Milo glanced around the room. “Any artistic satisfaction in this?”
“Not a whit,” said Kipper. “But I make a fortune and indulge my fantasies on Sunday- home studio. Most of the time my stuff never gets out of clay. Smashing it can be quite cathartic.”
His face remained unlined, but his color had deepened.
Milo said, “How did your ex-wife feel about your switching careers?”
“That was years ago, how can it be relevant?” said Kipper.
“At this point, everything is, sir. Please bear with me.”
“How’d she feel? She hated it, tried to talk me out of it. Which tells you something about Julie- her integrity. We were living like paupers in a hovel on the Lower East Side, doing odd jobs. Julie tried to telemarket magazine subscriptions, and I did janitorial duty in the building to make the rent. The day I got into finance was the first time we could count on a stable income. And not much of one, at that. I started off gofering for chump change at Morgan Stanley. But even that was a step up. Now we could buy food. But Julie couldn’t have cared less. She kept yelling at me- I was talented, had sold out. I don’t think she ever forgave me- not until she moved out here and looked me up and we reconnected. At that point, I think she could see that I was really happy.”
“You moved here first.”
“A year before Julie. After we divorced.”
“And she looked you up.”
“She called my office. She was really down- about failing to make it in New York, about having to draw stupid newspaper ads. She was also broke. I helped her out.”
“On top of the alimony.”
Kipper exhaled. “No big deal. Like I said, I do very well.”
“So give me the chronology,” said Milo. “Marriage, divorce, et cetera.”
“Sum my life up in one sentence, huh?”
“A few sentences, sir.”
Kipper unbuttoned his suit jacket. “We met right after we got to Rhode Island. Instant chemistry, within a week were living together. After graduation, we moved to New York and got married- fourteen years ago. Four years later, we got divorced.”
“After the divorce, what was your contact with your ex-wife?” Milo’d avoided using Julie’s name in Kipper’s presence. Emphasizing the severed relationship.
Kipper said, “Our contact was occasional phone calls, even more occasional dinners.”
“Friendly phone calls?”
“For the most part.” Kipper’s finger massaged the watch face. “I see where this is going. Which is fine. My buddies told me I’d be looked at as a suspect.”
“Your buddies?”
“Some of the other brokers.”
“They have experience with the criminal justice system?”
Kipper laughed. “Not yet. No, they watch too much TV. I suppose I’m wasting my time telling you I had nothing to do with it.”
Milo smiled.
Kipper said, “Do what you have to do but know this: I loved Julie- first as a woman, later as a person. She was my friend, and I’m the last one who’d ever hurt her. I have no reason to hurt her.” He slid his chair back several inches, crossed his legs.
“Friendly phone calls about what?” said Milo.
“Letting each other know what we were up to,” said Kipper. “And I guess what you’d term business calls, too. Around tax time. I needed to account the alimony and any other money I sent Julie. And sometimes she needed extra.”
“How much extra?”
“A bit here and there- maybe another ten, twenty grand a year.”
“Twenty would be almost double her alimony.”
“Julie wasn’t good about money. She tended to get into tight spots.”
“Trouble living within her means?”
Kipper’s big hands lowered to the granite surface of the table and lay flat. “Julie wasn’t good with money because she didn’t care about it.”
“So in total, you were giving her nearly forty thousand a year. Generous.”
“I drive a Ferrari,” said Kipper. “I don’t expect any merit badges.” His body shifted forward. “Let me explain Julie’s history to you: Right after graduation she had an initial burst of success. Got placed in a high-quality group show at a midtown gallery and sold every single painting. She got great critical notice, too, but guess what: It didn’t mean she made serious money. Her canvases were priced from eight to twelve hundred dollars, and by the time the gallery owner and her agent and every other gimme-type took their cuts, there was maybe enough to buy lunch at Tavern on the Green. The gallery kicked her price up to fifteen hundred a picture and told her to get productive. She spent the next six months working. Twenty-four hours a day, or it seemed that way.” He winced.
“Tough regimen,” said Milo.
“More like self-destruction.”
“She have help keeping up her energy?”
“What do you mean?” said Kipper.
“We know about her drug problem. Is that when it started? Cocaine can be an energizer.”
“Coke,” said Kipper. “She was into it way before that- in college. But yes, it got intense when the gallery demanded she make instant art at an inhuman pace.”
“What pace was that?”
“A dozen canvases within four months. A crap-monger could have splashed that together, no problem, but Julie was meticulous. Ground her own pigments, laid on layer after layer of paint, alternated with her own special glazes and varnishes. Was so picky that she sometimes made her own brushes. Could spend weeks making brushes. And frames. Each one had to be original- perfect for the painting. Everything had to be perfect. Everything became a project of immense significance.”
“Her current works have no frames,” I said.
“I saw that,” said Kipper. “Asked her about it. She said she was concentrating on the image itself. I told her it was a good idea.” One hand closed in a fist. “Julie was brilliant, but I don’t know if she would have ever achieved real success.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was
“Not of this world,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Kipper. “She wasn’t keyed into her surroundings. Take the money thing, for example. I tried to get her to invest some of the alimony in low-risk bond funds. If she’d started investing back when I did, she’d have built up a nice little nest egg, could have plied her art in the way she wanted. Instead, she had to lower herself by doing commercial gigs.”
“She didn’t like commercial art.”
“She hated it,” said Kipper. “But she refused to take the steps that would’ve freed her. I won’t say she was masochistic, but Julie definitely had a thing for suffering. She was never really happy.”
“Chronically depressed?” I said.
“Except when she was painting.”
“Let’s go back for a moment,” said Milo, thumbing through his pad. “The New York gallery that took her on- the resume on her brochure lists The Anthony Gallery-”
“That’s the one. Bloodsucking Lewis Anthony.”
“Not a nice man?”
“Few of them are,” said Kipper.
