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He glares at me. “No.”
“Then it was great to see you.”
Logan drives me into the city and lets me out the customary fifteen blocks away. Wind whips in from the side, chilling the back of my neck over my coat. It was hell on the water this morning. Sin is such a fucking busybody. I don’t know what more he wants from me. I surf. I walk fifteen blocks to almost every destination. I force myself to be outside, even though on days like today it feels like having my skull in a vise. A block goes by, and it’s still difficult to breathe.
Iron clouds hang over the city. Fat snowflakes spiral lazily toward the concrete. They’re like pinpricks of light against the washed-out backdrop. Black pavement tire tracks gleam in the center of the street. A woman’s red coat sways from side to side like a bell. Her shadow moves this way and that. The harder I focus, the easier it is to inhale.
I still hate it out here.
The Worth-Kelley building is a modern three-story wedged between a museum and an office building. It’s the opposite of Motif in every possible way, from the gleaming white I to the oversized windows on each floor. I stroll in through the front door. The hardwood here shines, and the air is lightly scented with a hint of something clean and bright. Lemon, maybe. A secretary waits at a desk by the door. She’s a display piece as much as the art. Perfect makeup. Sleek hair. A low-cut top.
One glance at me, and her eyes widen. “Hello, Mr. Leblanc,” she says. “We’re so happy to welcome you to Worth-Kelley. Can I get you anything? A drink? Sparkling water?”
“No.” I take one glove off, then the next. “I’m here for a private showing.” I give the space a cursory glance. She seizes the moment and reaches for something below the lip of the desk. Her hands fly over it. A surreptitious text, no doubt.
“Yes. Of course.” She shows off a row of white, perfect teeth. “There’s no one in the second-floor gallery or the studios upstairs. Peter made sure of it.”
Peter Clay himself ambles down the stairs to the left. He watches where he’s going. When he arrives at the bottom, he runs a hand over his hair.
“Melanie, can you—oh, hi.” His eyebrows go up in perhaps the worst approximation of surprise I’ve ever seen. “The famous collector. Welcome to my humble abode. Mel, I was just going to ask if you could give the mayor’s office a call.”
“About the piece?”
“That’s the one.” My god, I hate him. “Thanks. Mr. Leblanc, all my work is on the second floor. Easier to keep them all in one place. We could talk while you look. I don’t want to make any assumptions, but if it was a commission you’re looking for…”
He leads me up the stairs, talking and talking. The second floor of the gallery is indeed full of Peter Clay pieces. He’s been busy. There are at least twenty in here, but the room has been divided. Carve-outs and alcoves and corners. It’s clearly meant to provide a visual barrier between the works of different artists. Worth-Kelley is betting that he’s as special as they think he is.
“This one.” I point to a random painting. “Tell me about your technique.” Off he goes. Either Peter Clay doesn’t hear the boredom in my voice, or he’s doing a masterful job ignoring it. We reach the next painting. “An interesting decision,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“You’ve all but hidden the shadows. Your model is nearly part of the background.”
“Oh, yes. I thought the interplay of—”
You thought you were making art, but you were wasting good paint and canvas.The next painting. The next. The next. I cut abruptly to the other side of the gallery. Peter jogs to keep up.
“You’re left-handed,” I say.
This cuts off his stream-of-consciousness nonsense. “How did you know that?”
“The brushstrokes.”
It’s bullshit. I know because he told me, the fucking fool. He gives everything away. Peter feels very safe in here. Very secure.
I turn away from this painting and turn a corner.
Peter hurries to stand next to me. “This is one of my favorite pieces. I’m looking for the perfect home, because I can’t let it go for—” He’s weak. Unsuspecting. I slam him face-first into the painting. Not hard enough to crack his nose, unfortunately. “Shit, man. Jesus. What the hell?”
I have him by the back of the neck, his left arm twisted behind his back. Pent-up fury is an ache in my bones. I’d like to remove the light in his eyes, but no—no. The security cameras at the front of the room can’t see this space, but the secretary saw me. Poor girl shouldn’t have to discover a dead body.
Peter wriggles, but he can’t get free. His cheek is shoved hard against an enormous painting of a girl with tears swimming in her eyes. I would guess she’s eighteen. He’s captured the self-conscious tilt of her shoulders. Unlike some of the other pieces, this one shows her full body. Her posture, and the set of her feet, give the sense that she’s in the act of turning away.
“You can have all the paintings,” Peter says. “Let’s just—let me up so we can—”
“You’re never going to speak to Daphne Morelli again,” I say. “You’re never going to look at her. You won’t so much as fucking think about her.”
“What?” His eyes bug out with his shock. “What did she tell you? I never touched her. She wanted it.”
