“He’s got to be an improvement over Gaines.”
“Cleaner, anyway,” says Kaiser.
Baxter knocks on the front panel, and the van screeches onto Freret Street, headed for the more agreeable ambience of the French Quarter.
15
“Roger Wheaton called Smith and warned him we’re coming,” Baxter says, pulling off his headset. “Wiretap just picked it up.”
We’re parked across the street from a beautiful Creole cottage on the downriver side of Esplanade, the eastern border of the French Quarter. For the past two years it’s been the home of Frank Smith.
“Why wouldn’t Wheaton warn him?” asks Kaiser.
“We asked him not to,” says Lenz.
“And now they’re tearing his house apart and informing him he’s going to have to supply skin and blood for DNA testing to compare to the skin we took from under the Dorignac’s victim’s fingernails.”
“The call actually makes Wheaton look less suspicious,” Kaiser says. “He’s not stupid. He knows he’s a suspect, which probably means a wiretap, but he made the warning call anyway. That’s what somebody does when they’re innocent and pissed off.”
“Unless they do it to
“Why didn’t he warn Gaines?” I ask.
“Maybe he doesn’t like Gaines,” Kaiser says with a laugh. “That’s not hard to imagine.”
“Did he warn Thalia Laveau?” asks Lenz.
“Not yet,” Baxter replies. “Only Smith.”
“I’m very fond of Frank,”‘ says Kaiser. “Those were Wheaton’s words in the interview.”
“I wonder if there could be a homosexual link,” Lenz says.
“Wheaton has never married,” says Baxter. “Why didn’t you ask him if he’s gay? He’s never married.”
“He may be in the closet,” says Lenz. “I didn’t want to burn my bridges with him entirely. We can find that out elsewhere.”
Kaiser moves to the rear door. “Frank Smith is openly gay. Maybe he’ll tell us.” He looks at me. “See you in a few minutes.”
He and Lenz leave the van and slam the door.
Baxter presses his face to the van’s tinted porthole window. “The house doesn’t look as fancy as I pictured it.”
“You’re looking at the back,” I tell him. “Most of these houses face inward. Some onto courtyards, others onto fantastic gardens of tropical plants.”
“John told me about your natural light theory. This house does have a courtyard. Smith’s the only suspect who has one. Wheaton has an outdoor garden, but no walls. Hey, look at this.”
I put my cheek to his, and my eyes to the darkened porthole.
Frank Smith stands waiting for Kaiser and Lenz on his porch. He’s sleek and handsome, his dark tan set off by white tropical clothing, linen or silk. He has large vivid eyes and an ironic smile on his lips.
“Look at this guy,” says Kaiser over the monitor speaker. “A smart-ass, I can tell already.”
“I’ll be primary,” Lenz says.
Through the speakers, Frank Smith’s voice has the festive tone of a man greeting party guests. “Hello! Are you the gentlemen from the FBI? When do the storm troopers arrive?”
“Jesus,” mutters Kaiser. “There aren’t any storm troopers, Mr. Smith. Because of certain evidence, you’ve become a suspect in some very serious crimes. There’s no way to sugarcoat that. We’re here to ask you some questions.”
“You’re not here for a blood sample? Urine perhaps?”
“No. We’re here to talk.”
“Well, I don’t have an alibi for the night the woman was taken from Dorignac’s. I was here, alone, listening to music.” Through the window, I see Smith hold out his hands as if for handcuffs. “Let’s get it over with.”
“We’re just here to talk,” Kaiser insists.
“Foreplay for the police?” Smith asks in a taunting voice.
“We don’t control the police in this town.”
“I thought after all the corruption scandals here, you did.”
Beside me, Baxter says, “He’s pretty well-informed for a recent transplant.”
Not many years ago, police corruption and the city’s homicide rate were at an all-time high. Two police officers actually committed murder in the execution of a robbery, and the chaos that followed almost resulted in the Justice Department federalizing the New Orleans police force.
“We can talk here, in a civil manner,” says Kaiser, “or the police can haul you downtown.”
Smith laughs. “My God, it’s Humphrey Bogart in elevator shoes. Why don’t we go into the salon? I’ll have coffee brought in.”
Footsteps and a closing door echo in the van, then more footsteps.
“Please, sit,” Smith says.
There’s a groan of springs compressing under Dr. Lenz’s weight.
“Juan? Three coffees, please.”
“The guy has a servant,” says Baxter. “Shit. My student days were a little different.”
“Mr. Smith,” Lenz begins, “I’m Arthur Lenz, a forensic psychiatrist. This is Special Agent John Kaiser. He’s a psychological profiler for the Bureau.”
“Two Van Helsings in my salon. Should I be flattered or insulted?”
“What’s he talking about?” asks Baxter.
“Van Helsing was the professor who hunted Dracula,” I tell him.
“This is going to be fun, I can tell.”
“Put the tray there, Juan. Thank you.” There’s a pause, then Smith half-whispers, “I’m still training him. He has a long way to go, but he’s worth it. How do you take your coffee, Doctor?”
“Black, please.”
“Same for me,” says Kaiser.
There’s a tinkle of china, more groaning of springs.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” Lenz says. “We-”
“Let me save you both some time,” Smith interrupts. “You’re here because of the women who’ve been vanishing. You’ve discovered that the series of paintings known as the Sleeping Women depicts these women. Some bit of evidence has led you to Roger Wheaton’s program at Tulane. You’re now questioning Wheaton and the rest of us before turning the police loose on us and ripping our lives apart. Roger is very upset, and that upsets me. I’d very much like to hear the details of this supposed evidence.”
“You sound as if you were already aware of the Sleeping Women,” says Kaiser.
“I was.”
“How did you learn about them?”
“From a friend in Asia.”
“You have a lot of Asian friends?”
“I have friends all over the world. Friends, colleagues, clients, lovers. About three months ago I heard that paintings from a new series were topping a million in private sales. Then I heard some were to be exhibited in Hong Kong. I’ve been thinking of going to view them.”
“You were aware of the subject matter?” asks Lenz.
“Nude women sleeping was what I understood in the beginning. I only recently heard the rumors about the death theory.”
