The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(60)

“Exactly, Moses. He came across stupid angry, like a kid who habitually tantrums. We don’t see him as controlled enough to plan the limo.”

“Okash is the boss?”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “If the two of them are involved, she’s running the show.”

Bogomil said, “She aims Dugong, he shoots.”

“Makes sense,” said Reed. “We’ve been thinking more than one offender. So what’s the overall theory of how it went down, Doc?”

I said, “Best guess at this point is Okash and Rick Gurnsey had repeated sexual contact. She could be the woman seen with him at the fundraiser back in January. At some point, whatever they had went bad. We’ve heard two things about Gurnsey that could’ve led to that: He’s been known to cut off relationships without warning or explanation and he could get pushy about sex, including pressuring women to do anal. The women we spoke to dealt with it and moved on. Maybe Okash didn’t.”

“Agg assault with a blade,” said Reed. “Wrong woman to pressure.”

Reed said, “So she thinks up a way to get back at Gurnsey with Dugong’s help. Why the others? Why the limo?”

I said, “I’d been thinking about it as a theatrical production but Milo pointed out it could be performance art. Okash may even think of herself as an artist, so it’s possible she constructed a tableau.”

Up to that point, Binchy had remained uncharacteristically mute. Now he spoke in a low voice. “Human collage. Dugong was once into cut and paste.”

“Good point, Sean.”

“Once in a while I come up with one.” Still subdued. At odds with his usual cheer. Milo and Reed and Bogomil looked at him. He shrugged.

I said, “Whatever the exact motivation, Gurnsey was placed in a humiliating pose. Along with Mary Jane Huralnik, who we also know acted out sexually and who may have accosted Okash downtown. Solomon Roget I’m still seeing as collateral damage—murdered for his limo. Benny Alvarez is more of a question mark. He worked for Okash, he may have seen something he shouldn’t have. But as to why she’d want him in the picture? No idea.”

Milo walked to the board, pointed to McGann and Vollmann. “Seeing something is our working theory on these poor folk. They show up at the gallery on Saturday because McGann cares about Alvarez. Vollmann’s there because they’re heading to Mexico in a few hours. The two of them are shotgunned and dumped in Inglewood.”

Bogomil said, “If it’s true, these people are monsters.”

Binchy said, “Crazy art.” Looking down at the table, tight-jawed. “?’Scuse me, need a pit stop.” He hurried out of the room.

Last year he’d encountered a murderous power freak and nearly died in the process. I’d saved his life. Since then, he’d feigned being okay and we’d never really talked about it.

Everyone knew. No one spoke because this was the job, not group therapy.

Milo said, “Have some muffins, kids. They’re fresh.”



* * *



—

Binchy returned looking as if he’d been sick.

Milo ignored that and sketched out the new plan: The four of them would divide the watch on Okash into six-hour shifts beginning with Binchy at six tonight, Milo taking over at midnight, Reed handling six a.m. to noon, and Bogomil working the afternoon.

If Dugong’s L.A. residence could be determined, there’d be improvisation: a looser watch on him with Milo handling most of the extra hours. Milo would also pursue and analyze Okash’s phone records.

Bogomil said, “Full plate, L.T.”

“That’s why I get the big bucks.” He looked at the uneaten muffins. “Plenty of nutrition to go around— Don’t grimace, Moses. Once upon a time you ate for pleasure.”

With the interview room emptied, Milo began folding up the whiteboard.

I said, “What do you need from me?”

“Stay smart.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m being serious. Go home, I need you, I’ll ask. One thing I’ve never been accused of is reticence.”



* * *



—

I took Sepulveda to Sunset and drove east. My return trip would normally end at the Glen, well west of Benedict Canyon. But I said Why not? and continued past the Glen into Beverly Hills.

Three thirty p.m. was theoretically early enough to beat the northern commute to the Valley. But early home-goers had already queued up north of Sunset, turning the ride into a stop-and-go.

That was beneficial, enabling my peripheral vision. A mile short of Ascot Lane, during a stop phase, something caught my eye.

Blue hair, electrified by sunlight, far brighter than the surrounding vegetation.

Medina Okash’s dress helped, as well. Red, short, tight as sausage casing, a shiny fabric that bounced solar rays like a prism as she toted a four-by-four brown-paper square to the front door of a house just off the main road.

During the meeting, she’d left the gallery, eluding notice.

The square was the same size and wrapping as the canvases we’d seen in the back of her gallery.

The dress was a good sign: You didn’t attire yourself that way if you knew you were being watched.

I took advantage of the next traffic lull by making eye contact with the motorist facing south and eliciting a weary go-ahead nod. Hooking into a driveway on the west side of Benedict, I pulled off as quick a three-pointer as the Seville would allow and drove back to where I’d seen Okash.