The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(61)

The street was named Clearwater Lane, a steep slash of blacktop not unlike the one leading to the old bridal path that terminates at my house. I got there just in time to see the front door of a house close. Kept climbing until the road flattened, reversed, and descended.

No street parking on the north side of Clearwater, permit-only after six p.m. on the south. That hadn’t stopped a vehicle from stationing itself where Okash had gotten out.

Not Okash’s BMW; a brown Toyota RAV4. A man sat at the wheel. Not Geoffrey Dugong. Older, heavier, swarthy, working his phone.

Another male friend? Another potential weapon? Then I saw the black-and-white Uber windshield sticker.

The driver kept his head down and his fingers manic, caught up in cellular narcosis. Betting that would hold, I backed up, swung around, and repeated my climb up Clearwater. This time I settled with a clear view of the SUV and waited.

The house Okash had entered was a pale-blue fifties ranch with a flat gray roof and decorative wooden slats over the front windows.

Unassuming and at odds with the white Rolls-Royce parked in front. Better fit with the white Volvo station wagon positioned next to it. I copied down the address.

During the sixteen minutes Okash remained inside, her hired driver never looked up. When she reappeared, her hands were free and she high-stepped with a bounce that flexed her calves and quivered her rump.

Victory prance.

She got into the RAV’s rear seat. The driver started up and turned right on Benedict Canyon.

North, toward Ascot Lane. But the driver continued for less than a minute before stopping well short of the B.H.–L.A. line and performing his own three-pointer—this one rash and rude and met with horn-blares.

Bumping the curb, he slued wildly across both lanes, raised more protest, headed back toward Sunset.

The direction you’d take to either Okash’s place on Fountain or the gallery downtown.

In one of those eternal traffic mysteries, the drive had sped up to a smooth cruise that kept me moving at eighteen mph with no chance to turn off. As I continued north, I barely caught a glimpse of Ascot Lane, now blocked by a chain-link rent-a-fence.

I phoned Milo and told him about Okash.

He said, “I’ll tell Sean to position himself near her crib. She doesn’t show up in reasonable time, he’ll go to the gallery. What’s the vehicle?”

“Brown RAV4.” I gave him the house address.

“Got it, thanks, Alex. What were you hoping to see in the first place?”

“I thought I’d check out the crime scene but obviously it’s off limits now.”

“Cart, horse, ain’t that the way it usually is? Any particular reason the scene interested you?”

“Hoping for inspiration.”

“Aren’t we all? I’ve been up there myself a couple of times, nada. So Okash looked pleased with herself.”

“Profit will do that to you.”

“Vamping,” he said. “She loves herself, our Medina. What do you always say—self-esteem is good for good people, bad for bad people? Okay, gracias again for keeping an eye out. Now go home per prior executive order. Kiss Gorgeous for me. And canine Gorgeous. Be sure to give me the credit.”



* * *



—

When I stepped into the house, Robin was curled on the sofa nearest the door reading, Blanche’s bratwurst body molded to her and ruffling with slow, sleepy breaths.

One canine eye opened. Serene dog. I thought about the luck of the draw.

It was earlier than Robin’s usual quitting time but she was out of her work clothes and into a black cashmere hoodie, black tights, black platforms that boosted her to five-five.

I said, “We’re going out?”

“Italian or Thai, take your pick.”

I said, “The comfort of a limited choice. What’s the common factor, noodles?”

“Such deductive powers.” She got up and kissed me. Blanche bounded off the chair, stood on her hind legs panting, rubbed her knobby bulldog head against my leg, then hugged it with both her forepaws.

Robin said, “She’s making me look bad.”

I said, “So nice to be in demand. I’ll go change.”



* * *



—

Blanche’s compensation for being left at home was an oversized bone-shaped, tooth-cleaning treat the color of a new lawn and the consistency of marble.

Twenty minutes later, Robin and I were sharing a corner table at a small family-run place on Westwood Boulevard south of Olympic. Gregarious family, homemade pasta, early enough to get in without a reservation.

Over bread and Sangiovese, I asked Robin about her day. When she finished telling me, she said, “Your turn.”

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.”