Still Lives(61)

His composure isn’t contagious, but it helps. I raise my head.

“So you found out about the supercollector,” I say.

“Weeks ago,” he says.

“And when Kim disappeared …” I pause, struggling to suppress another wave of shock. “You wondered if he had collected her, too.”

He nods. “Very briefly.”

“But you don’t anymore.”

“No,” Hendricks says. “Steve Goetz did not kill Kim Lord.”

I may be distraught right now, but something in his delivery is off. The inflection landed on the wrong words. Instead of saying “Steve Goetz did not kill Kim Lord,” he said “Steve Goetz did not kill Kim Lord.” As in, Steve Goetz killed someone else? Who? He looked entirely calm when he said it. Maybe it was just the southern accent.

“Who did—” I say.

Hendricks cuts me off. “But you recognize his connections with Bas Terrant and Nelson de Wilde, and you want to know more,” he says. “I was curious how you figured that out.” He sounds almost impressed.

“At the eleventh hour Kim Lord wanted to donate all the paintings in Still Lives to the Rocque, with the stipulation that they never be sold,” I say. “It made me suspicious.”

Hendricks looks stunned by the news.

At that moment, the waitress materializes. I order another Manhattan. Hendricks asks for grapefruit juice.

“Tell me again about this gift,” Hendricks says when the waitress leaves.

“I proofed the press release on the night of the Gala,” I say. “I thought it was fishy, especially when Bas didn’t announce it. And then I started thinking about provenance, and then I looked up all the people who had collected Kim Lord’s work. With our registrar’s help. All the names appear to be fake.”

Hendricks folds his arms and studies me again. With some effort, I keep my chin up and study him back, noting the nicks in the collar of his T-shirt. The waitress brings our drinks. Hendricks lifts his and drains it. I gulp at mine, the bourbon burning my tongue.

“What did you find out?” I ask.

“Finish your whole story first.” Hendricks begins smashing the ice in his glass with his cocktail straw as I tell him about Steve Goetz’s supercollector and artificial artist thesis, and about Bas’s history at the Catesby auction house, the article where he spoke admiringly of collectors influencing an artist’s success. I stop before I get to my journey to the CJF Gallery. Hendricks doesn’t need to know that I took such a stupid risk. Downtown darkens around us, erasing Kim-as-Roseann-Quinn’s face on every street pole nearby, leaving only her white smile hanging there and the white letters:

KIM LORD

STILL LIVES

Hendricks smashes more ice, then shakes the glass and slurps the juice and water.

“That’s it,” I say. “Your turn.”

Hendricks sets his glass down. He’s about to speak when my phone rings. It’s Jayme. I hit decline.

“You have cops in your family?” says Hendricks.

“No. Mostly teachers.”

“Uh-huh,” says Hendricks, as though settling an argument with himself. Then he slumps over the table. “What I would do for one humid night here,” he mutters.

“Why did you move to L.A.?”

He gives me a wary blue look. “Career change. Why did you?”

“Mostly wanderlust, I guess,” I say. “Moving to the big city was the next thing on our list.”

I hate that I sound so directionless.

“Your brother …,” I say.

The tremor in Hendricks’s face shuts me down.

“I’m so sorry,” I add. If I lost John or Mark, I would feel severed for the rest of my life.

“Tell me something,” he says, pushing away his glass. “Look at that couple over there and tell me what you notice about them.”

He gestures to a man and woman seated by the railings over the street.

I scrutinize them, puzzled. They both have corporate suits; both their faces are tense and unhappy. Otherwise, they couldn’t be more different. He is tall and dark-haired, his shoulders rounded and sloped, and she is slight and fair, with a big bust, pale eyes, hair that needs lightening. He drinks wine; she drinks water. He wears a wedding ring. She does not.

I tell Hendricks all this.

“What do you think they’re fighting about?” says Hendricks.

I blow out my breath. “I don’t know. They had an affair and he wants to break it off because he’s married and won’t leave his wife.”

“Could be,” said Hendricks. “You see her left shoulder from here?”

I peer harder. “There’s some crud on it, I guess.”

“Spit-up,” says Hendricks. “My guess: There’s a baby. His baby? Hard to know, but judging by her profile and her choice of beverage and her dark roots, the baby’s new. Judging by her expression, he might owe her child support, or be the lawyer for someone who does. The point is, I actually don’t know, and you don’t either. We only know what we see, and then we intuit.” He slows down for this word, intuit. “But the interesting thing about intuition is how little it tells us about the external world, and how much it tells us about ourselves. You think he’s dumping her. I think he owes her money for her child. Our theories reveal us.” He settles back in his chair, past the ring of candlelight, and the next statement emerges from the dark silhouette of his head. “Your problem with that murdered girl in Vermont—you trusted intuition, not facts and logic. You didn’t believe she’d betray herself.”