“I merely point out that, professionally speaking, the best years of photojournalism were in the past. Jon had won all the awards there were to win. He had experienced life on the razor’s edge, with a rebel band of brothers. They photographed the horrors of the century, then moved on to the next before the last could crush their spirits. They were glorious in their way. They owned nothing, yet they owned the world. They were a cross between young Hemingways and rock-and-roll stars.”
“But their day was over. That’s what you’re telling me?”
“The world changed after Vietnam. America changed. France, too.”
Kaiser puts down his wine and says, “I’d like to return to Ms. Glass’s sister.”
“I would, as well,” says de Becque, his eyes on me. “What exactly do you hope to gain by being part of this investigation, Jordan? Do you have some fantasy of justice?”
“I don’t think justice is a fantasy.”
“What would justice be in this case? To punish the man who has painted these women? The man who stole them from their homes to immortalize them?”
“Is he one and the same?” I ask. “Is the kidnapper the painter?”
“I have no idea. But is that your desire, to punish him?”
“I’d rather stop him than punish him.”
De Becque nods thoughtfully. “And your sister? What are your hopes along that line?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you think she might be alive somewhere?”
“I didn’t until I saw her painting in Hong Kong. Now… I’m not sure.”
When de Becque makes no comment, I ask, “Do
The Frenchman sighs. “Dead, I would say.”
For some reason, his opinion depresses me far more than that of someone like Lenz.
“But,” he adds, “I would not assume all these women share the same fate.”
“Why not?” asks Kaiser.
“Things happen. No plan is perfect. I wouldn’t think it absurd to hope one or more out of nineteen is alive somewhere.”
“Is it nineteen women?” Kaiser asks. “We’ve been trying to match the paintings to the victims, but we’re having trouble. There are only eleven victims in New Orleans. If each painting is of a different woman, then there are eight victims we don’t know about.”
“Perhaps those seven are simply common models?” de Becque suggests. “Paid off long ago and forgotten. Have you thought of that?”
“We’d like that to be true, of course. But the abstract nature of the early paintings has made it impossible for us to match the faces to victims. We haven’t even matched them to the eleven known victims yet.”
“The early paintings aren’t abstract,” says de Becque. “They were done in the Impressionist or Postimpressionist style. This involves using small drops of primary colors in close proximity to produce certain hues, rather than blending colors. It produces an effect much closer to the way the human eye actually perceives light. He probably painted them very quickly, and merely meant to suggest their faces, rather than to clearly depict them.”
“Or he may have meant to conceal their faces,” says Kaiser.
“This also is possible.”
“If any of these women are still alive,” I ask, “where could they possibly be? Why wouldn’t they have come forward by now?”
“The world is very wide,
“She’ll be protected,” says Kaiser.
“Good intentions aren’t enough, Monsieur. She should consider staying here with me until this thing is over.”
“What?” I ask.
“You would be free to come and go, of course. But here I can protect you. I haven’t much confidence in the FBI, to be frank.”
“I appreciate your concern, Monsieur, but I want to remain part of the effort to stop this man.”
“Then take a word of advice. Be very careful. These paintings show an artist in search of himself. His early work is confused and derivative, important only for what it led to. The recent paintings give us a certain view of death. Where is this man going? No one knows. But I would not like to see you come up for auction anytime soon.”
“If I do, buy me. I’d rather hang here than in Hong Kong.”
A white smile cracks the Frenchman’s tanned face. “I would top any price,
De Becque stands suddenly and looks through his great glass window at the bay. I have photographed several prominent prisoners in my life, and something in the Frenchman’s stance throws me back to those occasions. Here in his multimillion-dollar mansion, with a fortune in art hanging on his walls, this expatriate shares something with the poorest convict pacing out a cell in Angola or Parchman.
“I think it’s time to go,” I tell Kaiser.
I wait for de Becque to turn back to me, but he doesn’t. As I walk to the door, he says in a melancholy voice: “Despite what your friend says, Jordan, remember this. The French know the meaning of loyalty.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Li will show you out.”
At last de Becque turns to me and raises a hand in farewell. In his eyes I see genuine affection, and I’m suddenly sure he knew my father far better than he claimed.
“Your numbers!” I call. “I never got them.”
“They’re waiting in your plane.”
Of course they are.
The Range Rover hums steadily toward the airport. Bright sunlight glints off the hood and the road signs, chasing a blue iguana beneath a green roadside bush. As the reptile vanishes, the Sleeping Women I saw in de Becque’s gallery flash through my mind, and a minor epiphany sends a chill along my skin.
“I just realized something important.” Before I can continue, Kaiser grips my thigh behind the knee and nearly cuts off the circulation to my lower leg. I remain silent until we reach the plane, where our escorts load the equipment cases for us, then vanish without a word.
“What is it?” asks Kaiser. “What did you think of?”
“The paintings. I know where they’re being done.”
“What?”
“Not exactly where, but how. I told you, I don’t know anything about art. But I do know about light.”
“Light?”
“Those women are being painted in natural light. It’s so obvious that I didn’t notice it in Hong Kong. Not even today, not at first. But a minute ago it registered.”
“Why? How can you tell?”
“Twenty-five years of experience. Light is very important to color. To the natural look of things. Photographic lights are color-balanced to mimic natural light. I’ll bet artists are even pickier about it. I don’t know how important that is to the case, but doesn’t it tell us something?”
“If you’re right, it could help a lot. Is light shining through a window natural light?”
“That depends on the glass.”
