“Not at all. It’s a damn shame we have to stand next to a freakin’ dumpster just to have a smoke.”
“It’s the price we pay for our vice,” Sin said, lighting up.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Listen, Sarge, I need to head out. I’m not sure how much of this case will take place up here in Delray, but I sure could use your help with this part of the investigation.”
Nodding, he flicked his butt onto the pavement. “Anything for a Marine,” he said.
“Oorah,” Sin replied.
11
The Art School of the Palm Beaches was only a few blocks away from Vivienne Spinner’s apartment. The parking lot of the school was packed with cars. Mostly a commuter college, Sin thought.
She took in the sights, sounds, and smells of the small, grotto-shaped campus as she headed toward the administration building. The students were an eclectic blend of late-teens/early-twenties, most showing a fair amount of ink and piercings—bohemian in appearance—just the type you would picture as being the student body of an art college.
Upon entering the administration building, Sin noticed paintings, drawings, and sculptures lining the halls. A quick survey didn’t turn up any by the deceased.
Sin was ushered into the office of the director, Joan Wright, as soon as she introduced herself to the receptionist.
“I was shocked to hear what happened to Vivienne,” Joan said, even before Sin had a chance to sit down.
“You knew her personally?”
“Well, no. I mean, no better than I know any of the other students.”
Sin sat in a chair across from Joan. “Come again? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let me explain,” Joan said. “I’m a little jittery with everything that’s happened, and I am probably babbling.”
“No probably about it,” Sin said.
Joan regained her composure and began anew. “ASPB is a small, private art college. I make it my mission to meet all of our students upon admission and try to cultivate a relationship with all of them.”
“And Vivienne, did you cultivate one with her?”
“That’s the strange thing—actually, only one of the strange things—about Vivienne Spinner. She was very much a loner. I’d be surprised to hear that she cultivated a relationship with anybody on campus.”
Sin asked a few more questions about the student population and ASPB, before standing and readying to leave. “The artwork in the hall, I assume it was all created by the students?”
Joan nodded. “We are very proud of our students’ accomplishments and like to display their hard work. Each semester the faculty chooses the best pieces and we hold an exhibit.”
“Do any of the pieces belong to Ms. Spinner?”
Joan shook her head. “Another peculiar thing about Vivienne. She was an exceptional talent, but every time one of her paintings was chosen for the exhibit, which was every semester, she declined.”
Sin pondered the statement for a moment. “I would like a list of all of Vivienne’s professors as well as her classmates.”
Joan lifted a file off her desk and handed it to Sin. “I thought you might ask so I had one prepared for you.”
Sin thanked Joan and was about to leave when she stopped and turned back around. “I noticed a book in Ms. Spinner’s apartment, The Life and Art of Miranda Stokler. Do you know who that is?”
Joan smiled. “That helps better explain where Vivienne’s influence came from. Miranda Stokler was a local artist—Miami, I believe—who became very popular after her death.” She paused, tapped her keyboard, and kept talking without making eye contact. “I didn’t realize any of our students were fans, but having seen Vivienne’s work, it certainly makes sense. Here you go,” she said, jotting something down on a sticky note. “The address of the Stokler Gallery on Atlantic Avenue. It’s just before the bridge heading toward the beach on the south side.”
Sin pocketed the address, tucked the file under her arm, and walked back the way she came.
Spending the next couple of hours speaking to Vivienne’s art teachers and fellow students, Sin was surprised by the parroting of feelings she found. Every teacher said the same thing: She was very talented, but a loner. Every student said the same thing: They knew who she was, but weren’t friends. In fact, most had never even spoken to her.
It was almost dusk when Sin rode up to the Stokler Gallery.
12
While Sin was busy in Delray Beach, Ash was busy down south.
He had been trolling the Art District of Miami, better known as Coconut Grove. Although he noticed everybody, no one seemed to even glance his way. One of Ash’s best features was that he was indistinguishable. Not tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or ugly; he blended in with his surroundings. A neutral pallet, she would have called him.
The streets and sidewalks were busy with tourists and locals alike. The Grove was popular with all age groups. The younger generation liked the restaurants and bars, while the older generation enjoyed its art studios and shops. Everyone loved its laid back atmosphere. It was the type of place where you could imagine Hemingway or van Gogh spending their time mulling over ideas.
But Ash wasn’t there to socialize or to stroll the shops; he had come with one purpose in mind—to find his next canvas.
“The great thing about these artsy types is that they’re a bunch of misfits.”
Ash squinted painfully at the irritating rasp of her voice. Why is she here? he thought. I don’t need her.
He walked into a coffee house, ordered a le plus grand French roast and sat at an art-deco table. His eyes searched for a canvas. As he pulled his laptop out of a messenger bag, he subconsciously repeated the same sentence he had been saying since he left his house—jealousy a human face.
He pretended to be working on his laptop, but was actually snapping pictures of customers—with the internal camera—as they waited in line.
Two large cups of coffee later, he was ready to pack up when a beauty stepped inside. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with mousy, shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair. She was dressed
