The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(99)

“Any legit uses?”

“Here, only industrial purposes. Photography, mining, fertilizer manufacture. And for those you’d use liquid, not pills. In the Wild East, who knows? Hold on…here we go. I’m going to send you a picture from an alleged assisted suicide website and you’ll say, hey, that’s the one.”

Seconds later, an image.

He saved. “Hey, that’s the one. Why alleged?”

“It’s obviously a commercial site aimed at exploiting depressed people. They also sell a clone of Nembutal to ensure that death is as quick and painless as possible.”

“You get this on the dark web?”

“No, it’s out in the open. Was the decedent chronically depressed?”

“No idea. Met him for the first time today.”

“I see…well, in China anything goes, they put garbage in baby formula. It could be a rat poison cocktail turbocharged by ephedra or meth or cloned Ritalin. Get him here and I’ll try to find out. How are you doing, otherwise? I heard about what happened—the decapitation.”

“Word spreads.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “No secrets, the world spins faster and faster.”



* * *



—

A couple of techs began doing their thing and a sixtyish, crew-cut crime scene investigator named Donald Hartfield who had to be retired law enforcement showed up moments later. “Obviously don’t need me for an I.D., sir, but I still have to make notes for the file. Anything you want to tell me?”

Milo said, “Whatever you need.”

Hartfield said, “This is related to that limo thing, right? George Arredondo worked that, said it was horrific.”

“George spoke the truth.”

“Guess like breeds like. He says he still dreams about it.”



* * *



—

Milo, Reed, and I left the scene and walked to the Impala. Milo said, “Come with me, Moses, keep it simple.”

He got behind the wheel, I sat up front, and Reed took the back. Like a suspect. He didn’t seem to mind. Impressively calm, overall. If you didn’t notice his hands crabbed above the tight denim sheathing his knees.

Traffic had eased up a bit and twenty minutes later we were halfway to the gallery when Marc Coolidge called in.

“Man, you are all over the news.”

“Really. Didn’t see any reporters.”

“Who needs reporters?” said Coolidge. “Joe Blow has a cellphone with a camera, the media’s got their feed. Sounds like a mess.”

“Understatement. We’re on our way to the gallery. You free?”

“Just got free. What can I do?”

“Join me for art appreciation.”





CHAPTER


    54


A Going Out of Business Sale banner striped the front window of New World Elegant Jewelers. The Flower Drum motel was doing some sort of business; four women in minimal clothing dispersed as we arrived. So did three vagrants nearby.

I thought of Mary Jane Huralnik being plucked off the street.

No sign of the locksmith. Milo parked in a red zone in front of the gallery building, scanned night-blackened windows, and pulled out a panatela that he actually smoked.

The smoke bothered Reed. He moved a few feet away, stretched and flexed, did a quick ten push-ups on the sidewalk, racewalked back and forth.

I used the time to phone Robin.

She said, “It’s in the news. Sounds horrible. My first thought was are you okay?”

“I was never in danger. Not even close.”

“I figured that out when they said one female victim. Her?”

“At the hands of her husband. Who poisoned himself and died on the scene.”

“So two victims, not one,” she said. “They can’t even get the basics right. You saw it?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh, baby, sorry. Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“Okay.” Doubtful but too loving to say it. “What’s next?”

“When a locksmith shows up, we check out the gallery building.”

“Big place?”

“Three stories.”

“So you’ll be late.”

“They can do without me, I’ll Uber home.”

“Your brain, your eyes? No, I’ll sacrifice for the common good. But soon as you can swing it—when your mind’s really free of this—let’s go somewhere, okay? Maybe a beach—no high culture.”

I laughed.

She said, “That’s a lovely sound.”



* * *



—

Marc Coolidge showed up just before nine p.m. The locksmith’s ETA was twenty minutes minimum.

As we waited, Alicia called in from Clearwater. “No one lives here, L.T., it’s basically a storage facility. Alarm went off, phone started ringing, I convinced the security company I was the real deal.”

Milo said, “Art storage?”

“Nothing but, L.T. Every room’s piled high. There seem to be two kinds that I can make out: The bulk is posters and prints and a few junky-looking paintings including that candle deal by Manatee Man. There is one bedroom at the back with extra bars on the windows that has maybe thirty paintings that look like good stuff, bubble-wrapped, those carved gold frames. I’m assuming you don’t want me to unwrap, better to wait for some kind of expert.”