who have made the news for something to do with wax sculpture?”
“I can look online,” she nodded. “Makes sense for me to do that now. I’ll stay in the car, and hopefully, we’ll get more information by the time you’re done in there.”
As they walked toward the entrance, Juliette felt a sense of familiarity wash over her. The building hadn't changed much since her last visit, except for the addition of a few sculptures on the lawn.
She remembered how the owner, Mr. Fenton, had added a rush of energy to the place, bustling around, involved in a hands-on way with the passionate process of showcasing artwork to the public. She wondered if she’d feel that same energy again.
Taking a deep breath, Juliette pushed open the heavy, wooden door and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of oil paint and polished wood. The floors creaked with each step she took as she headed across the hall to the reception desk. This was a bright blue piece designed in the shape of a sailboat. Art spilling over into functionality. The woman at the desk was a young, trendy, arty looking person with eyebrow piercings and red hair cut in an edgy style. Her smile was genuine and warm.
"Welcome to The Portrait," she said. "Are you here for a tour, or for the launch that's happening this afternoon?"
It was the same energy. She felt it. Despite their dark reasons for being here, this light, bright gallery was an uplifting place to visit.
"We're actually here to ask Mr. Fenton some quick questions," Juliette said, showing her police badge. "I'm FBI Agent Hart, and it's regarding some background on a criminal case."
