“May I have your invitation?”
“I was told you’d have my name on a list,” he said.
She nodded, not smiling. Quinn guessed it was part of her act.
“Name?” she said.
“Richard Drake.”
She consulted the top sheet on her clipboard, moving her finger down it until she almost reached the bottom.
“Yes. Of course. Mr. Drake.” She looked up, her face still neutral. “Please, enjoy the exhibit.”
Quinn entered the gallery and passed through the metal detector. There was a large man standing just past the device. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a smile. Security, no doubt, but more dressed-up rent-a-cop than serious muscle, Quinn guessed.
There was already quite a crowd inside. It wasn’t elbow to elbow, but it was enough to raise the volume to a loud buzz. Most of the men were dressed like Quinn in conservative, expensive suits, while the majority of the women wore the standard black cocktail dress. Quinn did note a few spots of color, but none of the dresses were too bold or too revealing. This wasn’t Hollywood, after all.
He checked for the congressman, but unless he was in some other room, he had yet to arrive.
Not far from the front door, a refreshments table with hors d’oeuvres and empty glasses for wine had been set up. Behind the table were two men, both dressed in all white like the girl at the door. They hovered next to bottles of Rutherford Hill wine, filling the glasses as guests came up and asked for a drink.
“May I pour you a glass?” one of the men asked.
“Please,” Quinn said.
“Cabernet sauvignon or chardonnay?”
“Chardonnay. Thanks.”
Once he had wine in hand, Quinn turned and surveyed the room again, this time ignoring the people and taking in the layout and exhibit.
The space seemed to consist of one main room with one or two smaller offshoots near the back. Those could have been offices or restrooms, Quinn couldn’t tell yet.
The front room was large, around sixty feet wide and half again as long. It was broken up in an almost mazelike way by canvases that hung in curving rows on wires attached to the ceiling. Even the paintings that lined the periphery of the room had been hung several inches from the walls in the same manner.
The effect was an interesting one. It gave the illusion of both space and confinement.
A closer look at the paintings showed the theme didn’t stop with the gallery decor. The images were stark— grays and blacks and whites blending together to form buildings and streets and homes. There were people, too, in the same tones, almost receding into the background as if they were ghosts. But on each canvas there was something in color. Bright, vibrant color. A child’s ball in reds and yellows and pinks, left alone on an abandoned sidewalk. A jacket in a deep, glowing blue, hanging from the back of a door. A kite, lying alone on a park bench, in all those colors and more.
There was a sadness in each piece. A deep, lonely sadness. Quinn was surprised to find himself drawn in by the work. He had to consciously tear himself away to finish his examination.
He began walking toward the back of the room. He stopped every few moments and pretended to examine a new painting. As he did he noticed a second refreshment table set up at the back of the room, between the doorways Quinn had spotted earlier.
As he neared the closest doorway, he realized it didn’t lead to another room, but to a hallway. At the far end was a metal door. It was propped open, and there was another metal detector and security man stationed just inside the doorway. There was no smile on this guy’s face. He just looked bored. Beyond the exit, Quinn could see several people standing outside talking and smoking. Halfway down the hall, three people stood in a loose line near a door marked
Quinn moved to the next doorway. This one did lead to another room, though much smaller than the main gallery. He peeked in. More paintings, only smaller than the ones out front. A few people were examining the artwork, while several others stood in the middle of the room talking.
As Quinn turned away, it seemed to him that the crowd in the main room had grown larger than it had been a few minutes before. He even thought he recognized a few faces here and there. Not people he’d met before, but ones he’d seen on TV or in the newspaper—other lawmakers, a national news reporter or two.
But still no Guerrero.
Quinn glanced at his watch; it was 9:05 p.m. Part of being a politician, particularly one with higher aspirations, meant mixing with the people. And a smart politician would come when the crowd was at its height. So if Guerrero was coming, it had to be soon.
Quinn thought about getting an hors d’oeuvre, when his eyes were drawn to a new arrival at the front of the gallery.
“Son of a bitch,” he said to himself.
Tasha.
She hadn’t listened to him at all. She must have found out the congressman was going to be there, and was going to try to talk to him. She was becoming more than just a problem; she was becoming dangerous. He decided to wait until she moved further into the room before taking any action.
One thing he noticed as he watched her was that she seemed more confident than she had at either of their previous meetings. It was like she was willing herself to be a person who was in control, steeling herself so that she wouldn’t back down when the moment came to talk to the congressman. Quinn had seen other civilians do the
