Nothing.
I checked out Suzanne Hirto’s site. Two headshots of her on the homepage: a photo that showed her blond, midfifties, with an open smiling face, and a self-portrait in oils that distorted her countenance to the shape of a dog bone and tinted it bilious green under a thatch of plaid hair.
The bell rang. I put the painting back on the screen and went to open the door.
Milo charged in. “What’s up?”
“A whole lot.”
* * *
—
He said, “How the hell did you find this?”
“Robin found it.”
“Jesus. What is it?”
I told him.
He said, “Obscure? So whoever knows about it coulda seen it on this site?”
“Could be.”
A third look at the painting. “Unbelievable. What’s her email?”
I logged back onto Suzanne Hirto’s site. He pointed to the grotesque self-portrait. “What’s that about?”
I said, “Maybe a confident woman.”
“Don’t see a visitor count. Push Contact, I’ll do the begging.”
Dear Professor Hirto,
This is Lieutenant Milo Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Department. You were contacted recently by Robin Castagna, an artist who resides here in L.A., about a painting titled The Museum of Desire. I believe the painting may be related to a case I’m investigating. I know this is a difficult request because of privacy issues but would there be any way for you to be comfortable releasing the email addresses of people who’ve logged onto your site? It’s possible one of them is involved in this crime. I assure you no one innocent will be contacted or otherwise hassled.
Thanks and best, Milo
He exhaled. “She’ll probably ignore me.”
Seconds later:
Hey, Milo. Really? That’s crazy and creepy. What type of crime? Suze.
Thanks for getting back, Suze. Unfortunately, murder.
Holy shit! I have no problems giving you the info, no one should get away with killing someone. Problem is I don’t pay attention to the site anymore, never kept a user file in the first place and I delete my emails every week or so cause I don’t want shit piling up.
Understood, Suze. Would you be willing to have one of our tech people take a look and see what they can come up with?
Hmm. Don’t know about that. A little too black helicopter, you know? Not being paranoid, just prefer to live a quiet life. Speaking of which, major oops: How do I know you’re who you say you are? Are you going to ask me to send cash to Nigeria?
Hahaha. Promise I’m legit. Here’s my office number at LAPD, West Los Angeles Division. You can also google me. I’ve solved a few cases.
A minute passed. Two, three, four.
Milo said, “So much for that. I’m amazed a professorial type even answered.”
“Ex-prof,” I said. “She got fired for speaking her mind.”
“Ah, a woman of taste and discretion.” Fourth look at the painting followed by a headshake. He paced, returned. “Okay, let’s think about which way to go on this.”
Ping.
A few cases? You’re downright Sherlockian, sir. I phoned the #, got transferred to someone named Reid, he assured me you’re his boss. So okay, let me think about it. I don’t like assholes getting away with spilling blood. My brother’s a lawyer, I check everything with him except clay, tools, paint, and brushes. He oks it, maybe but no promises.
More than I could hope for, Suze. Muchas gracias.
Bilingual, huh? Hasta la vista. S.
I rotated my index finger.
He said, “What?”
“Picking up a nuance of romance in the air.”
“If she only knew.” He grinned. “Hey, she comes through for me, maybe I can be flexible. Scroll back to the masterpiece.”
A few squinting seconds later. “Talk about un-fine art. So what, Okash always wanted to be a painter but has no talent, decides to work with human flesh?”
“I still think it began with Gurnsey and expanded. Look.” I tapped the screen. “The young guy’s the center of the composition. The light hits his face.”
“Okash and Ricky at that party,” he said. “Something happens that pisses Okash off—maybe being caught by Candace Kierstead, she blames Gurnsey for roping her in.”
I said, “We know she’s got a violent temper. Rage kicks in, she decides on payback, knows about the painting and goes about assembling the rest of the cast. Probably beginning with poor Benny Alvarez. Small-stature, challenged guy sweeping up her place.”
I tapped the jester. “She could’ve seen it as an omen.”
“Huh. Talk about a gift from the Devil.”
“After that, finding a hag would be easy with all those street people downtown. So all she needs to find is a black coachman and poor Roget has the bad luck to fit. She snags his number from the Caribbean bulletin board, calls him, hears his accent, asks where he’s from. He says Haiti, the casting phase is over and the execution begins.”
He grimaced. “Okash and someone who lives at the Clearwater house. That package you saw her bringing there, could it be this?”
I scrolled beneath the image, enlarged the legend below. Title, possible attribution to Carascelli, dimensions. Thirty inches wide, twenty-four high.
I said, “No, too small.”
“So Mr. Rolls could have more of this garbage…Göring. Now a Nazi angle, wonderful…Robin here?”
“In the studio.”
“Let me say it in person.”
CHAPTER
40
Hugs, kisses, a proclamation of “Genius!”
Robin said, “Aw shucks, just doing my job.”
Milo: “As what?”
“Loyal girlfriend.”
“More like Supergirl. What you did is incredible.” He eyed her bench. “What’s that?”
“Renaissance lute,” she said. “Something that pretty boy in blue might’ve strummed.”
* * *
—
Milo left, nearly running to the door.
Alone in my office, I wondered how to sink an informational hook into Asian-Occidental Concepts. The parent company had covered its tracks. Maybe one of its subsidiaries had opened a cyber-door.