“You mean you sell art by murderers.”
“You put it crudely, Ms. Cosi, but accurately.”
He shifted his gaze to Matteo, then back to me.
“You’re obviously searching for a particular item. I’m sure I can be of service.”
“Actually, I was looking for the work of a particular artists,” I said. “A young man who calls himself Mars…”
Torquemada stared at me doubtfully. “Mars?”
“Sahara McNeil told me about him. Recommended his work.”
At the mention of Sahara’s name, Elvira turned in our direction.
“Mars?” Torquemada said tersely. “You can’t be serious.”
The couple seemed oblivious to the change in the tone of our conversation, but the Japanese businessmen were now glancing in our direction, too.
Torquemada gripped my arm, none too gently.
“Will you both please follow me to my office,” he said with forced politeness.
I shook my arm loose from his grasp as I followed the dealer through the gallery to a door marked PRIVATE. He quickly unlocked it and motioned us inside. Torquemada followed Matteo and I through the door and closed it quickly.
The office was small and stark, with off-white walls displaying framed posters announcing Death Row gallery shows. An Apple computer with a sleek, thin monitor sat on the desk and a slew of art books and catalogs packed a set of tall shelves. Stacks of black leather artist’s portfolios leaned against the length of one wall, and the corner of the room, behind the desk, was dominated by a human skeleton posing with a silver tray in its hand, as if it were serving lunch. There were some items on the tray, but Torquemada spoke up before I got a good look, calling my attention away.
“Now what is this all about?” Torquemada demanded, his face florid. “I already spoke to a police detective. If you two are more of the same you should at least identify yourselves as such.”
“We’re private detectives investigating the death of Sahara McNeil,” Matteo smoothly stated without a second’s hesitation.
“What’s to investigate?” Torquemada said, his arms wide in an open shrug. “She was flattened by the Sanitation Department, end of story.”
“You don’t seem broken up about it,” I noted.
“No, I don’t, Ms. Cosi. And neither would you. Little Sally was a below average sales representative whose inability to schmooze the clientele and the artists we represent nearly cost me one of my best clients.”
“Mars?”
Torquemada laughed. “Hardly. Poor Mars, a.k.a. Larry Gilman, is nothing but a wannabe.”
“I have it on good authority that he has a record as a violent felon. That he may have committed murder,” I replied.
“He was a co-defendant in an assault charge that was downgraded from manslaughter. Larry got into a bar fight with some Puerto Rican punk over a girl and the kid died later. Larry-the-murderer didn’t even do hard time — just parole. Likes to play it up, though. Thinks it’s good for his resume.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You have to have at least a modicum of talent,” Torquemada replied. “
“Like one of those fine clown paintings, you mean?”
“They may not be profound, Ms. Cosi, but they were produced by a mind bold enough to grasp a much darker vision of the universe than Larry Gilman’s. Or most definitely, yours.”
“How would you characterize the relationship between Larry Gilman and Sahara McNeil?” I asked.
“A lapdog to its master. He worshiped her. She tolerated him. Sahara moved art for Larry. She even let him come over to the gallery for long, soulful chats.” Torquemada examined his nails and sighed.
“Sahara probably liked the attention, but I doubt very much there was any more to it than that. She was ten years older than Larry in age — and light years ahead of him in education and sophistication. She had a degree in fine arts, Larry was a Jersey boy who’d dropped out of high school. What could she really find attractive about a crude post-adolescent no-talent?”
Torquemada moved to the leaning stacks of black leather portfolios and tossed one onto the desk.
“Mars came by earlier today, brought me these.” He flipped open the leather folder.
Inside were pictures painted in acrylic. Ten of them. The same woman in every one. I recognized her flaming red hair and green eyes from Cappuccino Connection night.
“Sahara McNeil…”
The pictures were wonderful, luminous, highly idealized portraits. The kind of pictures a passionate young man would paint in the throes of heated infatuation.
“I can’t even sell these,” Torquemada said, his voice pained and regretful. More melancholy than irritated, he closed the portfolio. “They look like pictures of fairies or something. Who’d buy them?”
I studied Torquemada’s resigned expression. One thing still bothered me. “You said Sahara McNeil almost cost you a high-end client. Who might that be?”
Torquemada moved behind his desk and sat. I tried to keep my eyes from straying to the skeleton hovering in the corner behind him, silver tray extended in an offering.
“Seth Martin Todd,” he said as Matt and I took seats across from him.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” said Matteo.
“Yes, well, I’m not surprised,” Torquemada replied, somewhat defensively, I thought.
“It just so happens that Seth Martin Todd is going to open a one-man exhibition at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles next week. His paintings now command huge sums of money. Money that generates commissions this gallery needs to survive. Sahara jeopardized my trusted relationship with Mr. Todd.”
“How?”
“Todd accused her of underselling one of his works,” Torquemada replied. “He blamed Sahara for a canceled appearance on
“Did Mr. Todd threaten Sahara?”
“On a number of occasions. But he threatens everyone,” replied Torquemada with a wave of his puffy pink hand, “ — even me.”
“So he’s just another wannabe? No danger at all?”
“I didn’t say that, Ms. Cosi. Seth Martin Todd is the real deal. He murdered two people. One of them his wife.”
Matteo leaned forward. “So he’s in jail? Or still facing trial.”
“The charges against him were dropped on a technicality. The murders occurred in Vermont and the small town sheriff who was the arresting officer botched the chain of evidence. A high-priced lawyer got all of the evidence against him thrown out in a pre-trial motion. Todd got off without even a trial, and the notoriety made his work highly sought after among a certain class of collectors.”
“Does Mr. Todd live in New York City?” I asked.
Torquemada snorted. “If you call Queens New York City, then yes.”
He opened a drawer, pulled out an index file, and drew out a business card. “Here’s his address. Give him my regards, if he’ll even see you.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, he’ll see us.”
“He refused to meet with the representative of the World Trade Center Memorial Commission yesterday. I wanted to send the man over, but Todd said the representative wasn’t morally or ethically fit to judge his work.”
“Why not?” I asked.
