“Who wants to know?” he said. His voice was the sound of sandpaper against concrete. I imagined he smoked imported cigars and drank really expensive wine.
“Ashe Cayne,” I said. “I know you’re a busy man, but I was hoping to have a few minutes with you.”
“The private investigator,” he said, without any real feeling. “You were at my wife’s office a couple of days ago. She said you were knocking around for information on Tinsley Gerrigan.”
“Still knocking,” I said. The doctors’ lounge door swung open, and a group of young doctors who didn’t look old enough to be out of college walked out noisily. They were laughing about a patient who’d woken up in the middle of surgery and asked the anesthesiologist if he could have a beer.
“Maybe we could go someplace a little quieter, a little more privacy,” I said. “I really don’t need much of your time.”
Weems looked at his watch impatiently. A stainless steel Rolex with a metallic-blue oversize face.
“I really don’t have time right now,” he said. “I need to grab something to eat, then head to a meeting in my lab. Some other time would be better. Give my office a call to set it up.”
He turned sideways to get by me. His shoulder slightly brushed mine. It seemed unintentional.
“I’m not sure if this can wait for some other time,” I said to his back.
He kept walking. Very confident.
“If you’re too busy, maybe my friends at CPD can get you to explain why you were the last call Tinsley Gerrigan made before she disappeared. A call that went directly to a landline inside your house.”
Dr. Weems stopped as if he had walked into a brick wall and turned around. “Follow me,” he said.
A short walk later and we were settled at an outside table in a sunny courtyard on East Huron Street. Large potted plants had been set up around the perimeter in a rectangular formation to shield us from pedestrian traffic and noisy cars.
“So, how can I help you?” Dr. Weems said. There were still traces of irritation in his voice, but he appeared less confrontational.
I decided not to waste any time.
“Why did Tinsley Gerrigan call your cell phone seventy-four times over a span of three months?” I asked.
“Tinsley’s a very complicated girl,” Dr. Weems said cautiously. “She also tends to be very needy. I met her at the hospital’s annual fundraising ball about a year ago. She placed a bid and won a painting of mine that I put into the silent auction. Her winning bid was excessive by any standards, but part of her stipulation for paying so much was that she get the chance to meet the artist and spend an hour or two watching the process.”
“Process?” I asked.
“She wanted to see me paint,” Dr. Weems said. “Tinsley was an amateur painter and wanted to see my technique.”
“I didn’t know you were such an accomplished painter,” I said.
“I’ve been painting for a long time,” he said. “It’s always been a passion of mine. Creative expression is a great way to relieve stress. When I’m not in the OR lab, I steal as much time as I can to get into my studio.”
I nodded. “But seventy-four times in just three months,” I said. “Isn’t that a bit excessive, even if you are the next undiscovered Van Gogh?”
“Van Gogh was a postimpressionist,” Dr. Weems said in a snobbish tone I didn’t exactly appreciate. “I’m what would be considered an abstractionist. And no, I don’t think it’s excessive. Tinsley is serious about her art, both in what she likes to paint and what she likes to collect.”
“Thanks for the genre clarification,” I said. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m in a bidding war at a Christie’s auction. But my point remains. Seventy-four calls in such a short period of time for someone like yourself who’s so busy. That seems a bit much even for ardent lovers of art. Were you giving her lessons over the phone?”
“You’re not getting it, because you don’t understand the process of creating art,” he said. “The process is a journey and one that’s never perfect. Artists are always exploring new ways to express themselves. Tinsley is still in the infancy of her development, but she’s a very passionate person about the things that interest her. She wanted to improve her craft. I was willing to help.”
“For free?”
“I don’t paint to make money,” he said with a smile. “That’s why I have a day job.”
I had to separate his tone from what he was saying, and I was half believing him. But I was getting that old tingling in my gut again. Something wasn’t right. An old man sat down at a table next to us. His body hunched forward while an oxygen tank fed a tube into his nose. A half-smoked cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth. Determination or stupidity. Arguments could be made for both sides.
“Tinsley Gerrigan is a very attractive young woman.” I threw it out there like a basketball referee tossing up a jump ball.
“No argument from me,” he said.
“You being of XY chromosomes and she of very attractive XX chromosomes, there’s another good reason why someone would want to spend considerable time in her company.”
Shake the tree.
“It would be a good reason for someone who is interested in her in that way,” Weems shot back. “I’m not exactly sure where you’re trying to go with this, but I’m very happy in my marriage, Mr. Cayne.”
“Happiness in a marriage is not always an antidote to infidelity,” I said.
If nothing falls at first, shake the tree even harder.
“Listen here, Cayne. I’m not sure what theories you’ve concocted about Tinsley, but one thing is certain. She and I were not having an affair. Nothing even close to it. We share a common passion for art. It’s that simple. Whatever else you’re trying to build won’t hold water. And if you think you’re gonna waltz in here and scare my wife
