“How did you feel about the prospect that women might be dying to produce those paintings?”
A long pause. “I haven’t seen the paintings, so that’s difficult to answer.”
Lenz sips from his coffee cup; we can hear it over the mike. “Do you mean the quality of the paintings would determine your view of the morality of women dying to produce them?”
“To paraphrase Wilde, Doctor, there’s no such thing as a moral or immoral painting. A painting is either well done or badly done. If the paintings are beautiful, if they are indeed great art, then they justify their own existence. Any other circumstances involved in their creation are irrelevant.”
“That sounds familiar,” says Kaiser.
“How so?” asks Smith.
“Do you know a man named Marcel de Becque?”
“No.”
“He’s a French expatriate who lives in the Cayman Islands.”
“I don’t know him. But there’s a certain irony in the name.”
“What’s that?” asks Lenz.
“Emil de Becque was the French expatriate in
I can feel Lenz’s embarrassment through the ether. “You’re right,” he says. “I’d forgotten.”
“Perhaps this man took the surname as an alias?”
“De Becque’s father went to Southeast Asia in the 1930s,” says Lenz. “Maybe Michener heard the name and gave it to one of his island characters.”
“I’ll tell you someone I did know,” says Smith. “This should get you hot and bothered. Christopher Wingate.”
This time the silence is longer. “Why would you bring up Christopher Wingate?” asks Lenz.
“Let’s not play games, Doctor. I heard about Wingate’s death. I knew he was the dealer for the Sleeping Women. I thought nothing of it at the time. But now that the paintings are connected with possible murders, I see his death in a different light.”
“How did you know Wingate?” asks Kaiser.
“A mutual friend introduced us at a party in New York. I was considering switching from my present dealer to him.”
“Why?”
“Because he was, in a word, hot.”
“I’m going to ask you a sensitive question,” says Lenz. “Please don’t take offense. This is very important.”
“I’m on pins and needles.”
Lenz is probably furious at being mocked, but he soldiers on. “Is Roger Wheaton gay?”
Smith barks a little laugh that’s hard to read. “Did you ask Roger that?”
“No. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to offend him.”
“I’m offended for him. Not because of anything to do with being gay, but because of the invasion of his privacy.”
“When people are dying, private matters often must become public. If you won’t answer the question, I will have to ask Wheaton. Is that what you want me to do?”
“No.”
“Very well.”
After a thoughtful pause, Smith says, “I wouldn’t say Roger is gay.”
“What would you say?”
“He’s a complex man. I’ve only known him personally for two years, and all that time he’s been seriously ill. I think his illness has caused him to concentrate on nonsexual areas of his life.”
“Have you ever seen him out with a woman?” Lenz asks. “Or with a woman at his home?”
“Roger doesn’t ‘go out.’ He’s either home or at the university. And yes, he has female guests.”
“Overnight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Does he have particular male friends?”
“I flatter myself that I’m his friend.”
“Have you been his lover?”
“No.”
“Would you like to be?” asks Kaiser.
“Yes, I would.”
“Listen to this guy,” says Baxter. “Cool as they come.”
“Would you have any problem giving us your whereabouts on a particular set of dates?” asks Kaiser.
“I wouldn’t think so. But let me be frank about something, gentlemen. I’ll cooperate with this investigation up to a point. But if the police upset my life to an inordinate degree, without direct evidence against me, I’ll institute legal action against both the police and the FBI. I have the resources to vigorously pursue such an action, and with the recent history of the NOPD in this town, I’d say my chances were good. So be forewarned.”
There’s a silence I can only interpret as shock. I doubt that representatives of the FBI are accustomed to being talked to in this way by serial-murder suspects.
“Psychology happens to be a particular interest of mine, Doctor,” Smith goes on. “I happen to know that the incidence of homosexual serial killers is zero. So I think you’d have some difficulty persuading a jury that I’m a good candidate for harassment in this case.”
“We don’t necessarily believe the painter is the killer in this case,” Lenz says. “But we’re not focusing on you as a suspect. You’re simply one of four people with access to particular brush hairs taken from Sleeping Women canvases.”
“Tell me about these hairs.”
Kaiser quickly summarizes the link between the factory in Manchuria, the New York importer, and Wheaton’s special orders. When he finishes, Smith says, “So many questions behind your eyes, Agent Kaiser. Like little worms turning. You want to know everything. How exactly does it work? Does Frank really take it up the bum? Is he promiscuous? You have images of the old bathhouse scene in your mind? I was there for it, all right, the tail end of it. I was only seventeen. I sucked till the muscles in my face cramped. Does that make me a killer?”
“Why do you live in the French Quarter rather than close to Tulane?” asks Kaiser.
“The lower Quarter is a haven for gays. Didn’t you know? There may be more of us here than there are of you. You should come back on Gay Pride Day and see me with my entourage. I’m quite a celebrity down here.”
“Tell us about your fellow students,” says Lenz. “What do you think of Leon Gaines?”
“Pond scum. Roger gave him a matched pair of abstracts as a gift, small but very fine. Leon sold one of them two weeks later – for heroin, I’m sure. I didn’t have the heart to tell Roger.”
“And Gaines’s work?”
“His
“What about Thalia Laveau?”
“Thalia’s a lovely creature. Lovely and sad.”
“Why sad?”
“Have you talked to her yet?”
“No.”
“She suffered terribly as a child, I think. She carries a great deal of pain around.”
“What about her paintings?”
“They’re charming. A sort of tribute to the nobility of the lower classes – a myth to which I don’t happen to subscribe, but one she somehow manages to bring to life on canvas.”
