Dead Sleep

13

I’m sitting in a cramped FBI surveillance van on the campus of Tulane University, home of the Green Wave, a fitting name for teams whose campus has the verdant look of a garden, even in October. The oaks are still in leaf, the palms flourishing, and the lawns shine like freshly mown meadows in the sun. Twenty yards away from the van stands the Woldenberg Art Center, a stately old brick complex that houses the university’s art departments and the Newcomb Art Gallery.

Thirty seconds ago, John Kaiser and Arthur Lenz went through the doors of the gallery to meet Roger Wheaton, the artist-in-residence at the university. Dr. Lenz is wearing a concealed microphone and transmitter, which he tests repeatedly as he walks deeper into the building.

“Arthur has no faith in technology,” says Baxter, who is sitting beside me, wearing a headset mike. “By the way, I checked on that computer program you told John about. Argus. It does exist. The National Reconnaissance Office uses it for satellite photo interpretation. It’s been crunching on digital photos of the unidentifiable Sleeping Women for the past two hours.”

“Has it come up with anything?”

Baxter gives me a “keep your chin up” smile. “They tell me it’s been spitting out faces that look like Picasso drew them. But they’re going to keep running it.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I also got you set up at a hotel. The Doubletree, just down the lakefront from the field office. They think you’re with a corporation, so don’t mention the Bureau.”

“No problem. I appreciate it.”

The interior of the van is uncomfortably warm, even at nine a.m. One reason is the outside temperature, another body heat, and compounding them convection from the electronic equipment lining the walls of the Econoline. There’s a battery-powered fan perched on a cooler filled with dry ice to provide relief, but its rattling blades barely cut the dense atmosphere.

“Before there were female agents,” says Baxter, “we stripped down to our shorts in these things.”

“Don’t hesitate on my account. I’ll strip myself if I have to stay in here much longer.”

Baxter laughs. At his request, I’m wearing a skirt suit and heels, so that I’ll look more feminine to the suspects when I go in. A female field agent was dispatched to Dillard’s department store this morning with a list of my sizes. Getting the store to open early was apparently no trick for SAC Bowles, but trying on the various selections caused me to miss most of this morning’s strategy meeting.

“How much notice of this interview did Wheaton get?”

“An hour. The president of the university handled it. He’s deep into CYA mode. If a university employee turns out to be behind the disappearance or death of a student, the legal exposure would be considerable. He told Wheaton to cooperate with us, even though the idea that he could be involved in any crime was patently absurd. He didn’t mention the sable brushes or the Sleeping Women, only that we had evidence connecting the Tulane art department to a murder.”

“Wheaton had no problem with being questioned?”

“Not so long as we talked to him while he’s working. He’s apparently obsessive about his work schedule.”

“We’re going in,” says Lenz through a crackle of static.

Baxter checks the meters on an ADAT to make sure the psychiatrist’s words are being recorded.

A knocking sound reverberates from the small monitor speaker mounted on the console before us. Then the sound of a door opening.

“What the hell?” says Kaiser.

“It’s the painting,” says Lenz. “Keep going. There, to your right.”

Baxter says, “We want to get you in there pretty quickly, Jordan. Before Wheaton gets too comfortable.”

“Are you Roger Wheaton?” asks Kaiser.

There’s a pause, then a man with a deep, avuncular voice says, “Yes. Are you the gentlemen from the FBI?”

“I’m Special Agent Kaiser. This is Doctor Arthur Lenz. Doctor Lenz is a forensic psychiatrist.”

“How curious. Well, good day to you both. How can I help you?”

“We have some questions for you, Mr. Wheaton. They shouldn’t take too long.”

“Good. I like to get the paint on quickly.”

“This painting is… stupendous,” says Lenz, his voice filled with awe. “It’s your masterpiece.”

“I hope so,” Wheaton replies. “It’s my last.”

“The last Clearing, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a monument to your entire body of work.”

“Thank you.”

“But why stop now?”

There’s another pause, and when Wheaton answers, his voice is heavy with regret. “My health isn’t what it once was. It’s time for a new direction, I think. You have some questions, the president said? It all sounded very mysterious.”

“Mr. Wheaton,” says Kaiser, “over the past year, eleven women have disappeared from the New Orleans area without trace. Are you aware of that?”

“How could I not be? There are safety-awareness meetings twice a week for the female students here. Flyers on every wall.”

“That’s good. We’re here about those disappearances. You see, several of the victims have turned up, in a manner of speaking.”

“I read that the woman taken from the grocery store was found. But the paper said the FBI doesn’t think she was taken by the same man.”

Kaiser’s voice takes on a tone of confidence. “The media has its uses. I’m sure you understand.”

After a pause, Wheaton says, “I see. Well. You said several of the victims have turned up. You’ve discovered more bodies?”

“Not exactly. We’ve discovered a series of paintings that depicts these women.”

“Paintings? Paintings of the missing women?”

“Correct. In these paintings, the women are nude, and posed in positions of sleep. Possibly in death.”

“My God. And you’ve come to ask me about this?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Were the paintings discovered nearby?”

“No. In a museum in Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong? I don’t understand.”

I touch Baxter’s arm. “I thought Dr. Lenz was going to take the lead on the questions.”

“Arthur wanted it this way. He wants John to ask the questions that have to be asked. He’ll jump in when he’s ready. Arthur’s a subtle guy.”

“Mr. Wheaton,” says Kaiser, “in examining these paintings forensically, we’ve recovered some hairs from them. The hairs come from a special type of paintbrush. Kolinsky sable.”

“You’re investigating every artist in America who uses Kolinsky sable brushes?”

“No, that would be too big a job, even for us. But these weren’t ordinary Kolinsky sable. They’re a very fine grade – the finest, actually – produced by one small factory in Manchuria. There’s only one U.S. importer, and he sells a very limited quantity. To select customers.”

“And Tulane University was one of those customers. Now I see. Of course. I placed that order. For obvious reasons, I hope.”

“Could you tell us why, obvious as it may be?”

“They’re the finest brushes in the world. Highly resilient. They’re generally used for watercolor, but they’re adaptable to any medium. I use them for fine work in my oils.”

“Your students use them as well?”

“Had I not ordered them for this program, two of my students wouldn’t be able to afford such tools. That’s one of the benefits of an academic setting.”

“That would be Ms. Laveau and Mr. Gaines?”

Wheaton chuckles. “Yes. Frank could buy a Manchurian sable ranch if he chose to.”

“You’re referring to Mr. Smith?” asks Kaiser.

“Yes. Frank Smith.”

“Is that a Kolinsky brush you’re using now?”

“No, this is hog bristle. Crude-sounding, isn’t it? But a fine brush all the same.”

“Have you always used the rare Kolinsky brushes?”

“No.” This time the pause seems interminable. “Three years ago I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that affects my hands and fingers. I’ve had to alter the mechanics of my brush stroke to remain consistent with my own style. I experimented for a while, and finally discovered the special Kolinskys. They worked so well that I encouraged my students to try them.”

“I see. How many people have access to these brushes?”

“My graduate students, of course.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well… this isn’t a high-security area, as you can see. Anyone could walk in here and take one if they really wanted to. Undergraduates frequently come through to see my work in progress. We’d have to have twenty-four-hour guards to keep them out.”

“Mr. Wheaton,” Kaiser says in an apologetic tone, “I hesitate to ask this, but would you have any trouble providing alibis for a group of dates over the past eighteen months?”

“I’d have to see the dates. Are you saying I’m a suspect in these terrible crimes?”

“Anyone with access to these brushes is by definition a suspect. Do you know where you were three nights ago, after the opening at the museum? Say from eight forty-five to nine-fifteen?”

“I was at home. And I foresee your next question. I was alone, as it happens. Should I contact an attorney?”

“That’s your prerogative, sir. I wouldn’t want to influence you either way.”

“I see.” Wheaton is answering more slowly now, his words preceded by careful thought.

“Would you mind telling us how you selected each of your students?” asks Kaiser.

“I suppose not. Each applicant submitted paintings for review. There were quite a lot to go through. I initially looked at photos sent through the mail. Then I flew down and examined a group of paintings by each of the finalists.”

“Did you use any criteria other than the applicants’ paintings?”

“None.”

“Did you have biographical information on the applicants?”

“I believe I had a brief sheet on each one. A CV of sorts, though with artists that’s not a very formal document. Leon Gaines’s resume made interesting reading.”

“I imagine it did.” Kaiser is trying to sound friendly, but there’s no hiding the fact that this is an interrogation. “What was it about the work of each that impressed you?”

“I don’t think I can give you a short answer to that,” Wheaton replies.

“Could you give us a verbal sketch of each student?”

“I really don’t know that much about them.”

“Frank Smith, say.”

Another long silence, but whether it’s caused by reluctance to comply or by Wheaton searching for words is unknowable from the isolation of the van.

“I’m very fond of Frank,” Wheaton says finally. “He’s a talented boy. He’s never known financial hardship, but I think his childhood was difficult. He had one of those fathers, you know. Great expectations, of the conventional kind. Frank’s talent and dedication are unbounded, and he’s only going to get better. He’s meticulous in technique and fearless in dealing with his subject matter. I don’t know what else to say. I’m not a critic. And I’m certainly no detective.”

“Of course. Have you ever seen Frank Smith get violent?”

“ Violent? He’s passionate about his work. But violent? No. He hasn’t much respect for other artists’ work, I can tell you that. He rubs a lot of people the wrong way. Frank knows just about everything there is to know about art history, and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You can imagine how that affects a man like Leon Gaines.”

“Why don’t you tell us?”

“Leon would probably have killed Frank by now if it wouldn’t put him in Angola penitentiary for life. It would make him a three-time loser, you see. They’d never let him out again.”

“Tell us about Gaines.”

Wheaton sighs loudly enough for it to reach us over the transmitter. “Leon is a very simple man. Or very complicated. I haven’t been able to decide. He’s a tortured soul who’ll never rid himself of his demons. Not even through his art, which is certainly violent enough to exorcize a few demons.”

“Are you aware that Gaines beats his girlfriend?”

“I have no idea what Leon does in his spare time, but nothing would surprise me. And his paintings are full of that kind of thing.”

“Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

“We’re all capable of killing, Agent Kaiser. Surely you know that.”

“You served in Vietnam,” Kaiser says, taking a cue from Wheaton’s reply. “Is that right?”

“You must know I did.”

“You had quite a distinguished record.”

“I did what was asked of me.”

“You did more than that. You won a Bronze Star. Do you mind telling me how you got that?”

“Surely you’ve got hold of the citation somehow.”

Daniel Baxter shakes his head beside me. “Wheaton’s getting comfortable. He’s turning the questions back on John.”

“Citations never quite tell the story, do they?” asks Kaiser.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Wheaton replies.

“Yes. I was a Ranger. H Company, Ninth Cav. You were a Marine?”

“Third Division.”

“They didn’t hand out medals for digging foxholes.”

“No. It was a straightforward enough action. My company was pinned down in a paddy near Quang Tri. Our sergeant had stepped on a mine that took off his leg above the knee. Two men went out after him. Both were shot dead by a sniper in the tree line. The weather was too bad to call in napalm on the sniper, but it was clear enough for him to shoot. Our artillery couldn’t seem to get him either. The sergeant screamed that if anyone else came out after him, he was going to pull the pin on one of his own grenades. I thought he might actually do it, but he was bleeding to death, so I went and got him.”

“Just like that?”

“That’s how it is sometimes, isn’t it? The sniper shot at me but missed.”

“The citation said you killed the sniper as well.”

“I think getting the sergeant back alive gave me delusions of invulnerability. Did you ever get that feeling over there?”

“Only once, thank God. It’s a dangerous feeling.”

“Yes. But I used it. I borrowed a grenade launcher from a corporal and made a dash across the paddy-”

“Which was mined?”

“Yes. But as I zigged across the paddy, the sniper kept shooting and missing. That allowed me to get a fix on his muzzle flash. When I got within range, it was too late for him to move. He was stuck up in his tree. Tied in, actually. I just planted my feet and gave it to him. I was lucky that day. He wasn’t.”

“That’s the way it was, all right. What about the rape incident?”

More dead air as Wheaton adjusts to the shift of conversational gears; Kaiser has gone from comrade-in-arms to adversary in two seconds.

“What about it?” asks Wheaton.

“It must have cost you some friends in your company, to push it as far as you did.”

“I didn’t have any choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was raised to treat women with respect, Agent Kaiser. No matter what language they speak or what color they are.”

I feel like cheering aloud.

“And this wasn’t a woman,” he adds. “She was a child.”

“Was it an attempted rape, or a fait accompli?”

“I walked in on the crime in progress. We were checking a ville for weapons caches, and I heard screams from a hootch near the back.”

“I see. Two perpetrators?”

“That’s right. One was sitting on her chest with his knees on her arms, holding her down. The other was… committing the act.”

“And what did you do?”

“I told them to stop.”

“But one of them was your superior, right? A corporal?”

“That’s right.”

“Did they stop?”

“They laughed.”

“What did you do then?”

“I held up my weapon and threatened to shoot them.”

“Your M-16?”

“I carried a Swedish K-50 at the time.”

“Sounds like you knew your weapons.”

“I didn’t want to die because my M-16 jammed when I needed it. I bought the K off a Lurp on leave in Saigon.”

“What happened next?”

“They cursed me and threatened to kill me, but they stopped.”

“Would you have shot them?”

“I’d have wounded them.”

“You reported the incident right then?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you make any attempt to comfort the girl?”

“No. I didn’t want to turn my back on those two.”

“Sounds like a smart decision.”

“The girl’s mother was in the hootch. They’d knocked her cold, but she was waking up by then. Is this relevant to your investigation?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Wheaton. But we have to ask about everything. I appreciate your being frank with us, though. That says a lot in your favor.”

“Does it?”

The sound of fabric rubbing against the mike tells me Lenz is moving around the room.

“Get ready,” says Baxter beside me.

“Mr. Wheaton,” says Lenz. “I must tell you, I’m floored by this work-in-progress. A return to your original inspiration will turn the art world on its ear.”

At this remove, it’s easy to hear the culture and education in the psychiatrist’s voice as compared to Kaiser’s.

“That’s something I wouldn’t mind doing,” says Wheaton. “I don’t think about critics much, but I don’t like them. They’ve always been kind to me, but they have savaged work by people I admire, and I won’t forgive them that.”

“What did Wilde say about critics?” asks Lenz. ‘“Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming’?”

“Yes!” cries Wheaton, bright pleasure in his voice. “You sound like Frank. He’s a big fan of Wilde.”

“Really? I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly, then.” More shuffling from Lenz’s clothes. “Mr. Wheaton, as a forensic psychiatrist, I’m also a medical doctor. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask about your disease, and how it’s affected your work.”

“That’s something I’d prefer not to talk about.”

Lenz doesn’t immediately reply, but I can imagine the laserlike stare that must be searching Roger Wheaton’s face at this moment. “I understand,” the psychiatrist says finally. “But I’m afraid I must insist. Such diagnoses deeply affect human psychology, as you know too well, I’m sure. Did you know that Paul Klee also suffered from scleroderma?”

“Yes. His work suffered equally.”

“I see you’re wearing gloves. Has the move south relieved your Raynaud’s phenomenon to any degree?”

“Somewhat. But more because the university has done so much to protect me. A prerequisite of joining my lecture class was an agreement to attend it in a hall without air-conditioning. In New Orleans that can be quite a hardship. But no one seems to mind too much.”

“I wouldn’t think so. You’re a very famous man.”

“In some circles. I still have frequent episodes of Raynaud’s, to answer your question.”

“Have you had permanent tissue damage to your hands?”

“Again, I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

“I’ll be as brief as possible. Are you being treated here in New Orleans?”

“I visited the rheumatology department at Tulane once. I was not impressed.”

“Surely there were other university cities you could have gone to, where autoimmune diseases have more of a priority? Did you consider other offers?”

“Wherever I go, the treatments are essentially palliative. You must know that, Doctor. I find that I do better by simply living in denial and doing the best I can.”

“I see. Have you been tested for organ function in the past year?”

“No.”

“Do you have your blood pressure checked regularly, at least?”

“No.”

“You realize that accelerating hypertension is a hallmark of-”

“I’m not a fool, Doctor. I’d rather move on to something else, please. My time is too short to spend it discussing what is killing me.”

A wave of pity rolls through me at Lenz’s relentless questioning. “Why doesn’t he leave the guy alone?”

“He feels he’s onto something,” Baxter says in a taut voice.

“Do you think he is?”

“Diagnosis of a terminal disease is a major stressor. It could initiate homicidal behavior in a predisposed individual.”

“Are you aware that there are some revolutionary new treatments being tried?” Lenz asks. “In Seattle for example, they’re using autologous bone marrow transplant-”

“I’m aware of all this, Doctor…?”

“Lenz.”

“Doctor Lenz, thank you. I fully understand my situation. I wonder if you do. I’m an artist. I have no family. My priority is my work. I shall do the work I am strong enough to do for as long as I can do it. When I die, my work will live after me. That’s more satisfaction than most men will ever know.”

Wheaton’s voice is a knife blade of truth, and it demands respectful silence, the way a prayer does.

“Come on,” Baxter says, anxiously tapping the console before him. “Get her in there.”

But Lenz doesn’t know when to quit. “I’d like to move on to-”

“I apologize, Mr. Wheaton,” Kaiser says sharply. “Our photographer was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. If-”

“Go!” Baxter says, slapping my knee.

I throw open the van’s rear door, and in seconds I’m clacking across the sidewalk toward the Newcomb Art Gallery, fighting to keep my balance in unfamiliar heels, my heart pounding against my sternum.

The smell of oil paint hits me as I go through the door, and grows stronger as I move toward the main gallery, guided by my memory of a floor plan Baxter showed us in the van. The entrance area is ornamented with Tiffany stained glass panels, mounted on both sides of a wide doorway. When I walk through, I find myself facing a curved white wall. Then I see wooden framing. I’m looking at the back of Wheaton’s room-size canvas circle.

To my right is an opening in the curved wall. As I go through, I concentrate on Baxter’s instructions to act detached and professional, but my first sight of the painting stops me in my tracks.

The circle of joined canvas panels is eight feet high and at least thirty-five feet across. The scale alone inspires awe. But it’s the image itself that takes my breath away. I feel as though I’ve walked into J. R. R. Tolkien’s Mirkwood, a shadowy world where roots wind around the feet and gnarled limbs bind the throat, where tangled vines and deadfalls conceal things we wish would remain out of sight. Through this dark world winds a narrow black stream, occasionally rippling white over rocks or fallen branches. The scene shocks me because I expected something abstract, as all Wheaton’s later work has been. This is what Lenz meant by “a return to your original inspiration.” I feel I could reach into the painting, pick up a twig, and snap it in two with a loud crack. Were the smell of paint and linseed oil not so strong, I think I would smell decaying leaves. Only one curved panel is unfinished, and before it stands Wheaton himself, paintbrush and palette in his white-gloved hands.

The size of the artist is my second shock. The head shot I saw last night gave me the impression of a slight man, but that merely proves how deceptive photographs can be. Wheaton is but an inch shorter than Kaiser, who stands six-three. He has wiry arms but large hands with long fingers, and shoulders only slightly bowed by age. His face is so strong that the wire-rimmed bifocals he wears – I can see the lines on the lenses from here – seem merely an ornament rather than functional spectacles. At fifty-eight, he has a full head of silver hair that sweeps back from his forehead, some of it reaching his shoulders, and his skin is remarkably smooth. He gives the impression of a man who has reached a place of extraordinary peace, though from the little I know about his history, that is a misconception.

“Is this your photographer?” he asks, and then he smiles at me.

Wheaton’s smile fades as he turns to Lenz, who like Kaiser has not even heard the artist’s initial question, so intent is he on picking up signals of recognition in Wheaton’s face. I could save them the trouble. This guy has never seen me before in his life.

“Yes, sir,” I say loudly, trying to snap them out of it.

Wheaton turns back to me. “What are you here to photograph?”

“Your work.”

“Well, fire away. As long as your pictures will be held by the FBI, that is. I don’t want any reporters seeing this painting until I’ve completed it.”

“Absolutely,” Kaiser says finally. “They’ll be held in the strictest confidence.”

Kaiser glances at me, and I see instantly that he too shares my judgment of Wheaton. The big Vermonter has no idea who I am. After this initial moment of confusion, I realize how hot it is in the studio. Kaiser has removed his coat, revealing a pointillist abstract of sweat on his shirtfront, but Lenz still has his jacket on, probably to hide a suspicious bulge or trailing wires. With the Mamiya I used at de Becque’s, I take a few flash shots of various panels of the painting, but it’s all a sham. Many of Wheaton’s paintings will be confiscated as soon as this interview ends, which in the true sense it already has. I feel guilty being part of this charade, knowing how the subsequent acts will affect and confuse the artist, who appears willing to do all he can to help us.

As I work, Wheaton drags a ladder to the unfinished panel, laboriously climbs it, then begins painting with small strokes about seven feet up. A few times in my career, I’ve sensed I was in the presence of true greatness. I have that feeling now. I have a powerful desire to shoot Wheaton, to document the artist at work. After a moment’s hesitation, I take a few shots of him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. There’s spare film in my fanny pack, and in less than a minute I’m reloading, so caught up am I in the essential act of my profession. Wheaton has a gift that many great men possess: the ability to carry on with what he’s doing as if no camera were there. Even as I shoot, I know these pictures will be remarkable, and some corner of my brain hopes the FBI won’t insist that the negatives remain their property.

Lenz and Kaiser have moved across the room to confer quietly, and I sense that they’re ready to move on to Leon Gaines. Sure enough, Kaiser catches my eye and nods at me to wrap it up. There’s more film in the van, so I finish out the roll before I walk up to the ladder and offer Wheaton my hand. I don’t usually shake hands, but in this case I feel I should make some gesture of thanks for his generosity. Leaving his brush and palette atop the ladder, Wheaton climbs down and gives my hand a gentle shake. Even through the cotton gloves I can tell his hand is soft as a woman’s. His disease must keep him from any sort of manual work other than painting.

“Thanks for making that easy for me,” I say.

The artist smiles shyly. “It’s very easy to tolerate the attentions of a pretty girl.”

“Thank you.”

He looks up, his eyes narrowed behind the bifocals. “Have you always worked for the FBI?”

“No. I was a photojournalist before.” This is not exactly a lie.

He studies me a bit longer, then smiles again. “Please stop by and tell me about it sometime. Photography interests me. I rarely have visitors anymore, mostly due to self-imposed restrictions, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll try to do that.”

“Mr. Wheaton,” says Kaiser, “I want you to know how much we appreciate your help. The New Orleans police will probably want to talk to you as well. My advice is to cooperate as fully as you can, despite whatever inconvenience they cause. That will end the ordeal sooner than anything else.”

Wheaton sighs as though he has some inkling of what is to come.

Dr. Lenz says, “We must also ask you to refrain from contacting your graduate students about this, or speaking of it in the next few days. I’m sure you understand.”

The artist looks as if he understands all too well.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he says, and then he turns to me. “Good day, my dear.”

Kaiser turns to go, but Lenz hangs back. “There’s one question I forgot to ask. Is the clearing a real place? Somewhere near your childhood home in Vermont, perhaps? Or is it a place in Vietnam?”

Wheaton hesitates, as though deciding whether to answer at all. At length, he says, “I’ve known several places like this in my life. They seemed a sort of nexus to me. A place where the power of nature is focused. The forest or jungle is there but held in abeyance, so that you can see sun and sky. There’s water, but not an overpowering amount of it. And then there’s the earth.”

“You make it sound peaceful,” says Lenz. “But your paintings aren’t peaceful.”

“Some are,” says Wheaton. “Others not. Nature isn’t a kindly force. She has many faces, and none cares a thing for us or our needs.”

“True enough,” Lenz says. “Oh, one thing more, if you don’t mind.”

I want to slap him for his stupid Columbo tactics.

“Leon Gaines paints women exclusively. Sometimes nude, sometimes not. Frank Smith paints nude men. Have you ever known him to paint nude women?”

Wheaton shakes his head. “Frank adores women, but only with their clothes on.”

Kaiser looks ready to drag the psychiatrist out of the room. At last Lenz offers Wheaton his hand, but the artist merely inclines his head in acknowledgment and goes back to his ladder, causing me to smile.

We are nearly to the door when Wheaton calls: “Thalia Laveau paints women. Is that important?”

Kaiser and Lenz are back to him in seconds. “What do you mean?” asks Kaiser. “Women working in their homes? Like that?”

“No. Her documentary paintings actually surprised me. Because the audition paintings she submitted were nude studies.”

“Of women?” Lenz almost whispers.

“Exclusively.”

Lenz looks at Kaiser, who asks, “Do you have any of those paintings?”

“No. But I’m sure she does. Are you going to talk to her?”

Kaiser and Lenz are staring at each other like hunters who have walked into a thicket after a lion and found a unicorn.