‘Robert Hunter . . . ? Now that’s a strong, masculine name. I like that. And by God, look at those broad shoulders and those biceps. I bet you work out like a bodybuilder.’
‘Oh,’ Miguel’s attention moved to the package Hunter was carrying, ‘is that the piece you’d like me to have a look at?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Well, follow me into my office.’
Miguel’s office was a clash of eras. Modern art and antique pieces mingled together in a way that shouldn’t have worked, but did. Sculptures of all shapes and sizes were absolutely everywhere. There were masks on the walls, zebra-print rugs on the floors, and a black leather couch with a tiger throw and leopard cushions.
‘Let’s put it over here,’ Miguel said, pointing to a coffee table. He removed the two statues that were standing on it. Hunter placed the package down and took off the black plastic cover.
‘Oh, my!’ Miguel reached inside his suit pocket for his glasses. ‘Wow. This is . . .’ He paused and looked at Hunter questioningly. ‘Did you create this, darling?’
‘No, it wasn’t me.’
‘OK, in that case this is simply grotesque.’ Miguel walked around it, studying the piece from every angle. He paused and cringed. ‘Do these represent human body parts?’
Alice nodded. ‘I guess so.’
‘I’ve never seen anything so sick and horrendous in all my life. But one thing is for sure . . . it’s very creative. I have to give the artist that. This is one of those crazy, “what-the-hell-is-this” pieces that could win the Turner Prize in London. Hell knows what those judges look for.’
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ Hunter asked.
‘Only in nightmares, darling.’ Miguel had crouched down and tilted his head to one side. He was looking at one of the feet at the edge. ‘Who’s the artist?’
‘Not sure we can call him that,’ Alice commented, but immediately regretted it.
Miguel looked up at her.
‘We don’t know,’ Hunter cut in, ‘but I’d really like to find out.’
‘Are you a collector?’
‘I guess you can say that,’ Hunter said, matter-of-factly. ‘I’m just starting, though.’
‘Maybe we should get together one night and talk about art and . . . other things.’ Miguel smiled. ‘I would really like that. I would gladly give you a few tips.’
‘It’s a very intriguing piece,’ Hunter said, moving the subject along. ‘In your experience, Miguel, what do you think the artist is trying to say?’
Miguel returned his attention to the piece. ‘Well, I’m in two minds. I’m inclined to say that, whoever the artist is, this is not his first piece.’
‘Why not?’
‘The way it’s put together, the crazy imagination and creativity of it all strikes me as . . . someone who has a great deal of experience in sculpting. Someone who doesn’t care what others think, who isn’t afraid to show his art, whoever it might offend. But on the other hand, the sculpture was done in cast, which simply screams amateurism. No one does anything in cast anymore. And if he wants to sell this, he might consider adding some color. Maybe some blood red to go with the theme.’ Miguel stood up, took a few steps back and rested his hands on his hips. ‘But he is a daring, defiant artist who isn’t scared of breaking conventions. And I like that. He’s clearly telling us something here.’
‘And what do you think that is?’ Alice asked.
Miguel returned his glasses to his pocket. ‘The way that the artist has simply toyed with the human body, rearranging it in his own way – he’s challenging creation.’ He shrugged. ‘Hell, this is so bold that, in his mind, he might even be challenging the creator himself.’
Alice felt a shiver run down her spine. ‘Miguel, you’re saying that this artist thinks he’s God?’
Miguel nodded. His attention didn’t shift from the strange piece. ‘That’s exactly what that’s telling me, darling. I am God and I can do whatever I want.’
Twenty-One
On his way back to the PAB, Hunter dropped by the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office in West Temple Street. He was lucky; DA Bradley had just come out of a three-hour-long meeting with a team of attorneys.
Bradley’s office was the size of a small apartment. Long, pristine bookshelves lined two of the walls. The other two were covered in diplomas, awards, certificates and framed photographs depicting the DA doing all sorts of important things – shaking hands with politicians and celebrities, posing with lawyers at bar meetings, standing behind podiums during speeches, and so on.
Hunter was shown into the DA’s office by his PA, a very young and attractive brunette dressed in an elegant and tight-fitting black suit. Bradley was sitting behind an imposing mahogany pedestal desk, unwrapping a sandwich that could probably feed three people.
‘Detective,’ Bradley said, motioning Hunter to have a seat at one of the three fine leather armchairs in front of his desk. ‘Do you mind if I eat while we talk? I’ve had no lunch today.’
‘It doesn’t bother me.’ Hunter shook his head, taking the chair on the left.
Bradley took a mammoth bite of his sandwich. Mayonnaise, ketchup and mustard dripped down onto the wrapper.
‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ Bradley spoke while he chewed.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Alice,’ Bradley clarified. ‘The girl I sent over to you. She’s a fine piece of ass, isn’t she? And she’s as bright as diamonds. Hard combination to find these days. But don’t you go getting any ideas. She’s totally out of your league.’
Hunter said nothing, and watched as the DA used a paper napkin to wipe away a blob of mustard at the corner of his mouth.
‘So,’ Bradley continued, ‘what do you have for me, Detective? And please form full sentences.’
‘I’ll try. I’ve got a few questions for you.’
The DA looked at Hunter. That certainly wasn’t the answer he was expecting.
‘We’re piecing a few things together.’
‘OK, ask away, Detective.’ Bradley took another bite of his sandwich and chewed with his mouth open.
‘I was told that you visited Mr. Nicholson in his home a few months ago, after he was diagnosed with his illness.’
‘That’s right. I drove down to his place after I left the office. I wanted to let him know that if he needed anything, he could count on me. He’d been with this office for twenty years. It was the least I could do.’
‘Do you recall exactly when that was?’
Bradley twisted off the cap on a bottle of Dr Pepper and drank half of it down in large gulps. ‘I can easily find out.’ He stared at Hunter skeptically.
‘Could you, please?’
Bradley reached for the intercom on his desk phone. ‘Grace, I dropped by Derek Nicholson’s house a few weeks ago. Do you have an entry in my schedule? Could you check and tell me what day that was?’
‘Sure, DA Bradley.’ There was a short pause, sound-tracked by the clacking of a keyboard. ‘You visited Mr. Nicholson on the seventh of March. That was after hours.’
‘Thanks, Grace.’ He nodded at Hunter.
Hunter wrote it down on his notebook. ‘Around that same time someone else visited Mr. Nicholson in his home. Do you know anything about that? Do you know if it’s someone from your staff, someone he was good
