I told her about the new suspicions of Okash and Dugong.
“The art world,” she said. “Yeah, it can get really vicious, one of the many reasons I left school. I think it’s because artists get a pass—talent confused with being a good person, they don’t think the rules apply to them.”
I said, “Caravaggio?”
One of the greatest painters who’d ever lived had been a rage-prone murderer.
“Of course, Caravaggio. But Degas and Mapplethorpe were bigots, Gauguin was a syphilitic pedophile, we won’t even get into how Picasso treated women and stocked his studio with stolen artifacts. If we move on to musicians, we’ll be here until morning—ah, here’s our food.”
* * *
—
Over fruit and coffee, she said, “Violence as performance art…like Chris Burden having someone shoot him in the arm. Or one of those classic grotesques—Bosch, that kind of thing.”
I said, “Maybe Geoffrey Dugong in his pre-candle days.”
“He was into gore?”
“No idea because no images from his early days have turned up. Maybe because they’re not fit for public consumption.”
“He could’ve used another nom de paintbrush.” She shook her head. “Dugong. What was the guy thinking? Did he figure on growing flippers? That could sure limit your brush control.”
When I stopped laughing, she said, “Now you’re relaxed. When we get home, we’ll have a leisurely dessert.”
CHAPTER
30
Strenuous dessert. Followed by a long bath and a couple of hours watching Foyle’s War.
I’d intended to stay up after Robin fell asleep as I often do. Wanting to wring info from the computer on Dugong/Dowd and if that didn’t produce anything, search real estate sites for ownership of the house where Medina Okash had delivered the painting.
The next thing I saw was a blade of golden light riding the top of the bedroom curtains. Seven forty-eight a.m. Still in bed. No memory of the intervening hours.
Robin’s side of the mattress was empty. Slow, steady snuffling from my side led me to look down.
Blanche snoring joyfully, one paw resting in one of my slippers.
She waited, smiling, as I brushed my teeth and put on a robe, then padded after me into the kitchen. Coffee in the pot, two slices of rye toast on the table.
I said, “Where’s Mom?”
Trotting to the service-porch door, she sat.
I filled a cup and grabbed a piece of toast and the two of us went out to the garden. Pausing at the pond, I scooped a handful of pellets from the old porcelain Japanese urn I keep near the water’s edge and tossed them in. A few fell to the ground and Blanche was rewarded for her vigilance. The koi splashed her as they gobbled. She shook herself off and smiled some more. Not at me, at life, in general.
The right way to start the day.
* * *
—
Nothing on knife-attack victim Contessa Welles but the computer was more than happy to tell me who owned the house on Clearwater.
Privately held company named Heigur, LLC. Nothing anywhere about what it peddled.
I called Milo. He said, “Saw that, looked up the business license. Real estate, no details, no transactions for a while. Caught a picture of the house, doesn’t look like much.”
“But they do have a Rolls.”
“White, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“Your basic B.H. retiree drive.”
“There was a Volvo, too.”
“Probably the maid’s,” he said. “We could be talking venerable types who went for one of ol’ Geoff’s masterpieces. In terms of Okash, Sean was there when she Ubered home and I had a fascinating night watching her stay there. Reed got all the action: At eight she drove her own car to a breakfast place on Eighth Street near Vermont. Still there. Meanwhile, no word where Dugong’s crashing.”
I said, “He could’ve gone back to Florida.”
“If he flew, there’s no record of it.”
“Just thought of something: Roget’s kids live in Florida.”
“Don’t wanna brag but that also occurred to me so I called them. Neither has heard of Dugong and Ocala’s not close to Key West, nearly five hundred miles north. I also emailed Okash’s photo to Rick Gurnsey’s roommate, Briggs. He’s never seen her, doubts Ricky dated her, too much of a fat-face, quote unquote. Briggs ain’t the most observant fellow and we know Gurnsey didn’t bring every conquest home so no doors are closed. I sent the same photo to civic-minded Ms. Kierstead. She had nothing to add.”
I said, “I couldn’t find anything on Okash’s victim.”
“Me, neither, but I haven’t dug deep. You’re thinking people disappear for all sorts of reasons. Let me see if I can find a death certificate somewhere—hold on, incoming call—Marc Coolidge, I’ll call you right back.”
He didn’t.
* * *
—
But at three thirteen p.m. he rang my doorbell.
I said, “Coolidge found something?”
“What—no, he was just letting me know he got another D to work with him, the two of them want to check out every CC camera they can find between McGann and Vollmann’s crime scene and the two nearest freeway exits. We’re talking enough video-viewing to earn a degree in film history.”
I said, “Conscientious.”
“The fact that his case could be tied in to something bigger has gotten to him.” He stepped into the living room, sat. “The reason I took the liberty to grace your doorstep is guess who just called? Todd Leventhal the precocious party meister. Sounding scared out of his gourd.”
“Of what?”
“He wouldn’t say but asked to meet soon. More like demanded. Don’t enjoy indulging brats but at this point, anyone wants to talk to me, I’m a cheap date.”
* * *
—
Leventhal had asked to meet on Spalding Drive south of Olympic, a short drive from his high school. The black Challenger was in place when we arrived, parked in front of a red-brick condo complex that took up half the block.
Plenty of spaces across the street but the boy had chosen to sit squarely in a red zone, blocking a fire hydrant.