collector, praising a new painting as a must-have.
‘You’re not scheduled today, hon,’ Joy said.
‘No, ma’am, I’m not. I just wanted to catch up on my work for a couple of hours. You don’t have to pay me.’ His voice stayed steady, his hands didn’t tremble.
‘Are you okay, hon?’
‘I just need to keep busy.’
‘Well, if you’re so eager to be of use, could you call and find out when that new computer’s arriving? You can see the way I’ve been replacing e-mails today.’ She held up the sticky-note pad. ‘And I need a bunch of photos taken of the new Krause sculptures and posted on the Web. Then I need you to update the Web site with a new price list.’
‘No problem.’
‘You make me look bad, Michael,’ Cinco said, hanging up the phone. ‘Don’t you need days off?’
‘I get bored easy.’
Two women who were friends of Joy’s were now at the door, bearing lattes and gossip, and Joy laughed and called to them, and they headed to Joy’s office, upstairs at the back of the gallery. Miles carried a small painting Joy wanted to show them.
He came downstairs; two tourists browsed in the front, and Cinco answered their questions about a sculpture of a leaping ram. Miles refilled his coffee mug and decided to call his WITSEC inspector to ask for a vetting on Sorenson so he could join the treatment program if he wanted. But he stepped into the back office and found Blaine the Pain sitting at his desk, drumming fingers. From the office doorway Miles shot Cinco a desperate frown; which Cinco answered with a grin that said, Sorry-you’re-screwed, I got customers, he’s your problem.
‘Hi, Mr. Blaine.’
‘Don’t hi me, Michael. Are you rotating paintings today?’
‘Tomorrow, sir.’
‘Is Emilia Stands in the Sun ’ – his most recent work, a beautifully shaded portrait of a young Latina among high grasses – ‘getting shoved to a back corner?’ Emilia had worked the walls for four months but remained unsold.
‘No, sir, I don’t think so.’
‘Because if Emilia doesn’t get prime wall space, well’ – and he issued his favorite threat – ‘I’ll bolt to another gallery. I have offers. Constantly.’
‘You bolting would break our hearts, Mr. Blaine. I promise you we’re trying our best to find the right buyer.’
‘I just want it to sell. Emilia needs a good home.’ A tinge of desperation edged his voice.
‘We won’t let her be orphaned.’
‘Good. I have to go to Marfa today.’ Marfa was a town in the West Texas desert, reborn from its background as the shooting site for the film classic Giant and emerging as a junior Santa Fe, a thriving arts colony with lower living costs. ‘I might move there, a friend’s driving me there to check it out for a couple of days. I just wanted to be sure Emilia didn’t get stuck in the back. Would you call me if she sells?’ He scribbled a number on a note and handed it to Miles.
‘Yes, sir.’
Blaine the Pain left. Miles closed the office door and dialed DeShawn Pitts’s pager number. He entered his identification code and hung up. Less than a minute later the phone rang.
‘Joy Garrison Gallery,’ Miles said. ‘Michael Raymond speaking.’
‘It’s Pitts. What’s up?’ The voice sounded young but deep, slightly distracted, and Miles could hear the rustle of paper shuffling on a desk.
‘Not on the phone. Lunch. Can you drive up here?’ DeShawn lived in Albuquerque; he was the WITSEC inspector for federally protected witnesses hidden in northern New Mexico. He was responsible for helping Miles protect his new identity, finding him work and settling him into his new life, keeping him safe.
‘Give me a hint, man.’
‘My shrink wants to bring in another doctor to work with me, and I’m concerned about him.’
‘I’m sure Doctor Vance wouldn’t recommend a quack. What’s his name?’
‘James Sorenson.’
‘Why do you need another doctor?’
‘He’s running a project for PTSD patients.’
‘Did you ever tell Doctor Vance you’re a witness?’
WITSEC had told him he was permitted to tell his psychiatrist of his status as a protected witness – it was considered crucial for successful therapy, given the enormous mental ordeal relocation was for witnesses. But he’d never told Allison he was in witness protection. She knew only that he’d been involved in a shooting and exonerated by the authorities. WITSEC requested he specifically not tell Allison his real name or where he’d originally come from, unless it was critical to his therapy. All those details were in the confession he’d been too afraid to give her today.
‘No. I never told her I’m a witness.’
‘Group therapy’s not a good idea for you, man, since you got to be circumspect. But we can talk about it at lunch. Meet me at Luisa’s. Twelve-thirty.’ And DeShawn hung up.
Joy hurried back in, grabbed a file off Cinco’s desk, a rich smell of espresso rising from her coffee cup. She hurried back onto the sales floor, calling out to her visitors, and the aroma of the coffee made the world swim before his eyes. Cuban coffee. Rich and heady. A screech of laughter from one of Joy’s friends. The smell and the scream cut straight through to his brain. The gallery transformed into an empty warehouse, shafts of light cutting through the gloom, and he stood in the warehouse and the four men drank the heavy coffee. Miles tried to hide his trembling hands. The two undercover FBI agents, Miles, and Andy talking at the table, Andy about to get the best news of his life, and then Miles spoke, just a few words, and then tried to laugh.
The words he spoke? He couldn’t remember the words.
Andy stared at him, standing behind the two undercover agents, who sat at the table pouring themselves refills of coffee. And then it all went wrong as Andy reached for his gun, Miles grabbing for his own gun in reaction, horrified, saying, ‘Andy, don’t.’
He heard the shots, the triple echo. Opened his eyes. Back in the gallery, the bloodied floor of the warehouse gone. He sank to the floor, next to the copier. He leaned against the equipment and his finger twitched, jerked once against a ghost trigger.
Awful silence, darkness, as if the world had swallowed him whole.
‘It’s pointless.’ Andy knelt next to him. ‘This is your life now. Me. You. Never parted. Give up trying to change.’
Miles shook his head.
‘You’ll die trying,’ Andy whispered.
Then he heard laughter. Joy’s warm, honeyed laughter. The gallery, its wonderful quiet, surrounded him. Miles forced himself back into the chair at his desk. He took deep breaths, trying to ward off the pain and the fear.
He couldn’t live this way.
‘So don’t. End it. I’ll help you,’ Andy said.
Miles groped at the weight of the pill bottle in his pocket. Allison’s pills. A very mild sedative to help you if you have a flashback, she’d said.
He fished the vial of pills out of his pocket. Plain plastic bottle, no label. He twisted it open. The pills were white capsules.
Folded among the pills lay a note.
He pulled out the piece of paper. He spread the note flat on the desk with his fingers. Dear Michael: I need your help. I need your services as a private investigator. I’m in real trouble. Come to my office tonight at 7 and I’ll explain. Don’t tell anyone. I’m depending on you, see you at 7 P. M. Allison.
