Tips for Living(87)
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Masout?”
“I am not. I’ve seen too much destroyed in the name of religion.”
“What about God? Do you believe in God?”
“He doesn’t exist.”
“I’m sorry to hear that’s your position. I believe God had reasons for allowing my brother and his wife to be killed, Mr. Masout. And now he has called on me to become Callie’s guardian and conservator. As such, I will be making financial decisions on her behalf.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll begin with this: if you want to continue representing this ‘art,’ you might consider donating a portion of your commission to His righteous cause. I have a foundation that does the Lord’s work. Perhaps these paintings can redeem their existence. Otherwise, I’m certain there are auction houses that will be eager to negotiate their fees—if you understand my meaning.”
There was another long pause before Abbas said, “I understand.”
“Good.”
Footsteps retreated. A series of electronic beeps sounded before Tobias spoke again.
“I called the security company and changed the alarm code. You’ll have to contact me if you need access again in the future. Please press ‘Armed’ when you leave. And one more thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“Would you be so kind as to move your car? It’s blocking the driveway.”
More footsteps and the jingle of car keys. The door opened and closed. The men were gone.
So, Tobias believed God wanted Hugh and Helene murdered, and God chose him to raise their daughter. Did God ask him to threaten Abbas, too? To take Hugh’s paintings elsewhere if Abbas didn’t fork over money to his cause? Tobias had just secured a sizable flow of funds on top of what he might eventually get from Callie. Abbas might be willing to talk to the police about this conversation if I convinced him of my theory. Along with a receipt from Dollar Rental Car and his rush to adopt Callie, there might be enough evidence—circumstantial, but so was mine—to stop Tobias from getting on a plane. Maybe even enough to keep me out of jail until the police could investigate further.
I should tell Gubbins what was going on. I whipped out my burner phone, but the battery was dead again after all those rental car calls.
There must be a phone in the studio somewhere. I grabbed on to the easel to steady myself as I rose from my squatting position, accidentally pulling off the drop cloth. When I saw the image on the canvas underneath, I paused.
Abbas sat in an old wooden banker’s chair facing the viewer. He wore a suit and his signature turtleneck. The painting style superficially suggested a portrait by Lucian Freud, but unlike Freud, this artist painted violence. On the right side of Abbas’s chest, a ragged hole had been torn in his jacket, revealing gored and bloodied flesh. The painting wasn’t finished—the faceless outline of a man stood behind him. I knew that man had to be Hugh. Hugh only painted self-portraits.
I was perplexed: Hugh would often use sex in his work, but, like Freud, never carnage. Had he been angry with Abbas? Maybe Abbas had critiqued the new direction Hugh was taking with that grotesque satyr? Or was he unhappy with the retrospective Abbas organized? I couldn’t imagine what inspired this vicious image. I scanned the utility table for a phone amid the disarray as I began rifling through the mess. No phone. Maybe something in the heaps of papers would explain what was going on with that sadistic painting.
I found shipping invoices, a book on Marc Chagall, and then I noticed the garish green turtles—Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles half-hidden under a Christie’s auction catalog. I pushed the catalog aside, and the turtles grinned manically from the cover of a cheap spiral notebook. I opened the book. Hugh had written a title on page one:
Leaving Abbas.
One fanciful image followed another, all drawn in graphite pencil and crayon. Hugh’s head emerging from the shell of a giant turtle; Hugh holding up a skull, like the gravedigger in Hamlet; Hugh riding a horse into the sunset in a cartoonish Western landscape. Halfway through the book, I found the completed study for the unfinished painting I’d unmasked on the easel: Hugh standing behind Abbas and squeezing his dealer’s bloody heart in his hand as if he’d just torn it out of his chest.
Shocked, I stopped turning the pages. Leaving Abbas. That meant Hugh had planned to leave the dealer who’d nurtured and supported him for years. The man who’d helped to build his stellar career. Hugh’s departure would signal that Abbas was on the decline. Other artists would smell failure and they’d defect, too. That’s how it worked in the art business. Abbas would lose a fortune. Clearly, no one else knew about this, or drums would be beating all through the art world.
Hugh must’ve understood this act of betrayal would bring a bitter end to their friendship. The painting on the easel proved it: he was ripping out the man’s heart. But Abbas had still spoken so lovingly of Hugh. He’d given no indication he was aware of Hugh’s intention to leave. Hugh must have died before he dropped the bomb.
I flipped to the last page. The final drawing showed a familiar image. Hugh stood at an easel. He was in the process of painting Abbas, who was curled in a ball on the floor. It was a variation on the painting Hugh had done of me after I discovered Helene was pregnant. He’d given this one a similar title: