But I loved her.”
“Good. What was your name again?”
“Jordan. Jordan Glass.”
“I like that.”
“However things were between my sister and me, I have to find out what happened to her.”
“I understand. Do you think she could still be alive?”
“I don’t know. Will you help me find out?”
“How can I?”
“By telling me what you know about some things.”
Her lips disappear between her teeth, and for the first time she looks uncomfortable. “Talk about my friends, you mean?”
“Is Leon Gaines your friend?”
She wrinkles her lip in distaste.
“May I call you Thalia?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t lie to you, Thalia. After I leave, the police are going to come here and question you about your whereabouts on the nights the women disappeared. Will you have any trouble giving alibis for those nights?”
“I don’t know. I spend a lot of time alone.”
“What about three nights ago, after the NOMA event?”
Confusion clouds her eyes. “The papers said the woman taken that night was unrelated to the others.”
“I know. The FBI has its own way of working.”
“Then – oh God. He’s still taking them. And you think I-”
“I don’t think anything, Thalia. I was just asking a question and hoping you had an answer that could keep the police off your back.”
“I came straight home and did some yoga. It was a week-night, and I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Did anyone see you or call you? Anyone who could confirm that?”
Lines of worry now. “I don’t remember. I don’t think so. Like I said, I’m alone a lot.”
I nod, uncertain which way to go with her.
“You are too, aren’t you?” she says.
My first instinct is to change the subject, but I don’t. Sitting here facing this woman I’ve never met, it strikes me that I’ve been surrounded by men ever since I arrived from Hong Kong. There’s Agent Wendy, of course, but she’s fifteen years my junior, and seems almost like a kid. Thalia is close to my age, and I feel a surprising comfort with her, a kind of relief in the essentially feminine security of her home.
“I am,” I concede.
“What do you do?”
“How do you know I do anything? How do you know I’m not a housewife?”
“Because you don’t act like one. And you don’t look like one, even in that skirt. You should pick a better disguise than heels next time, unless you have plenty of time to practice in them.”
I can’t help but laugh. “My sister was a housewife. Before she disappeared, I mean. I’m a photojournalist.”
“Successful?”
“Yes.”
She smiles. “I’ll bet it feels good, doesn’t it? That validation?”
“It does. You’ll get there too.”
“I wonder sometimes.” Thalia strokes the cat’s back, and with each caress it rises against the pressure of her hand. “I see you want to ask me questions. Go ahead. I’ll tell you if I mind.”
“Some of these questions are the FBI’s. But if I don’t ask you, they will.”
“I’d rather have you ask them.”
“Why did you leave Terrebonne Parish and go to New York?”
“Have you ever been to Terrebonne Parish?”
“Yes.”
Surprise flickers in her eyes. “Really?”
“I worked for the newspaper here once. A long time ago. I spent a few days down there.”
“Then you know why I left.”
“What I remember is people who didn’t have much in the way of material things but loved the place they lived.”
She sighs bitterly. “You weren’t there long enough.”
“Why did you want to study under Roger Wheaton?”
“Are you kidding? It was a one-in-a-million opportunity. I always loved his paintings. I couldn’t believe it when he selected me.”
“You submitted female nudes for your audition paintings?”
“Yes.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “My nudes make me look like a suspect, don’t they?”
“To some people. Why did you switch from nudes to painting people in their homes?”
“I don’t know. Frustration, I guess. My nudes weren’t selling, except to businessmen who wanted something for their offices. Something arty with tits, you know? I wasn’t put on earth to fulfill that function.”
“No.”
“Have you seen any of my work?”
“No. It’s just a feeling I have about you.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Thalia, do you know a man named Marcel de Becque?”
She shakes her head. “Who is he?”
“An art collector. What about Christopher Wingate?”
“No.”
“He’s a big art dealer in New York.”
“Then I definitely don’t know him. I don’t know any big dealers.”
“You’ll never know this one. He was murdered a few days ago.”
This sets her back a little. “Was he part of this? The disappearances? ”
“He’s the man who sold the paintings of the victims. The series is called The Sleeping Women.”
“May I see one? Do you have a photo or something?”
“No. I wish I did.”
“Are they good?”
“Connoisseurs say they are.”
“Do they sell?”
“The last one sold for two million dollars.”
“Yes.”
“The buyer was a man, of course.”
“Yes. A Japanese.”
“Isn’t that typical?”
“What do you mean?”
“A dead naked woman sells for two million dollars. Do you think another type of painting by the same artist would have sold for that? A landscape? An abstract?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course it wouldn’t! Roger’s paintings don’t sell for that.”
“They sell for a lot.”
“A quarter of that. And he’s been working for decades.”
