The Murder Book

'I didn't ask. Why wasn't there anything in the paper?'

'What would your theory be about that, Nicholas?'

'What do you mean?' said Hansen.

'Given what you know about your buddies, what's your theory.'

'I don't see what you're getting at.'

Milo got up, stretched, rolled his neck, walked slowly to a leaded window, turned his back on Hansen. 'Think about the world you inhabit, Nicholas. You're a successful artist. You get thirty, forty thousand dollars for a painting. Who buys your stuff?'

'Thirty thousand isn't big-time in the art world,' said Hansen. 'Not compared to-'

'It's a lot of money for a painting,' said Milo. 'Who buys your stuff?'

'Collectors, but I don't see what that has to-'

'Yeah, yeah, people of taste and all that. But at forty grand a pop not just any collectors.'

'People of means,' said Hansen.

Milo turned suddenly, grinning. 'People with money, Nicholas.' He cleared his throat.

Hansen's muddy eyes rounded. 'You're saying someone was bribed to keep it quiet? Something that horrible could be- then for God's sake why didn't it stay quiet? Why is it coming to light, now?'

'Give me a theory about that, too.'

'I don't have one.'

'Think.'

'It's in someone's best interests to go public?' said Hansen. He sat up. 'Bigger money's come into play? Is that what you're getting at?'

Milo returned to the sofa, sat back comfortably, flipped his pad open.

'Bigger money,' said Hansen. 'Meaning I'm a total ass for talking to you. You caught me off guard and used me-' He brightened suddenly. 'But you screwed up. You were obligated to offer me the presence of an attorney, so anything I've told you is inadmissable-'

'You watch too much TV, Nicholas. We're obligated to offer you a lawyer if we arrest you. Any reason we should arrest you, Nicholas?'

'No, no, of course not-'

Milo glanced at me. 'I suppose we could exercise the option. Obstruction of justice is a felony.' Back to Hansen: 'Charge like that, whether or not you got convicted, your life would change. But given that you've cooperated…'

Hansen's eyes sparked. He pawed at the scant hair above his ears. 'I need to be worried, don't I?'

'About what?'

'Them. Jesus, what have I done? I'm stuck here, can't leave, not with Mother-'

'With or without Mother, leaving would be a bad idea, Nicholas. If you've been straight- really told us everything, we'll do our best to keep you safe.'

'As if you give a damn.' Hansen got to his feet. 'Get out- leave me alone.'

Milo stayed seated. 'How about a look at your painting?'

'What?'

'I meant what I said,' said Milo. 'I do like art.'

'My studio's private space,' said Hansen. 'Get out!'

'Never show a fool an unfinished work?'

Hansen tottered. Laughed hollowly. 'You're no fool. You're a user. How do you live with yourself?'

Milo shrugged, and we headed for the door. He stopped a foot from the knob. 'By the way, the pictures on your gallery website are gorgeous. What is it the French call still-lifes- nature morte? Dead nature?'

'Now you're trying to diminish me.'

Milo reached for the door, and Hansen said, 'Fine, take a look. But I only have one painting in progress, and it needs work.'

We followed him up the brass-railed staircase to a long landing carpeted in defeated green shag. Three bedrooms on one end, a single, closed door off by itself on the north wing. A breakfast tray was set on the rug. A teapot and three plastic bowls: blood-colored jello, soft-boiled egg darkened to ochre, something brown and granular and crusted.

'Wait here,' said Hansen, 'I need to check on her.' He tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, looked inside, returned. 'Still sleeping. Okay, c'mon.'

His studio was the southernmost bedroom, a smallish space expanded by a ceiling raised to the rafters and a skylight that let in southern sun. The hardwood floors were painted white, as was his easel. White-lacquered flat file, white paint box and brush holders, glass jars filled with turpentine and thinner. Dots of color squeezed on a white porcelain palette fluttered in the milky atmosphere like exotic butterflies.

On the easel was an eleven-by-fourteen panel. Hansen had said his current painting needed work, but it looked finished to me. At the center of the composition was an exquisitely bellied, blue-and-white Ming vase, rendered so meticulously that I longed to touch the gloss. A jagged crack ran down the belly of the vase, and brimming over its lip were masses of flowers and vines, their brilliance accentuated- animated- by a burnt umber background that deepened to black at the edges.

Orchids and peonies and tulips and irises and blooms I couldn't identify. Hot colors, luminous striations, voluptuous petals, vaginal leaves, vermiform tendrils, all interspersed with ominous clots of sphagnum. The fissure implied incipient explosion. Flowers, what could be pret-tier? Hansen's blooms, gorgeous and boastful and flame- vivid as they were, said something else.

Gleam and hue fraying and wilting at the edges. From the shadows, the black, inexorable progress of rot.

Conditioned air blew through a ceiling vent, flat, artificial, filtered clean, but a stink reached my nostrils: the painting gave off the moist, squalid seduction of decay.

Milo wiped his brow, and said, 'You don't use a model.'

Hansen said, 'It's all in my head.'

Milo stepped closer to the easel. 'You alternate paint and glaze?'

Hansen stared at him. 'Don't tell me you paint.'

'Can't draw a straight line.' Milo got even nearer to the board and squinted. 'Kind of a Flemish thing going on- or maybe someone with an appreciation of Flemish, like Severin Roesen. But you're better than Roesen.'

'Hardly,' said Hansen, unmoved by the compliment. 'I'm a lot less than I was before you barged into my life. You have diminished me. I've diminished myself. Will you really protect me?'

'I'll do my best if you cooperate.' Milo straightened. 'Did Luke Chapman mention anyone else being present at the murder? Any of the other partygoers?'

Hansen's fleshy face quivered. 'Not here. Please.'

'Last question,' said Milo.

'No. He mentioned no one else.' Hansen sat down at the easel and rolled up his sleeves. 'You'll protect me,' he said in a dead voice. He selected a sable brush and smoothed its bristles. 'I'm going back to work. There are some real problems to work out.'

CHAPTER 33

When we were back on Roxbury Drive, Milo said, 'Believe his story?'

'I do.'

'So do I,' he said, as we walked to our cars. 'I also believe I'm a hypocrite.'

'What do you mean?'

'Playing Grand Inquisitor with Hansen. Making him feel like shit because he repressed twenty-year-old memories. I did the same damn thing, with less of an excuse.'