The Murder Book

would serve his best interests.'

'Inflated appraisal?'

'No,' said Glenda. 'Fred and I wouldn't be party to that. In fact, we demanded to look at the most recent county assessments, and everything was in line. The Grand Royale was worth approximately twice what the other hotels were, so apparently it fit the son's tax needs. It wasn't the only thing he sold. Mr. Coury, the father, had owned many properties. But the three hotels had been acquired as a package through some sort of government housing deal, so by donating the Royale, everything worked out.'

'Coury aiding the Lord's work,' said Milo.

'Funny, isn't it? The father acquired filthy lucre by oppressing the poor and now at least some of those profits have served to elevate the poor.'

'Happy ending, Reverend. Doesn't happen very often.'

'Oh, it does, Milo. You just have to know where to look.'

He talked to her a bit longer, stuffed more money in the alms box over her protests, and left.

Vance Coury had made good on his promise to keep the gang-bangers away from the Mission and now that the two other hotels had been torn down for parking lots, his need for rent collectors had disappeared.

But the gang thing intrigued Milo and when he drove by the lots and took a look at the attendants, he saw shaved heads and skulking posture. Tattoos conspicuous enough to be visible from the curb.

CHAPTER 31

What I'd seen of Vance Coury's demeanor synched with the profile of a domination rapist: surly, hypermacho, eager not to please. The supercharged ambience in which he operated fit, too: big engines, flashy paint, the photos of submissive fellatrices tacked to the walls of the garage. The mutilated Porsche.

A corrupt father completed the picture: Coury had been raised to take what he wanted. Throw in some like- minded buddies, and Janie Ingalls had been a rabbit in a dog pit.

Junior hadn't been interested in my patronage. Did he really regard the Seville as a hunk of junk? Or did those parking lots pay the bills and the auto-customizing business was recreational? Or a front… all those gang boys.

I headed for the city and thought about the bisected Porsche. Evisceration on display. The joy of destruction. Maybe I was interpreting too much, but the few minutes I'd spent with Coury had left me wary and creeped-out, and I kept checking the rearview mirror well past Mulholland.

Back at home, I imagined the party scene twenty years ago: Janie's encounter with Coury, amid the noise and the dope, the flash of recognition- pleasure for Coury, horror for Janie.

He moves in and takes over. The King's Men join in.

Including a King's Man who seemed different than the others?

The images Nicholas Hansen's gallery had posted on its website were still-lifes. Lush, luminously tinted assemblages of fruit and flowers, rendered meticulously. Hansen's work seemed galaxies away from the ruined sculpture assembled on the Beaudry on-ramp- from any brutality. But art was no immunization against evil. Caravaggio had slain a man over a tennis game and Gauguin had slept with young Tahitian girls knowing he'd be infecting them with syphillis.

Still, Nick Hansen seemed to have taken a different path than the others, and deviance has always fascinated me.

It was nearly three, maybe past the New York gallery's closing time, but I phoned anyway, and got a young, female voice on the other end. The first time I'd contacted the gallery, I'd talked to an older woman and hadn't left my name, so here was a chance for some new dissembling.

I shifted into art-speak and presented myself as a collector of old masters drawings who'd run out of the sunlight-free space such treasures demanded and was considering switching to oils.

'Old masters oils?' said the young woman.

'A bit beyond my budget,' I said. 'But I have been impressed by some of the contemporary realism that's managed to assert itself among all the performance pieces. Nicholas Hansen, for example.'

'Oh, Nicholas's wonderful.'

'He's certainly not daunted by tradition,' I said. 'Could you tell me more about his background- is it rigidly academic?'

'Well,' she said, 'he did go to Yale. But we've always felt Nicholas transcends academic painting. There's something about his sensibilities. And the way he uses light.'

'Yes. Quite. I like his sense of composition.'

'That, too. He's simply first-rate. Unfortunately, we have no paintings by him in stock, at this time. If you could give me your name-'

'I always research an artist before I take the plunge. Would you happen to have some biographical information on Hansen that you could fax me?'

'Yes, of course,' she said. 'I'll get that right out to you. And about the academic aspect… Nicholas is well schooled, but please don't hold that against him. Despite his meticulousness and his way with paint as matter, there's a certain primal energy to his consciousness. You'd need to see the pictures in person to really appreciate that.'

'No doubt,' I said. 'There's nothing like in person.'

Five minutes later, my fax machine buzzed, disgorging Nicholas Hansen's curriculum vitae. Education, awards, group and individual exhibitions, corporate collections, museum shows.

The man had accomplished plenty in two decades, and unlike his old pal Garvey Cossack he hadn't recounted any of it in a pumped-up biography. No mention of high school at all; Nicholas Hansen's account of his education began with college: Columbia University, where he'd received a B.A. in anthropology, summers filled with painting fellowships, a Masters of Fine Arts at Yale, and two years of postgraduate work at an atelier in Florence, Italy, learning classical painting technique. Among his museum shows were group spots at the Art Institute of Chicago and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Prominent names figured among those who collected his work.

An accomplished man. A polished man. Hard to fit that with Vance Coury's garage or the Cossacks' vulgar lifestyle. A gang-rape murder.

I went over the dates on Hansen's resume. Saw something else that didn't fit.

Milo still wasn't answering any of his phones, so I tried to dispel my restlessness with a beer, then another. I carried the bottle down to the pond, thought about kicking back, decided to net leaves instead. For the next hour or so I pruned, raked, busied myself with mindless chores. I was just about to allow myself a moment of repose when the phone rang up in the house.

Robin? I ran up the stairs, grabbed the kitchen extension, heard Dr. Bert Harris's voice. 'Alex?'

'Bert. What's up?'

'It was nice to see you,' he said. 'After all this time. Just checking to see how you're doing.'

'Did I look that bad?'

'Oh, no, not bad, Alex. Perhaps a bit preoccupied. So…'

'Everything's rolling along.'

'Rolling along.'

'No, that's a lie, Bert. I screwed up with Robin.'

Silence.

I said, 'I should've followed your advice. Instead, I brought up the past.'

More dead air. 'I see…'

'She reacted just as you'd imagine. Maybe I wanted her to.'

'You're saying…'

'I really don't know what I'm saying, Bert. Listen, I appreciate your calling, but things are kind of… I don't feel like talking about it.'

'Forgive me,' he said.

Apologizing again.