in the crash. It killed me to even think about that.
The philosophy building, a handsome turn-of-the-century structure in red sandstone, was just a few minutes away from Washington Square Park. Laurel showed her grad-student pass to the guard, allowing us to get upstairs without alerting Reed to our visit. We went to Hal’s office first. It was small enough to qualify as a broom closet. One look told us we’d wasted our time. The place had been swept clean. I pulled all the desk drawers out. Empty, every one.
“That was fast,” I said.
Laurel glanced around angrily. “What about his papers, and the computer? Where are they?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Although I’d called earlier to make sure he’d be in, I purposely hadn’t told Reed we were coming to see him. Caught unawares, he’d be more likely to spill something.
Reed masked his surprise at seeing us with a hasty smile, scraped back his chair, and rose. “Laurel,” he said, “how are you? I was shocked to hear about Hal. I’m so sorry. Can I do anything to help? Just say the word.”
He went to hug her and she thrust him away. “You were shocked, Colin? If Hal had been drowning you would have held him under. You know how vulnerable he was, and you still took away his job. I count you responsible for what happened.”
Seeing that false sympathy wasn’t working in his favor, Reed reverted to his usual abrasiveness. “I don’t recall agreeing to an appointment with you two.” He threw an unfriendly glance my way. “Hal was drug addled. He wasn’t even able to handle the limited classes we gave him.”
I couldn’t argue with that, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of letting him know. “Glad to see you care so deeply about Laurel’s feelings. Where are all of Hal’s things? His desktop’s gone. Nothing’s left in his office.”
“The computer is university property. We wiped the files and it’s already been given to someone else.” He motioned toward the door. “Outside are a couple of plastic boxes with his papers and other stuff. Laurel, you’re welcome to them.”
“You’re a wretch, Colin.” Laurel spun out the door and bent down to sort through the material.
“Well?” He glared at me openly now. Bluster didn’t suit the man. His squat nose wrinkled unattractively and his fleshy lips stretched into a grimace.
“That blonde you were romancing at Hal’s party—Eris Haines. I need to get in touch with her.”
“Wouldn’t have the foggiest. I’d never met her before. She kept pawing at me all night. I had a tough time shaking her off.”
I broke into a laugh. “Colin,
“I have nothing more to say to you, John.”
“What would your wife think about that, I wonder?”
“You asshole. You are capable of that, aren’t you?” He turned and searched among some papers lying on his desk and picked up a card. “This is all I have. Be my guest.” He held it out for me.
The logo on the card read TRANSFORMATIONS in large gold lettering. Underneath that, in black, Eris’s name, phone number, and fax. Nothing else.
“One other thing. The stone engraving Hal kept in his office, did you take it out of his desk? It was stolen from my brother. I’ve already talked to the FBI. Best to give it up now.”
I struck out on that one. The look of sheer astonishment on his face told me he knew nothing about it.
Thirteen
Phillip Anthony, a British import who’d settled in the city twenty years ago, sold prints and paintings from his gallery on East Tenth Street, just past University Place. He’d started the gallery with Claire Talbot, who became successively his business partner, his wife, and his ex-wife. You could still see her name spelled out ever so faintly on the brick where he’d removed the brass letters. I’d known Claire first. She’d drifted in and out of our group of friends at Columbia. The two of us had kept in touch only because our professional lives brought us together. I’d applauded her when she made the break from Phillip. He was insufferable even for short intervals.
Phillip used his gallery primarily as a showcase—he made most of his sales to private clients for substantial sums. If I lacked the knowledge to solve Hal’s puzzle, I’d have to seek it from people like him.
His assistant told us we’d find him on the second floor. Phillip normally used this space for storage and picture restoration. Today the room was bare, making it appear much larger. The walls had a fresh coat of white paint and the floors shone. Stretched across the entire ceiling was a canvas depicting Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel frescoes.
Laurel didn’t know what to make of it. “Well,” she said, searching for something polite to say, “if you can’t see the real thing, I suppose it’s better than looking in a book. It’s surprisingly well executed.”
I wouldn’t have been that complimentary.
A voice behind me broke into my thoughts. “Rather adven turous, don’t you think? It took fifteen art students two months to complete.”
Behind us stood a tall, angular man with a receding cap of gray hair and watery blue eyes, extra large, like a baby’s, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses.
“Phillip.” I stretched out my hand. “This is Laurel, a friend of mine.”
He gave me a brief, cool handshake and bestowed a warm smile on her.
I explained that she was a doctoral candidate in philosophy. Phillip liked people with lofty credentials.
“What brings you here?” He turned to me. “We usually see you only when there’s something to gain. Like an event where you can score some clients.”
“I’m researching a Durer.” A cutting remark he’d just made. Then something clicked. I’d been in such a fog of sorrow over Samuel’s death that I’d missed it. The steady drop-off in the number of party invitations and work offers.
Like courtiers in a royal circle, the movers and shakers in our world could close ranks in an instant. I got work because of my connection to Samuel, and they adored him. People blamed me for his death. You could be on top of the crowd, but if you stumbled they’d fight over who got to make the final twist of the knife. Not only had Samuel’s death produced a hard knot of grief that felt permanent, but it could very well end my career.
I pretended not to notice his frostiness. Phillip had never really warmed up to me, nor had we gotten off to the best start. I’d gone out power drinking with a couple of other dealers after an auction. One of them celebrated his big win by treating us to pricey shots of twenty-three-year-old Evan Williams bourbon. As the evening wore on we all got pretty hammered. Phillip, boasting about his sexual performance, told us he’d once lasted an hour and five minutes. I asked him whether that was on daylight savings time, when the clocks went ahead. It didn’t go over too well.
I tried to think of something positive to say about the Michelangelo reproduction. “This is an unusual display for your gallery.”
He smiled. “A fundraising project. Each panel is sponsored by a different corporation. We had the event last night and did damn well out of it, actually.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of God touching the hand of Adam. “IBM shelled out ten thousand for that panel alone. We had to talk them out of covering Adam’s nether parts with their logo, though.”
Laurel gaped at him, wide-eyed, the shock palpable on her face. He grinned to show this was just his little joke. I joined in with a laugh I didn’t really believe in. “How much longer will it be on display?” I asked.
“Oh, at least until summer’s end.” He directed his gaze toward me. “Ghastly news about Hal Vanderlin.”
“It was terrible.” I stole a glance at Laurel. A slight reddening of her face was the only clue that Phillip’s comment had upset her.
“I heard rumors about a drug problem.” He cocked his eye.
I had no interest in turning up the heat under the rich stew of art world gossip and changed the subject. “Tell us about your project.”
Phillip lifted his thin arm and pointed again to
