“Yes, I know. What about them?”
“Evidently Angelica sometimes hung around in them,” Frank told her, his voice now under control again. “And so I was thinking that you might want to check them out with me.”
“When?”
“Soon. This afternoon, if possible.”
“Well, I have a few things to do this morning,” Karen said, “but I could be free by noon. Would that be all right?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Should I pick you up?”
“No, I’ll pick you up this time. Will you be at headquarters?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, I do,” Karen said. “Unfortunately.” Then she hung up.
Two hours later, Frank glanced up from his desk and saw Karen as she entered the detective bullpen. She was dressed in a summery, light blue dress, and every man in the room turned to look at her.
“Mighty fine,” Gibbons whispered as he passed Frank’s desk.
Frank glared at him. “Go to work, Charlie.”
Gibbons smiled thinly. “You seem a little strung out, Frank. That’s not a good image for a cop.”
Frank turned away from him and watched as Karen came up to the desk.
“I made it a little early,” she said.
“That’s okay.”
“Are you ready, or should I go somewhere and wait for a few minutes?”
“No,” Frank said, “I’m ready.”
It took them only a little while to reach Grant Park, and as Frank pulled the car onto Cherokee, he remembered the night before, the way his hand had inched to the pistol before Caleb could stop him. He had never done anything like that before, and it scared him that he might have killed without justice, out of some impulsive rage, like a blind serpent that strikes toward nothing but the nearest heat.
“It’s odd to be here in the daylight,” Karen said.
Her voice returned him to the present, the grim gray street, the parched edge of the park. He turned left off Boulevard and headed up Cherokee.
“According to the boy, Angelica knew this area pretty well,” he said. “But I’ve already told you that.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been trying to find out how she knew it,” Frank added.
“Have you found out?”
“I’m not sure,” Frank said. “But I do know that she’s been seen in a few galleries around here. And she’s been seen in them more than once.”
“You mean the galleries on Hugo Street?” Karen asked.
Frank nodded.
“Then turn left on this street, then take the second right,” she said. “It’s the only street around here that I know how to get to.” She paused a moment, her eyes lifted upward. The bright summer light had faded slightly as a wave of grayish clouds began to drift over the city. “Maybe we’ll get some relief soon,” she said.
Frank looked at her. “From what?”
“The heat,” Karen said quietly. She turned to him. “You know, it doesn’t surprise me that Angelica was up to something. Her life was too flat. It was too much like mine.” She smiled softly. “But yours has action, doesn’t it?”
“Some.”
“It seems more real,” Karen added. “And I think maybe that’s what Angelica was after, something she could touch, something real.”
“Is that what you’re after, Karen?” Frank asked.
“Perhaps.”
“And you think you’ll find it in New York?”
“I think I will try to find it there,” Karen said. “But this city, at least for me, is full of ghosts.”
Frank took his second right and eased the car slowly up and over a small hill.
“There it is,” Karen said, pointing to a narrow side street. “Gallery Row.” She smiled derisively. “Like everything else in Atlanta, pretentious.”
Frank pulled the car over to the curb. “I thought we’d just walk it together. Go into each gallery, see what we can see.” He smiled. “I don’t have a plan, Karen. I’m just trying to find my way out of a dead end.”
She took his arm, and he felt a tremor run through him. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her away to some place where they could be alone forever, where she could paint and he could think through the whole scattered landscape of the life he had seen through the battered golden screen of his badge.
“We’ll just take them one at a time,” he said.
“All right.”
There were three galleries on the block. The first of them was called New Palette. It was in a large Victorian house which had been painted bright blue with white shutters.
“It’s all mythological themes,” Karen said a few minutes later, after they had walked through each of the gallery’s brightly lighted rooms. “Nothing but paintings of Diana and Aphrodite.” She glanced down at a small plaque beside one of the paintings. “Vincent Toffler,” she said. “He must be interested in—what would you call this—erotic mythology?”
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t sell,” someone said from behind.
Frank turned to see a short man in jeans and sweatshirt. He peered at them through thin wire glasses.
“I don’t suppose you’d want to buy any of this stuff,” the man added. “Maybe for the barn, or some bathroom you don’t use anymore?”
“If you don’t like them, why do you sell them?” Frank asked.
The man shrugged. “I’m just the manager, not the owner,” he said. “Ours is not to reason why. Now, what can I do for you?”
Frank took out his badge.
The man looked surprised. “Police?”
Frank handed him a picture of Angelica. “Have you ever seen this girl?”
“Very pretty,” the man said, “but I’m afraid I’ve never seen her.” He laughed. “And believe me, if something like this came in, I’d notice.”
“She’s dead,” Frank said.
The laugh died away. “Oh, sorry.” He handed the picture back to Frank. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“Are you sure you’ve never seen her?”
“Absolutely. Why?”
“She’s been seen in this area before, in the galleries on this street.”
“Not in this gallery,” the man said. “I don’t mean to be crude, but she does have a certain look a man is liable to notice.”
Frank put Angelica’s picture back in his pocket. “Okay, thanks.” He took Karen by the arm. “Let’s go.”
The next gallery was called the Hidden Agenda, and it was small and considerably more modest than the first.
“I’ve always liked this one,” Karen said as they walked through the front door. “It has a little bit of everything. It’s not as rigid as the one James and I own. But then, we have a rigid clientele.” She seemed to brighten as she glanced from here to there in the front room. “Look, that one’s by Edgar Benton,” she said. She walked over to it. “He’s very good.” She walked to the next painting. “And this one’s by Stirling Fox.”
“You know these people?” Frank asked.
“Slightly,” Karen said. “Stirling has a tendency to be reclusive. One hardly ever gets him to a party.” She shrugged. “It’s part of his persona.”
“And the other one?”
“Edgar’s more social. He’s been over to our house a few times.”
