No Rest for the Dead

1 Jeff Lindsay

The McFall Art Museum was closed for the night. Down in the main galleries the security lights were on, throwing bright, ugly puddles of light on the doors and hallways. It was very different from the careful track lighting of the day, lovingly trained on the paintings and sculptures that lined the rooms to show them at their best, without glare or shadow. The illumination from these nighttime lights was harsh, hard-edged. The garish pools of light they threw made the museum seem darker somehow, more strange and threatening than a building filled with great art should have been.

It was not a big museum, but it had made a name for itself in San Francisco, “the gem of the Bay Area,” people called it, “an undiscovered treasure trove of art from nearly every era.”

Near the marble staircase that led to the second floor, the sharply outlined shadow of a statue fell across the floor, the figure of a nude athlete holding half a javelin. The athlete had been dead for almost twenty-five hundred years, and his javelin had been broken for seventeen hundred, but still he stood poised for his throw. With the glare of the security light on his marble skin, that throw seemed imminent, adding to the strange sense of foreboding.

From the far end of the back gallery an eerie sound fluttered across the spotless tile floors. It echoed off the hard surfaces of the floor and walls until it was almost impossible to recognize it for what it was-the sound of a cheap radio playing a ball game. Moments later, the sound was joined by the scuffle of the night guard’s feet as he walked back to the security station at the front door, where he put the radio down beside a bank of video monitors. The guard settled into his chair, just in time for the louder gabble of a tire commercial.

The sound echoed up to the first landing of the marble staircase but somehow failed to turn the corner and make it to the second floor. At the top of the stairs greater darkness waited to join the sudden silence. The pools of shadow were swept aside by one security light halfway down a hallway lined with office doors. The entire length of the hallway stood prey to the shadows, half dim and half lit by the small and ugly light from that one bare lamp.

All the way down at the far end of the hall, one additional pool of light spilled out into the hallway from the half-open door of the corner office. It was a much warmer light, though not terribly bright. Then, quite suddenly, the light went out. For several moments nothing else happened: no sound, no sign of any living thing moving anywhere near the corner office-but the careful observer might have noticed a strange, dark blue-purple glow coming from inside the room. Without really lighting anything properly, the glow somehow caused the lettering on the office door to jump out in almost three-dimensional clarity:

CHRISTOPHER THOMAS

Curator

From the doorway, there was almost nothing to see in the darkness of the curator’s office. The walls reflected a faint texture that had to be books, hundreds of them, lining the room from the floor all the way up beyond the reach of a normal human being. They seemed to loom above the room, holding in and magnifying the tense emptiness that gripped this museum tonight. And faintly visible in the dim blue-purple glow was one end of a large leather couch.

At the other end of the room was a large draftsman’s table with a lamp suspended above it on a gooseneck, and from this lamp came the glow. It shone down on a canvas stretched out on the table, and it reflected strangely off the thick, square glasses worn by the man who leaned over the canvas. When the young woman beside him opened her mouth to take a ragged breath, it lit up her teeth with a brilliant and otherworldly sheen.

“It’s quite clear under the ultraviolet light,” the man said. Something about the way he said his words made them sound stilted, as if he were reading from a script, but the young woman didn’t notice. She was staring at his hands as they hovered just above the canvas. Like the rest of the man, his hands were long and angular and strong. “Here,” he said, “and again, here.” He moved his hand in a choppy half circle over the lower corner of the canvas.

The young woman ran her tongue out and across her full lower lip. She looked closely at him, the light casting strange shadows into the angles of a face not classically handsome-the slightly hooked nose, the too thin lips-yet something about him was beautiful, beautiful and dangerous.

“Are you listening?” he barked at her, her normally copper-colored skin edging toward purple in the light.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Look,” he commanded. He made a patting motion over the canvas. “It’s very good. The artist used old linen and real Prussian-blue pigment, very expensive, but fugitive, so it’s turned to black, a nice touch.” The hand turned over, and the young woman watched with fascination.

So expressive, she thought, staring at the fingertips as they fluttered.

“But,” he said. Quite suddenly, one of the hands moved away and switched on the conventional light. “Your Soutine is a fake. You’ve spent a great deal of the museum’s money on a fake.”

As that statement hit home, she snapped her eyes away from those hands and onto the man’s face. “Fake,” she said, shaking her head dazedly. “But that’s-I have the provenance. And it was a good one, proving where the painting has been every moment since it left Soutine’s studio in France in 1939.”

The man straightened up-he was quite tall-and he inched closer to her. His movements, like his words, gave the impression of a bad actor, not quite sure how to act the part of human being. “I read your provenance,” he said. “It doesn’t add up.”

“But I talked to the family.”

“You talked to con men.”

“What?” she gasped.

“The whole provenance is fake. Like the painting.”

“Oh, my God.” For a long moment she thought about a promising career, now smoldering in ruins. The years of graduate school, the overwhelming student loans she could barely pay, even with this prestigious job. And now-it was all over. She would be fired, disgraced, permanently unemployed. All she had worked for her entire adult life slipping away into shambles; the embarrassment she would share with her family, who had been so proud of her; the museum’s first African-American curator, a symbol of sorts to her community, something she’d never wanted but had become.

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt at all,” the man said, putting those long hands of his together in front of him.

“Oh, dear God.”

“A bit of a career-killer, isn’t it, Justine?” He used her name as if it were in quotation marks.

“I-there must be something…”

He smiled. His teeth were large but white and strong looking. “Something… we can do?” he said mockingly. “To make it all go away like it never happened?”

The young woman just shook her head.

“Or did you mean something I can do-to save your career, hide your mistake, keep your life from sliding down the drain?”

“Is there?” she blurted out.

He stared at her for what seemed like a long time. Then he straightened and took another half step toward her. “There might be something. But…” He shook his head.

“But what?” Justine asked, barely breathing.

“It’s a huge risk for me. Personally and professionally. I would have to know that I can trust you completely.”

“You can trust me. You’re holding my career in your hands.”

“Of course, but that’s not enough.” He fluttered one of those big hands, as if to say, What’s in it for me? and she could not look away from it for several seconds. When she finally did and their eyes met, there was really only one thing to say.

“I’ll lock the door,” she said.

Later, after Justine was gone, Christopher Thomas sat up on the large leather couch and straightened his clothing. He felt rather pleased with himself, refreshed, and ready to get on with the night’s real work. He stood up and stretched, then moved over to his desk. Justine had provided a pleasant interlude, but a great deal was still left to do tonight.

The desk telephone stood beside a five-by-seven picture frame that held a shot of his wife, Rosemary, and their two children. A pleasant-looking family group, and Thomas felt mild affection for the three of them: nothing that would prevent him from gratifying his frequent urges for other women, of course. He seldom seemed to have any time to spend on his little family, what with his work as curator and his other less public projects. Still, it was nice to have a family in the background. It made him feel so much more… authentic and irreproachable. Especially with Rosemary’s pedigree-a child of wealth and privilege. Marrying her had been one of the smartest moves he had ever made. He gave the picture a brief, synthetic smile, pure reflex, and picked up the telephone, dialed a number from memory, and, after hearing a curt “Yes?” on the other end, spoke.

“I have three paintings you will be interested in.” Again the corners of Thomas’s mouth twitched upward in a mechanical smile. “Including a rather rare Soutine.”

A moment of silence on the other end was followed by a harsh breath-an exhalation of cigarette smoke?-then the voice said, “Describe it to me.”

Thomas did: the wild, almost otherworldly exuberance of the brushwork, the sense of immediacy that jumped off the canvas and into the viewer’s heart-assuming the viewer had a heart, which Thomas did not. But it didn’t prevent him from gauging the effect this painting would have on others.

Another long pause on the other end of the line was punctuated by two harsh breaths. Finally, the man said, in a soft and raspy voice, “All right.”

Thomas smiled again. This time it looked a bit more like a real smile because he was about to get a great deal of money, and Christopher Thomas needed money. In spite of his rich wife and high-profile job, Christopher Thomas needed money badly, and quickly.

“I’m sending three canvases to your restoration company tomorrow afternoon at three thirty,” he said. “They will travel in a white panel truck with the museum’s name and logo on the side. All right?”

After one more long, harsh exhalation, the voice said softly, “Good,” then the line went dead.

Christopher Thomas hung up the phone, feeling pleased with himself. Tomorrow afternoon, the three paintings would disappear from the truck taking them to be cleaned. Naturally, the museum would be upset, but they would also get a large check from the insurance company. And a collector somewhere would get three nice works of art, and Thomas would get a hefty chunk of cash. As an added bonus, the young woman who had recently left his couch would certainly be grateful that he had allowed her to keep her job. A return bout on the reliable leather couch was clearly in his future.

So a self-satisfied Christopher Thomas locked his office and went down the hall to the marble staircase. Things were looking up, and just in time. He mentally counted the money he would get as he headed down the stairs. He hit the landing and circled around, continuing down to the main floor of the museum. The sound of the guard’s radio reached him, a roaring crowd that echoed into a confused blur and muffled the noise of his steps on the marble stairs. For just a moment he allowed himself to pretend that the crowd was cheering for him; he had done it. Payday. Hooray for me, he thought.

Thomas walked past the marble javelin thrower to the security station by the front door. “Good night, Artie,” he said to the guard.

The man looked up, his face lit with an eerie glow from the half dozen video screens that surrounded him. “Hey, Mr. Thomas. You going to call it a night?”

“Yes. We all have to go home sometime.” Thomas had arranged for Artie Ruby to get this job in security at the museum despite Artie’s checkered past. The way Thomas saw it, didn’t hurt having a crooked ex-cop working for you in security-it even came in handy sometimes.

Artie smiled. “Ain’t it the truth. All right, you have a good night, Mr. Thomas.”

Thomas nodded and moved to the front door, waiting for just a second before the guard pushed the security buzzer, then he was out through the glass double doors and into the night.

Thomas walked through the bright orange glare of the security lights on the front of the building and circled around back to the staff parking area. The long walk was annoying, particularly at the end of a hard day, but the insurance company insisted that the back door remain locked. Not that it would do them any good this time, he thought, wondering again just how much the Soutine might bring.

The parking lot was a great deal darker than the front of the building. It was normally lit by two large lights, one at each end, but Thomas saw that one of them, the one nearest his car, was out. He frowned and shook his head. Maintenance was supposed to check the lights regularly-again, as dictated by the insurance company-and someone had neglected the job. He made a mental note to scold the maintenance people in the morning. He certainly didn’t need trouble with the insurance company, not right now when they were about to write the museum a hefty check.

Still shaking his head at this carelessness, he fished out the car keys from his pocket and stepped over to his car, a two-year-old BMW. As he unlocked the car and reached down to open the door, he felt more than saw a shape slip out of the shadows by the building’s Dumpster and come up behind him. Before he could turn around or even straighten up, something cold and hard pressed into the back of his neck and a voice said, “Get in the car.”

Thomas froze. For a moment he could not think, or even breathe,

The cold spot jabbed harder into his neck. “In the car. Now.”

Thomas unfroze, jerked the door open, and got in behind the wheel. The shadow slipped behind him into the backseat and closed the door, quickly and soundlessly, then the cold spot was back on his neck again.

“How are you doing, Chris?” the voice said, the words friendly, but the voice that spoke them was cold and empty.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of a friend. Somebody who asked me to stop by and say hello.”

“I don’t-what friend? What do you want from me?”

“Oh, I think we both know what I want,” the voice said with reptilian amusement. “You’ve been ignoring our mutual friend, and he hates to be ignored. Hates it like hell.” For emphasis, the man jabbed at Thomas’s neck with the gun barrel. It hurt. “Is that how you treat a good friend? Somebody who lends you that much money, from the goodness of his heart?”

Thomas now knew who had sent this man. He had known on some level since the man came at him out of the shadows, but now he was quite sure. He had half expected something like this ever since he had borrowed the money. It had been a truly stupid move, one of the few really dumb things he had ever done, but he had needed the money. And now he was paying for it.

“I can get the money,” Thomas said.

“That’s very good news, Chris. Why don’t you do that.”

“I just-I need time.”

“We all need time, Chris. But we don’t all get it.”

“No, listen,” Thomas said. “I really do-I have a very large piece of money coming to me, very soon.”

“I’m very happy for you. But I need something now.”

“I don’t have it now. But I will-I’ll have all of it, very soon.”

Nothing in the soft laughter that came from the man in the backseat was funny. “You know how often I hear that?”

“It’s true,” Thomas insisted. Reluctantly, he told the man about the canvases that would soon disappear, and the large bag of cash that would take their place.

Silence, a long and uncomfortable silence, came from the backseat. Then: “And this happens when?”

“Tomorrow. I should have the money within the week. All the money.”

Another long silence followed, and Thomas felt a slow drop of sweat crawl down his neck, in spite of the chill in the car.

Finally the man spoke. “I would hate to think you’re yanking my chain, Chris.”

“I swear to you.”

“Because you are really pissing off some very serious people.”

“I swear,” Thomas repeated.

“Give me your hand.”

Thomas blinked at the strange request. “Wh-what?”

“Your hand. Gimme it.”

Slowly, awkwardly, Thomas extended his hand into the backseat. The man took it and held it, and for a moment the small, hard circle of steel at Thomas’s neck disappeared.

“I am going to believe you just this once. And I hope this isn’t stupid of me.”

“No, I really-” Thomas said, but the man took hold of Thomas’s little finger and interrupted him.

“Don’t disappoint me.” The man pulled upward, hard, and the sound of the little finger’s snapping filled the car.

“Aaaggaaahhh,” Thomas cried out. The pain was intense, and he tried to pull away his injured hand, but the man held on.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” the man said, wiggling the broken finger.

“I-I-aagahhh-yes, yes, I understand.”

“You sure?” the man said with an extravigorous tweak of the finger.

“Yes, ah, I’m-ow-positive.”

“One week.” The man dropped the finger, opened the back door of the car, and disappeared into the night.

Christopher Thomas watched him go, cradling his savaged finger. The whole hand throbbed, all the way to the wrist, and for quite a while he could do nothing except hold it to his chest and bite his lip. But the pain did not die down, and finally Thomas fumbled the keys into the ignition, started the car, and drove carefully away.

2 Alexander McCall Smith

Such a generous host.”

Justine said that, and he thought, Naïve. She had been in Europe twice before, as she’d made a point of telling him just before the plane took off. A month in London in her sophomore year at that place near Austin-he could never remember its name-and then four months in Amsterdam at the Rijksmuseum on some sort of internship. That was where she’d learned about painting, or claimed to have learned; he had his doubts about that, but he had never openly expressed them. Not that open expression was necessary-raising an eyebrow was often quite sufficient in the art world.

Christopher Thomas looked at her over the café table. He smiled. “But the rich always are,” he said. “I can’t recall a single occasion, not one, where I’ve been entertained-how should I put it?-parsimoniously by people with money. Can you?”

She did not reply. And the reason, thought Christopher, was that she had never really been there. She met these people through the museum, but meeting was one thing; social acceptance was another. It was different for him. Not only had he married Rosemary, but he had worked his way up through the art world. He had come from nowhere, but that was no disadvantage if you were a chameleon. Take on the local color. Think the local thoughts. It was easy. People in the art world listened to him, deferred to him.

Justine reached for the bottle of Chablis that the café proprietor had placed on the table. She filled his glass, then poured a small amount into her own.

“Well, I guess I’m not used to this,” she said, feeling slightly out of step, slightly apart from this literal ivory tower, nothing new. It was the way she’d felt in graduate school and just about every other institution. “But I must say I like it.”

He took a sip of the wine. “Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

“It sure beats work.”

He shook his hand with the bandaged finger at her in mock admonition. “Listen, this is work. Remember, this is a conference and we’re here on behalf of the museum-not because we want to spend five days in France. Not because we want to stay in the Château Bellepierce. Not because we want to sit in cafés like this and drink Chablis. We can go to Napa for all that.”

She laughed nervously. “Of course. It’s just I forget sometimes.”

“Don’t.”

“Tell me again what happened to your hand?”

“I never told you the first time you asked.”

They lapsed into silence. She looked over his shoulder, blurring him out for a moment, to the small line of pollarded trees on the other side of the square. Under the trees, on a small rectangle of raked white earth, a group of men in flat caps were playing boules. Somebody was winning, she saw, and was being slapped on the back in congratulation; a small triumph, a little thing. Beyond the boules players and the trees, in the church on the corner, a stout woman dressed in black was standing at the open doorway, looking in her direction.

Christopher looked at his watch. “We’d better get back to the château. It’s four o’clock. There’s a lecture at five. I think we should be there.”

Everybody would be there-every one of the eight connoisseurs invited by their host and all twelve experts. They would listen, ask a few questions, then break up until drinks before dinner. It was hardly demanding.

Justine drained her glass. At home she would never have drunk wine at four in the afternoon, but this was France and it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. She felt… almost happy. When Christopher had suggested that she come on this trip, she had at first been reluctant. She had not been away with him before, and she was not sure whether she wanted to. He was her boss, and although they had crossed the line on several occasions, he was married-and she knew Rosemary. She would never have initiated something like this herself; he had done it, he had pushed her into it at a vulnerable moment and she had acceded. What else could she do?

But inviting her to come on this trip seemed to be upping the stakes, flaunting their affair. Well, if he was ready for that, then perhaps she was too. She had nobody else in her life at the moment. Of course he had girlfriends-everybody knew that, including Rosemary, or so people said.

She thought back to their conversation about this trip…

“You’ve heard of Carl Porter?” he’d asked. “The Porter Foundation?”

“Yes,” she’d said. Though she hadn’t, not until she’d googled him.

“Sometimes people forget that there are real people behind these foundations. Carl lives in France and has for years. The money comes from cosmetics-lipstick or something like that. Cheap stuff. Anyway, Carl and his wife got bored with Palm Beach and decided to move to France. He was a big collector. And he knew what he was doing. It’s a great collection now and he likes to share it.”

It started to make sense to her. “Share it? You mean he might give us-the museum-something?”

Christopher shook his head. “No. Carl is tight. He’s looking for ways of taking it with him.”

“So, this invitation?”

He explained it to her. “Carl’s idea of sharing is to invite people to come and tell him what great paintings he has. He has what he calls conferences. They last five days or so, sometimes a whole week. He invites other collectors and a bunch of people he calls experts from the museums and galleries. That’s us.”

“And we sing for our supper?”

Christopher smiled. “Exactly. You won’t have to do anything. It’s just that the invitation is for two people from the museum. Of course, if you’d rather I took someone else…”

“I’ll come.”

Justine came back to the moment, staring at Christopher Thomas, his angular face, the permanent sneer on his lips.

Christopher seemed pleased. For her part, she was under no illusions as to why he had asked her. He would need entertainment. He had actually used that word before when he referred to what was between them. She was entertainment. She could have been angered, but rather to her surprise she found that she was not. In a way she was even flattered that he-the great Christopher Thomas-should find her entertaining. And what else did she have? She had long ago had the insight-which sometimes people did not get until much later on-that this was no dress rehearsal. You had one chance at life and you had to grab what was offered you. She had worked her way up from circumstances few if any in the rarefied world of art even knew about, and she had no intention of going back. She’d kept her job because of him; certain invitations came her way because he felt fit to pass them on; she was in France because Christopher Thomas liked her enough to ask her. If that meant that they shared a room, then that was not too much of a price to pay. She was a willing participant, something she had been telling herself for several weeks.

Christopher drove back to the château in the rented Peugeot. It was not a long drive as the château was barely five miles from the village. It was good land: the wide landscape of Charente stretched under the high Poitou-Charentes sky, here and there a major town, but for the most part a place of small villages surrounded by sunflower and wheat fields, vineyards, stretches of forest. The château had been virtually derelict before Carl acquired it from its last owner, an almost blind French colonel, the last vestige of a distinguished family that had lived there for five centuries. He had left much of the furniture simply because he could not bear to sell it and had wept as he had shown Carl and his wife, Terry, round each room.

Christopher had been there before on several occasions after Carl had moved the collection from the secure warehouse near Philadelphia where it had spent the previous eighteen months. Carl had wanted his advice, not only on the paintings he had but on works he intended to acquire. Christopher was happy to give his opinions and had even persuaded Carl to sell several paintings of doubtful merit or questionable provenance. This advice had been rewarded with a fee-a remarkably generous one in view of Carl’s reputation for meanness-or occasionally with a gift of a small painting. Christopher had a Vuillard pastel-admittedly an undistinguished one-that Carl had given him in gratitude for brokering the acquisition of something that Carl had long been looking for.

Christopher had held on to the Vuillard for a year before discreetly selling it to a dealer in Paris who assured him that it would be sold to a private client and not appear in the auction rooms. He knew that Carl looked at all the catalogs-Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Phillips-and if the Vuillard came onto the open market, he would see it and would not be pleased.

Christopher and Justine had arrived the day before, taking the high-speed train down from Charles de Gaulle and picking up the rental car at Angoulême. Justine had been fascinated by the château and somewhat relieved she had her own room. But that night, after dinner, Christopher had knocked on her door and she had let him in.

“It’s a very old house,” he had whispered. “And I get so lonely.”

The main conference started the next day with a discussion of two of Carl’s latest acquisitions-a Dürer and an early Hopper. The Dürer was introduced by a woman from Berlin, who talked at great length. “Look at the face, the way it leaps out of the background, caught by the light. Everything else is in shadow; only the face is illuminated.”

Christopher nudged Justine. “He was using a camera obscura. You read Hockney on that?”

A man sitting nearby looked disapprovingly in his direction; Christopher acknowledged the look with a nod. Justine suppressed a smile. She remembered a friend saying to her, “Look, Justine, that man is using you. It’s so obvious.” And she knew that her friend was right but said, “But he’s so amusing. He makes it fun. Don’t you understand that?”

The Hopper was more exciting. It was not well-known and had languished in an obscure private collection for thirty years before Carl had the chance to buy it for a mere $4 million. A hotel room at night with a curtain moved by the wind: classic Hopper territory, with its air of something about to happen. Carl gave the talk himself-his main performance of the week-and his audience listened with all the attentiveness of those who were being paid to listen or, if not actually being paid, were the recipients of a week of hospitality from a man who had $4 million to spend on a painting of an empty room in which something indefinable was going to take place.

Christopher’s attention wandered, and he found himself looking at the back of the neck of the German woman who had talked to them about Dürer. German. Precise. A bit superior. Scholarly. She’d be fussy and out of place in San Francisco; too stiff. Yet women like that were a challenge, attainable but not available, which made her all the more interesting. This German woman, who now, for no reason, turned her head slightly and met his glance, crossed her legs this way then that-shapely legs-and smiled at him.

He returned the smile.

“I’m not sitting next to you at dinner,” Justine said to Christopher.

“But we’ll see one another later?”

She touched him lightly on the forearm. “Yes. Why not?”

He could think of several reasons why not. All of them good reasons-none to be revealed, of course. There were his appetites to be satisfied, and for now the lovely Justine would adequately fulfill them.

He glanced at the German woman as they moved through to the dining room, a long room with a chambered, painted ceiling portraying an apotheosis.

He was seated next to the German woman-a coup-and Carl was on her other side; they were clearly in favor.

“Carl,” he said, pointing to the ceiling, “you’ve told me before, but I’ve forgotten. The apotheosis above our heads. Who?”

“Who’s being carried up to heaven? Or who painted it?”

“Who’s being carried up?”

“The great-grandfather of the man I bought it from. The colonel.”

The German woman craned her neck. “And did he deserve it?”

“In his view, yes,” said Carl.

They laughed. Then the German woman turned to Christopher and said, “I was hoping to be able to talk to you.”

He raised an eyebrow. She was more attractive up close, and the accent intrigued him. She sounded more Swedish than German.

It was a request-or the intimation of a request. They were planning an exhibition in Berlin of a Flemish artist whose work was represented in Christopher’s museum. Could he oblige? And they would reciprocate, of course, when the occasion permitted.

The German woman spoke precisely. “I could come and fetch it if you can’t spare anybody.”

“Sure. And I could show you San Francisco.”

“That would be very kind.”

He noticed her skin, which had the sort of tan that some northern-European types get so easily, that soft golden color that he found irresistible. She was a few years younger than him, he thought; and he looked at the left hand, pure reflex-a ring, a garnet, but on the wrong finger, just ornament.

They slipped into an easy, friendly conversation. Carl was engaged to his left, and so they spoke through the first course and into the second. She was flirting with him; the signals were unmistakable. He felt intrigued, slightly flattered too.

“Where are you staying?” he asked. “I mean, here. I’m at the back. I’ve got this great view-the river and a sort of folly at the end of the lawn.”

“I’m on that side too,” she said. “I believe that I’m a few doors down the corridor. Yes, two doors, to be exact.”

He thought that he understood perfectly. He was surprised, but happy, and he found her room easily.

He did not see Justine at breakfast the next morning. There was a lecture at ten, when a man from the National Gallery in London was going to discuss Carl’s collection of old-master drawings. She would be there and he could talk to her-and sort it out. She has no claim on me, he told himself. No claim at all.

But where was Justine? He felt slightly irritated; this was work-they had discussed that-and he did not want her to give offense to Carl by not turning up at his carefully orchestrated events. Then he half turned and saw her, sitting at the far end of the back row, her eyes fixed on the lecturer. She did not catch his eye, although he thought that she must have seen him looking at her.

After the talk was finished, after some questions and some fidgeting among the guests, Carl looked pointedly at his watch. Then it was time for morning coffee, which was served on the terrace.

The light outside was bright, and Christopher slipped on a pair of sunglasses while he sipped his coffee. Justine came out and looked around quickly-again she must have seen him, he thought, but she made a point of going to speak to somebody else. He put his coffee cup down on the stone parapet that ran along the side of the terrace and walked over to intercept her.

“Good morning.”

She looked at him coolly. “Good morning.”

He looked about him; the other guests were busy chatting to one another; he would not be overheard. “You’re ignoring me.”

She feigned surprise. “What made you think that?”

“Don’t be disingenuous. You looked right through me back there.”

She hesitated, as if assessing how quickly, and how far, to ratchet up the tension. “You’re the one who’s doing the ignoring.”

She held his gaze, although she was looking into sunglasses and he into her eyes. He had the advantage.

“How is your German friend?” she asked.

“What?”

“Your German friend. Your new friend. I spoke to her this morning. Just before the talk.”

“You-what?”

“She was surprised,” Justine said. “She was surprised to hear that you were here with me. She thought-”

Christopher turned and walked away.

Justine followed him and grabbed hold of his arm. Her grip was surprisingly firm; he felt her nails, digging into him. He tried to shrug her off, but her grip was tight.

“What do you think you’re doing? Not in front of everybody,” he hissed.

“Nobody’s looking,” she whispered. “Listen, Christopher, have you ever thought of this: One day one of the people you use will do something to hurt you? I mean, really hurt you?”

He kept his voice down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t you?”

“No.”

Justine left him, and he rubbed his arm where she had seized him. He would make her answer for this.

That evening, Carl said to him after dinner: “Chris, come look at something really interesting, upstairs. Just you.”

“Of course, Carl. Now?”

Carl nodded and led the way up to the second floor, to a room that Christopher had never before been in. The small, private salon was hexagonal for the shape of the tower space it occupied. The overall feeling was one of intimacy: a large bookcase, small paintings on the wall, a tapestry above the fireplace.

“Poussin,” said Carl, pointing at a picture of a man sitting in an arcadian landscape. “A lovely little picture. Blunt wrote about it, you know. He drew my attention to it.”

Carl closed the door behind them so that they were away from the eyes of anybody who might be in the corridor outside. “Can’t be too careful. Look at this.” He opened a drawer in a small chest near the window and took out a painting about the size of a large book in a narrow gilt frame.

“Lovely,” said Christopher. He bent over to peer at the painting. There was a woman and two youths, angels; the angels’ faces were unmistakable. It could only be one particular artist. He stood up again. “Very lovely.”

Carl was looking at him. “You know what it…”

Christopher spoke quietly. “I can see what it is.” He paused. “And what do you want me to say? Do you want me to say, ‘Yes, this is it’?”

Carl shrugged. “I don’t want you to say anything about what this is. What I do want you to say is that you’ll take it to San Francisco for me and hand it over to that restorer friend you have out there-you know the one. He’ll do what’s necessary.”

Christopher frowned. “Why get me to take it? Can’t you take it yourself?”

Carl laid the painting down on a table and looked at it fondly. “I can’t do that. I can’t risk its being… intercepted. You know I can’t.” He looked up at Christopher and held his gaze.

Christopher did know. He knew that this painting, from the studio of Sandro Botticelli, and probably from the artist’s hand, could not fall into the hands of customs.

“So,” Carl went on. “You’re perfect. Did anyone ever tell you that your face, Christopher, is the quintessential honest face? Successful museum director on his way back from a meeting in France. Nobody’s going to stop you and say, ‘Do you mind telling us something about that little painting you have concealed in your suitcase, Mr. Thomas?’”

Christopher looked at Carl, who was studying him intently, a bemused expression on his face.

“Sorry to have to say this, Christopher, to an old friend, but those who have been party to my confidences and then… and then have forgotten to keep them, have become unwell. Quite unwell.”

Christopher couldn’t believe Carl was threatening him. He moved back toward the door.

“Well?” asked Carl.

“I have to say yes, don’t I?” said Christopher.

Carl slipped the painting into a velvet sack and handed it to him.

Christopher stashed the painting in his room, then went to the drawing room, where the other guests were seated, enjoying conversation over late-night cups of coffee. He sat down. Neither Justine nor the German woman was there. After a few minutes he excused himself. His encounter with Carl had left him feeling raw.

The following morning he knocked on Justine’s door, and when she opened it, he leaned forward and kissed her.

She turned her cheek and looked away.

“Please. Let’s not be children.” He took her hand. “There’s something I need to ask you to do. Can you be discreet?”

“Of course I can. You know that.”

“We need to get a painting back into the States. Can you take it in your cabin baggage? The painting is not large.”

“Why me?”

He used Carl’s line. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you how innocent your face is-and how lovely?”

“What sort of painting?”

“You’ll know when you see it.” He paused. “So you’ll do it?” Justine thought a moment. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

3 Raymond Khoury

I’m seeing him this evening,” Christopher Thomas said into his cell phone as he stared out the glass wall of his office at the marina below. “I’m going there at six.”

“Call me when you’re done,” the voice on the other end said.

The curator demurred. “It’ll be late for you. I’ll call you in the morning-your morning-and let you know how it went.”

A small smile curled up the edge of his mouth as he listened to the silent acquiescence on the other end of the line. He wasn’t being unreasonable. Carl Porter was in France; Christopher was in San Francisco. There was a nine-hour time difference between them, and Christopher knew full well that 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. conversations with anyone were best avoided, especially when they were about something as sensitive as what they were discussing. But it wasn’t just about being reasonable. It was more than that. It was about keeping the upper hand. Keeping control. And if there was one thing Christopher Thomas was good at, it was staying in control. Even in situations that he’d been forced into, such as this one.

“I’ll expect your call at seven,” Porter grumbled back, clearly unhappy with being dictated to.

“Count on it,” Christopher replied before hanging up, his pulse racing with mixed emotions.

He’d hadn’t liked being forced-even threatened-by Porter into smuggling the Botticelli into the United States. Christopher Thomas wasn’t used to being forced to do anything for anyone. But his anger had gradually been superseded by greedy exhilaration at the potential outcome of it all. He stood to make a lot of money from the sale of the painting, and that was nothing to be angry about, especially now, when he needed it.

His eyes lingered on the view outside his office. It was a prestigious view, one that spoke of status, one that only a man who had attained a certain level of success in his line of work could ever hope to have. It was the view of a man who had arrived.

The McFall Art Museum had a prestigious location too, on the northern waterfront of the city, right on Marina Boulevard, and as its star curator, Christopher had a corner office. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind his desk and took in a gleaming white gin palace that was gliding out of the marina down below, his gaze eschewing the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge that stretched beyond and locking instead on two tanned, bikini-clad playthings cavorting on the yacht’s rear deck. The sight stirred something within him, a hunger that had driven him for as long as he could remember, a hunger for bigger and better things. A hunger that, if anything, his conversation with Carl Porter was about to help nourish if he played his cards right.

He watched the yacht drift away, checked his watch, then turned and sat at his desk, taking in the sumptuous world he’d created for himself in his office. Suddenly, it seemed to pale by comparison, despite the cosseting it offered and the wealth of character it presented. It had never failed to impress those who had been invited into its hallowed ground: exquisite chairs and side tables by Frank Lloyd Wright and Michael Graves spread out around his sleek Ross Lovegrove glass-and-steel desk; a grandiose B &B Italia shelving system, housing his perfectly arranged collection of hardcover art books, many of them signed and inscribed for Christopher by the artists whose works they contained; posters of past exhibitions Christopher had put together over the years showcasing the works of some of the biggest names in contemporary art; and the space for rotating works of art borrowed from the museum’s collection-currently a huge self-portrait of Chuck Close that dazzled in its intricate patterns of color-adding to the splendor of the office. It was a splendid place to work, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

Much more.

He checked his watch again and let out a deep breath. Four hours to go.

He hated to wait, but he didn’t have a choice. He leaned back in his plush Eames desk chair, shut his eyes, and focused on the money that would soon be in his hands.

He arrived early at the restorer’s premises and, as a precaution, parked a block away before walking briskly to the workshop’s entrance, a black leather portfolio held firmly in his hand. The restorer answered the buzzer himself and let him in, the studio’s heavy steel door clanging shut behind him.

“Always a pleasure to see you, my friend,” Nico Bandini said as he shook his hand heartily, “and just in time for a nice little shot of grappa to kick off the evening, yes?”

“Perfetto,” Christopher answered with a smile. “Who am I to break with tradition?”

He followed the gregarious art restorer through the high-ceilinged studio. All around them, a small army of craftsmen in white overcoats sat hunched at their workplaces, toiling away like monks in a medieval scriptorium, peering with supreme concentration through their magnifying lenses, painstakingly cleaning and repairing valuable works of art, seemingly unaffected by the heady smell of paints, oils, and varnishes that smothered the loftlike space.

“Busy?” Christopher said, more an observation than a question.

“I’m doing all right,” Bandini replied. “There is always a demand for fine arts, especially when the economy is this good.”

“That’s true, you can always find a buyer when it comes to the arts.” Christopher noted, consciously positioning himself for what was to come.

“If you can even call some of it art,” Bandini scoffed. “People are willing to pay through the nose for some ridiculous polka dots printed up by one of Damien Hirst’s minions.” He shook his head. “The world’s gone crazy, hasn’t it?”

“In more ways than one. But, hey, I’m not complaining. Nor will you when you see what I have here.”

Bandini smiled, then led Christopher into his office, closing the door behind him.

“Hit that lock too, would you?” Christopher asked.

“Of course.” The restorer clicked the lock into place. “I know this isn’t a social call. So what have you got for me this time?”

Christopher set the portfolio on the restorer’s cluttered desk. “Have a look.”

Bandini unzipped the black leather case and pulled out the small package. It was the size of a coffee-table book, wrapped in a sack of dark brown velvet. He reached in and pulled the framed canvas out and held it in both hands, studying it with pursed lips.

Christopher suppressed a smile as he watched the man’s eyebrows rise and heard him let out an admiring whistle.

“Provenance?”

“Blue-chip,” Christopher replied confidently. “Private seller. I’ve got all the relevant paperwork.”

“Ah,” Bandini observed curiously, “so whoever buys this can actually hang it in his living room.”

Christopher smiled. Most of what he brought to Bandini were works he’d “borrowed” from the museum’s collection. He’d chosen ones that wouldn’t be missed or replaced the ones that might be with forged copies created by Bandini’s own craftsmen. The Botticelli was different. “They can hang it on their front porch for all I care. As long as they pay enough for the pleasure.”

“What do you think that pleasure’s worth?” the restorer asked.

“It’s a great piece, and it’s unquestionably from the master’s own hand, not from some acolyte in his studio-as I’m sure you can see.”

The man frowned. “Don’t sell me, Christopher. I know what it is.”

The curator shrugged. “Three is easily fair, I think. Might get more at auction. But given the circumstances and in the interest of getting it done quickly, I’ll take two-eight for it.”

Christopher studied the restorer’s face, gauging any microreactions that rippled across his features, looking for confirmation that he’d pitched it at the right price but not really expecting to get it. As expected, the restorer didn’t even bat an eyelid. They’d both done this many times before, and like consummate poker players, they both knew how the game was played.

Bandini stayed silent, his face locked in concentration.

“Doable?” Christopher pressed, his mind processing the cut he’d be getting. “Anything above two point five is yours,” Porter had said. At $2.8 million, Christopher stood to clear $300,000. Tax free.

Not bad for an afternoon’s work.

The restorer pondered the question for a moment, his gaze not moving off the painting he was still studying, then his face relaxed. “Possibly. Actually, more than possible. Probable. I think I have the perfect buyer for it.” Bandini grinned at the curator. “A gentleman from the home country.”

“Botticelli would be pleased.”

The restorer set the painting back down onto the portfolio. “I’ll call him tonight.” His expression turned curious. “So you’re in a bit of a rush to get this done. Any reason I should know about?”

“It’s not me. It’s my seller. He’s got time issues.”

“Ah.”

“So… you seem reasonably confident you can get this done, right?”

“I think so,” Bandini said, his tone now noticeably drier.

“So you wouldn’t mind giving me an advance?”

The restorer’s face curdled. “I thought you weren’t in a rush to get paid.”

“I’m not, but…” Christopher hesitated, brushing the man’s question away while feeling droplets of sweat popping out across his forehead. “You know how it is-”

“Are you having money problems, Christopher?” Bandini asked, dead flat, and eyed Christopher’s bandaged finger.

Christopher slid his hand behind his back. “No, I told you, I’m not,” the curator shot back, slightly too strongly, he thought, a second too late. He dredged up a carefree smile. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? I just thought that since we both know you won’t have too much trouble offloading it, a small advance wouldn’t be an issue.”

The restorer studied Christopher quietly for a moment. “I don’t do advances, my friend. You should know better than to ask. And you know why I don’t do advances?”

Christopher felt his temples heat up. “Why?”

“Because people who need advances have money problems. And people with money problems tend to get desperate, and when people get desperate, they get careless. And that worries me. It worries me a lot.” Bandini’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve done a lot of business together over the years, Christopher. Should I start worrying about you?”

“No, no, no,” the curator insisted. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine. Pay me when you sell it, it’s not a problem. All right?” Christopher flashed a radiant, magnetic smile that had played no small role in getting him what he’d wanted throughout his life.

The restorer studied him coldly for a long beat, then his face relaxed as if the strings pulling it taut had snapped. “Of course,” he said, patting Christopher on the shoulder. “It shouldn’t take long. Now, how about that shot of grappa?”

Bandini was deep in thought as he made his way back into his office after seeing Christopher Thomas out.

The painting was good, there was no doubt about it. He knew he’d be able to get more than $3 million for it. He might even orchestrate a mini bidding war for it, he mused. A Botticelli of that quality didn’t come up for sale too often. But something else was worrying him.

The curator. He seemed edgier than normal. Bandini could sense it. And edginess, he knew, was a reliable harbinger of trouble ahead. Trouble that was best avoided-or eliminated.

He called his two favored clients, one after the other, describing the work to them and arranging to drive it around and show it to them in the morning. Then he made another call, this one to a man who was definitely not a client and who wouldn’t know a Botticelli canvas from a Banksy print.

“I need you to keep an eye on someone for me,” he told the man. “My… supplier. You know the one I mean.”

“How close?” the man asked.

“Microscopic,” Bandini replied, before filling him in on what he was worried about.

On the way back to his office, Christopher Thomas was buzzing with nervous energy. He tried to focus on the positives. Bandini hadn’t flinched at the price he was asking. Christopher was pretty certain that the restorer would deliver, and soon. He usually did. But the man had also spooked him with his insistent questioning and his probing stare. Bandini, he knew, was no softie. He may have been supremely talented as a craftsman and as a forger, but he was also as tough as nails and worryingly unforgiving. Christopher had witnessed that firsthand.

The museum’s offices were mostly empty now, with only a few of his staff still around, notably those dealing with the Far East and working around the daunting time difference. He stepped into his sanctum and crossed to the small array of bottles sitting on a gleaming art deco tray, where he poured three fingers of Tyrconnell single malt into a fat crystal tumbler. He raised the glass and watched the light dance across the amber nectar within its chiseled edges, then brought it up to his lips, the spicy bouquet of vanilla and oak tickling his nostrils before the liquid slid down his throat-then he heard her voice. In his office, coming from behind him, by the door.

“Where’d you go? I saw you walk out with a portfolio.”

He turned. Justine was standing there.

Uninvited.

“Most people knock,” he said as he turned away, then took another sip of whiskey. “No, actually, scratch that. Not most people. All people. Everybody.”

He heard the door click shut, then she said, “Most people wouldn’t help you smuggle a small fifteenth-century masterpiece past customs either, would they?”

He turned again, in time to see a small, self-satisfied grin spread across her pretty face.

“Actually, scratch that. No one would. So I guess that buys me some dispensation from the protocol, don’t you think?”

He exhaled slowly, then said, “What do you want, Justine?”

“You’ve been avoiding me. I’m getting worried that our little partnership is going off its tracks.”

His eyes narrowed. “Our ‘partnership’?”

“Hey, I carried the damn thing in,” she said as she stepped closer. “I was the one holding the bag. Literally. You made me risk everything for that damn painting.”

“What risk?” he said, scoffing at the idea. “You saw how easy it was. Just like I said it would be. Besides,” he pressed on, his voice taking on a sharper, angrier note, “I don’t remember forcing you to do anything.”

The flash of doubt in her eyes found an echo in his satisfaction.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“It’s none of your business.”

“None of my business? It couldn’t be more my business if I’d painted the damn thing myself. We’re partners in this, Chris. Remember that. And like it or not, you’re going to give me my fair share.”

“Or what?” he rasped, feeling his pulse quicken as he set his glass down on the table and looked at her with eyes that sizzled with menace.

Justine felt a surge of paralyzing fear. She’d never seen this side of him before and she gasped as he got up from his chair and came at her with lightning speed, crossing the room in four quick strides and taking her by surprise. Grabbing her with both hands, he pushed her backward until they both came to a slamming halt against the inside wall of his office, by the door.

One of his hands tightened against her neck.

“Before you threaten me, darling,” he hissed, “you need to make sure you’ve got what it takes to see it through.”

She froze as his face hovered inches from hers, his breath heating up her cheeks, his teeth bared at her like those of some kind of Gothic beast, his eyes narrowing as they drilled into hers.

Her lips were quivering. “You don’t know what I’m capable of, Christopher,” she whispered, trying to keep a tough edge to her voice but knowing she wasn’t pulling it off.

She felt his fingers tighten even more around her neck, heightening the fear coursing through her. A vein in his temple was throbbing with mad fury, and his gaze was still locked on her as he edged in closer, his lips now brushing against her earlobe, the prickle of his stubble teasing her neck. “Oh, we both know you’re capable of some very surprising things, don’t we?”

4 Jonathan Santlofer

The main gallery of the McFall Art Museum was buzzing. The art world was out in force, curators and collectors, artists and dealers, in high-end designer clothes, tattoos-the latest fad, etched across backs, creeping up the arms of young and not-so-young men and women-no one looking at the art, everyone busy reciting his or her résumé, affecting ennui, eyes flitting like hummingbirds seeking someone, anyone, more important to talk to.

Rosemary Thomas stopped a moment to catch her breath, leaned against the wall to survey the blur of mostly black-clad cool cats and sophisticates, many of whom she had known for years, but whom among them could she trust? Did they know? Were they laughing at her?

Poor Rosemary, that husband of hers, well, you know…

The thought of it, that she was a joke, someone to be pitied, unbearable.

Ironic, she thought, fixing on the dazzling and disjunctive centerpiece of tonight’s reception-a ten-foot-long, 1947 Jackson Pollock “drip” painting, the artist at the height of his manic creative powers-the kind of painting that rarely, if ever, became available, a gift that she helped Christopher acquire for the museum.

Their museum as Christopher liked to call it. What a joke. Christopher, a hotshot senior curator of twentieth-century art while she remained a mere associate in Arms and Armor, a musty room that attracted even mustier old men and unwashed teenage boys.

But wasn’t that the way they’d planned it, Christopher’s career to be the one that mattered?

I couldn’t make it without you, babe.

How many times had he said that? And she’d believed him, content to play the quiet, supportive wife with the right pedigree-Shaker Heights family, coming-out party, Wellesley undergrad, New York’s prestigious Institute of Fine Arts.

The museum owed much of its reputation to her. It was because of her family’s long-standing social connections that she’d easily made contact with old European families and had them donate rare pieces to her museum rather than the bigger, glitzier California institutions. And now, Christopher was building the contemporary collection, the cool stuff that brought in a public who didn’t care much for armor and Gothic goblets, hermetic stuff, old and dry, exactly how Rosemary was feeling these days, like a relic, old and uninteresting, once the backbone of the museum, now ignored, ready to be discarded.

We’ve outgrown each other.

You mean you’ve outgrown me.

I want a divorce.

After all she had put up with-the women, the humiliation-and now he wanted a divorce.

I won’t let you divorce me.

How can you stop me?

Christopher’s face, the sneer on his lips, burning in her mind as another man’s face came into focus.

“Oh-” A quick intake of breath. “Tony.”

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Oh, yes. Yes. Of course.” Can he see it, the shame on my face?

“You look flushed.”

“No, I’m… I’m fine. It’s just these events-you know.”

“Yes, hard work for a curator, but it’s surely fun for me to see the museum acquire such a spectacular piece.”

“Thanks to you.” That’s it, the right thing to say.

“Well, not me entirely.” Tony Olsen shrugged, modest, or trying to be. As a generous donor and chairman of the board for the past four years, he had shaped the museum’s direction, and during that time he and Rosemary had become good friends. “Christopher had a lot to do with it. You must be very proud of him.”

“Yes… of course.” She swallowed hard, felt the blood rush to her head, nausea rising.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Rosemary?” Tony laid a hand on her shoulder.

She tried to smile, Christopher’s face still looming in her mind, his words like acid in her gut.

But the children…

They’ll get over it.

“Let me get you a drink.”

“That’s the last thing I need, Tony. We were so busy I skipped dinner, not a good idea, but I’m fine, really I am.”

He looked into her eyes, “Rosemary, we all know how much you helped with this acquisition-it’s not even your department-and Christopher getting all the credit. It isn’t quite fair.”

“Oh, it’s… I’m better at writing grant proposals and soliciting donations than socializing.”

“You’re a lot more than that. You’re the anchor around here.”

The image struck her as unflattering: a weight that dragged things under.

She touched his arm, felt the plush cashmere under her fingertips. “You should mingle, it’s your duty.”

Tony Olsen gave her cheek a peck and smiled warmly before he moved into the crowd with the kind of ease Rosemary admired but could never muster.

An anchor, that’s what I am, a dead weight.

But she’d been a good wife to Christopher, encouraging, willing to take a backseat, allowing him to shine, to be the star. She’d always known that was what he wanted.

She stared at the crowd; at least half the art lovers had their backs to the Pollock masterpiece.

“My God, you look awful.” Peter Heusen eyed his sister over the rim of his champagne glass. “You’re as white as a ghost. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Was it something that oily billionaire Olsen just said?”

“No, of course not.” Rosemary tracked Tony Olsen, watched him expertly chatting up half a dozen people at once.

“You know he made his first million in munitions.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Your naïveté is a continual source of amazement.” Peter sniffed. “Well, I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like anyone who has more money than you.”

“That makes everyone, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, please, Peter, we have the same trust, so I know exactly what sort of income you have, and it’s plenty. You should be grateful.”

“My dear sister, you play grateful so much better than I.”

“Let’s not get into this, not here.” Rosemary sighed.

“Into… what? You mean the loan I asked you for-the one you refused?”

Rosemary tried to whisper, but it came out a hiss. “We get the same monthly money, Peter. I just don’t spend mine the way you do.”

“That’s obvious.” Peter gave his sister the once-over, top to bottom. “Aren’t you expected to dress for these events?”

“Very funny.” Rosemary smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her plain beige dress.

“Not funny at all.” Peter angled his chin toward the center of the room. “Look at your husband all decked out in his designer tux. Clearly he has no problem spending your money. Why aren’t you on his arm?”

“He’s got a lot of people to juggle.”

“Yes, Christopher’s specialty is juggling, isn’t it? He should have been in the circus.”

“Not now, Peter.”

“My God, Rosemary, you play the martyr even better than grateful, defending that lout while he makes a fool of you.”

“Keep your voice down, Peter.” Rosemary scanned the nearby crowd to see if anyone was listening, but they were all too wrapped up in themselves to notice.

“Why? Everyone knows. He’s not exactly hiding his affairs.”

Rosemary’s legs felt weak, her face on fire, but she said nothing.

“Well, if you’re just going to stand on the sidelines and pout, I’m off.”

“That’s a good idea,” she said, her voice going strident. She took a few steps back. She wanted to turn and run, but she was frozen, her mind like an old record stuck on repeat.

Is there someone else, Christopher?

That’s not the issue.

It is. For me.

It’s not about you.

I’m entitled to know.

It’s my business, not yours.

I won’t let you humiliate me like this. I won’t!

And what will you do?

She saw his face again as he’d said that, the cold sneer twisting his lip, the arrogance.

Rosemary felt cold, then hot, the spotlights blinding, the room suffocating. I have to get out of here.

A manicured hand on hers, nails ticking her flesh.

“You’re Chris’s wife, aren’t you?”

The young woman who said this reminded Rosemary of a ferret, sleek and mean looking, shadowed eyes narrowed, a tight, insincere smile.

“Yes.” Rosemary nodded.

“You don’t know me. Haile Patchett, I used to work at the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles?” She flipped her long red hair to the side.

Rosemary took in the skintight dress, six-inch heels, a dozen silver and gold bracelets at her wrist, the kind of woman she could never compete with; the kind of woman she never met back in Shaker Heights, who seemed to be standard-issue in New York or L.A. or San Francisco; the kind of woman that Christopher always fell for.

Rosemary just stared at her, had to control herself from lashing out. “Oh, but I do know you, and not from anything you do at the museum.” She sucked in a deep breath. “How dare you come here?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Haile held on to her smile.

“I think you should leave.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Haile arched one perfectly penciled brow and peered past Rosemary into the crowd-a crowd that was ripe for the picking, she thought, but not tonight. She was looking for someone specific. She looked Rosemary up and down, barked a laugh, then turned away.

Rosemary’s face burned as she watched Haile Patchett wiggle through the crowd like a snake. Then she caught sight of Christopher, at the center of the throng, expertly juggling six or seven people at once, his pretty associate, Justine Olegard, standing beside him dutifully.

He was sleeping with Justine too, she knew it.

My God, is there any woman here he hasn’t…

Rosemary watched Christopher laughing, brushing the blond hair away from his forehead, still playing the golden boy, and felt an ache in her chest that caused her to gasp. And then that redhead, Haile Patchett, joined the group, her hand on Christopher’s arm.

Rosemary wished she could disappear, become invisible. But isn’t that what she’d always been?

It’s my time, Rosemary, and I don’t need any baggage.

Was that what she was, baggage?

I’ve done plenty for you, Rosemary, but it’s over.

Done for me? What have you done for me?

The room was thrumming, the noise, the lights, the small Jackson Pollock studies-wild splashes of brush and ink-pulsating on the white walls.

Then it all seemed to stop, the clamor reduced to the slightest hum, the crowd disappearing, and it was just the three of them: Christopher and that horrid redhead spotlighted in front of the Pollock-two figures performing against a backdrop of shimmering paint-and Rosemary, watching. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but read their body language, the woman pitched forward, hip thrust out, Christopher whispering in her ear, her hand gripping his arm.

But when the woman reached up to touch Christopher’s hair-here, in the museum, with Rosemary watching, with everyone watching-that was it.

The room was spinning around her like those Jackson Pollock drips. Rosemary knew she was moving, could hear herself mutter, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as she cut through the crowd, the sound of her own breath loud in her ears, heart pounding as Christopher and that woman grew larger and clearer, the individual strands of Christopher’s blond hair and the woman’s black-red nail polish standing out in high relief while everything around them blurred.

Christopher Thomas beamed at the small coterie of fans gathered around him, then looked past them, and there she was: his wife, hovering at the periphery of the crowd like a pathetic waif.

He took in the light brown hair hanging limply to her shoulders, her shapeless beige dress. He’d long ago stopped seeing the pretty woman behind the plain packaging. He tried to locate his feelings for her but could not.

“Hey, juggler.” Peter Heusen slapped his brother-in-law on the back.

“What?”

“Juggler, you know.” Peter mimed the act.

Christopher Thomas regarded him with disdain. Peter, the blowhard. Peter, the freeloader. Peter, who had his uses. Christopher patted his brother-in-law on the back and turned away.

“So, how does the Pollock look to you?” Christopher asked Tony Olsen.

“Shimmering. Brilliant. Expensive.”

“What about s-sloppy?” said Peter Heusen, insinuating himself between the two men, slurring his words.

Christopher sighed loudly. “My brother-in-law fails to notice the internal structure that Pollock is working with, the choreography of the drips, the interweaving skeins of paint almost like a dance.”

Peter made a noise through his nose and Christopher snagged him by the elbow, turned him around fast, and hissed in his ear. “Go away, Peter, now. You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Oh, fuck off, Thomas, I know you,” Peter said, his boozy breath hitting Christopher’s face like a damp sponge.

“Chris-”

Christopher let go of his brother-in-law and turned to the familiar voice.

“I’ve left over a dozen messages for you,” she said.

Haile Patchett.

Christopher could feel the crowd closing around him, collectors and artists, his staff, even the chief curator, his boss, Alex Hultgren, a man devoid of humor, and the chairman of the board, Tony Olsen.

“I can’t speak now,” he whispered to Haile. “I’ll call you.”

“That’s what you keep saying but you never do.”

“Who’s this, Chris?” Justine Olegard took a step in front of Haile Patchett.

“I could ask you the same question,” said Haile, eyeing Justine, lips pursed.

Christopher looked from one to the other. “I can’t do this, Haile, not here,” he whispered close to her ear.

“Oh, you remember my name, what a surprise.” She trilled a fake laugh and Christopher tightened a grip on her arm.

“Oh, relax,” she said, “I’m not going to cause a scene.”

“You already have.” He looked around, saw the chief curator, Tony Olsen, Justine, all watching him.

Christopher painted on a smile, trying to defuse the moment, as Haile Patchett reached up to smooth his hair, an old habit, something she’d seen in a movie no doubt; everything about Haile was theatrical. And he would have stopped her, the act totally inappropriate for the setting, his hand already up reaching for hers when he saw Rosemary cutting through the crowd toward him, her features distorted with anger.

“Enough!”

Rosemary Thomas was surprised to hear her voice, so much louder than she expected. She swatted Haile Patchett’s arm away from her husband.

“What on earth-?” Haile glared at her, mouth open.

“What you’ve done for me?” Rosemary shouted at Christopher. “For me?” She was trembling but it didn’t matter; nothing seemed to matter. “To think what I gave up for you-the years, my life!-and for what?”

“Rosemary, please.” Christopher made tamping-down motions with his large hands, a smile frozen on his lips.

Everyone around them had gone quiet, a ripple effect in motion, the crowd quieting in successive rings until the only people left talking were those on the outer fringe, a throbbing chorus at the museum’s perimeter.

Christopher reached for Rosemary, but she slapped his hand away and pulled back.

“Rosemary-”

“You bastard! I gave you all this. And now-”

“Rosemary, please. You’ve had too much to drink, darling, you’re not yourself.” He managed an arm around her shoulder, but she shook him off.

“I’ve had nothing to drink. I’ve never been more sober.” The sound of her voice, her words, still shocked her, but she couldn’t stop. “You want a divorce, Christopher? We’ll see about that!” Then the room was spinning, the ceiling slanting on an oblique angle, the floor coming to meet it, and she saw Justine’s eyes narrowing and Haile Patchett smiling and Tony Olsen frowning and all the artists and dealers and curators like grotesque caricatures out of a Daumier print staring at her, and then, in a moment, as if someone had thrown a switch, the room came back to life, everyone chattering but looking away, embarrassed, pretending nothing had happened. But it was too late; the reality of what she had done in the middle of the exhibition, in the middle of the museum with everyone watching, rippled through her. Tears in her eyes, cheeks burning, she pushed her way through the crowd and ran out of the room.

5 Sandra Brown

Mom?”

Her day was only five seconds old, and already Rosemary dreaded the remainder of it. She rolled onto her back and pried her eyes open. Her daughter was standing beside the bed, still in her pajamas, a Barbie tucked beneath her arm.

“Are you awake, Mom?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

Chris’s side of the bed was conspicuously empty. Rosemary cleared her throat. “He had to go into work early today.”

It was an obvious lie, even to a child. One Rosemary had used too often.

Leila looked at Rosemary with sulky reproach. “Your eyes are puffy.”

“Are they?” Rosemary could tell by feel that they were. “I slept… hard.” She tried to muster a smile.

“Was it a nice party, Mommy?”

Rosemary avoided answering. “Is your brother up?”

“He’s downstairs. We’re hungry.”

“Ask Elsie to fix your breakfast.”

“We like your pancakes better, Mom.”

Her daughter stood there waiting for her. Rosemary pushed off the covers and got out of bed. The events of last night would catch up with her sooner or later, but in the meantime she must act as though this were an ordinary day.

For the children’s sake.

For her own sanity.

The first indication that this might not be a normal day in the life of Rosemary Heusen Thomas came at eleven o’clock after the pancake breakfast. Her children had eaten. She had pretended to. She’d sorted dry cleaning with her maid, Elsie, asked her to schedule the window washer for one day next week, and, having received a reminder postcard from the dentist, called to make appointments for her and the children.

Normalcy.

Getting on with the routine things of life.

But then just as she was on her way out to the garden to cut roses, Elsie approached her with the cordless house phone. “It’s the museum, asking for Mr. Thomas.”

Rosemary waited until Elsie was out of earshot. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Thomas.” It was Chris’s secretary. “I hate to bother Mr. Thomas at home,” she cooed. “But something’s come up that needs his immediate attention. May I speak with him, please?”

“He’s not here.”

“Oh.”

The single syllable was heavy on inflection, causing it to vibrate with implication. Rosemary’s cheeks flamed with anger and resentment, but the newfound audacity she’d exhibited last night was made shier by caution this morning. She decided she should volunteer nothing, say as little as possible.

With all the composure she could muster, she asked, “Have you tried his cell phone?”

“Numerous times. Mr. Olsen is quite anxious to speak with him. Do you have any idea where I might reach him?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Or when he might be available?”

“No.”

“Will you be coming in today, Mrs. Thomas?”

The busybody was really rubbing it in, wasn’t she? The department of the museum in which Rosemary worked wasn’t any business of hers. She was fishing for information-about Chris-that was all.

“Not today, no. Now if you’ll excuse-”

“You have no idea where I can find your husband?”

Rosemary pretended not to have heard the question and disconnected before anything more could be said.

Rosemary didn’t hear the door open or even his footsteps.

Her brother, the last person she needed or wanted to entertain today, breezed in uninvited. Since their childhood, he’d had a knack for tormenting her when she could least withstand it. He’d shown up just in time for “cocktails, wouldn’t that be nice?” and her lack of enthusiasm for the idea hadn’t deterred him from asking Elsie to roll out the liquor cart.

Having little choice, Rosemary left Elsie in charge of seeing that the children were given their supper and joined Peter, who had made himself right at home and poured himself a drink.

“Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. I couldn’t wait to see what you have planned for an encore. Throwing china at Chris’s head, maybe? Driving his car into the swimming pool? I hope it’s something fabulously dramatic. A drink for you, Rosie? Forgive my candor, but you look like you need a little pick-me-up.”

“No, thank you. I’m surprised you’re not hungover. You were well into your cups last night.”

“But not so drunk that I didn’t appreciate the full impact of your performance. My God, Rosie.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “You made me proud. Standing up to Chris, with past and present lovers hanging on every accusatory word. And the museum mucketymucks, looking on with their mouths agape. It was too, too much. Honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you.” He winked. “Makes me wonder what else you’re capable of.”

“Shut up, Peter,” she snapped.

He grinned at her over the rim of his highball glass as he sipped from it. “Will the cheating bastard be joining us for drinks?”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

Peter laughed. “What did he have to say for himself today, now that his sins have been exposed? Has he repented? Brought you flowers? An expensive piece of jewelry?”

“I haven’t seen him today.”

Peter set his glass on the table and leaned forward. “Really?”

“He… he didn’t come home last night.”

“Hmm. Interesting. I wouldn’t peg him as the tuck-tail type.” Peter looked at her archly. “Of course, who could really blame him for staying away after the public dressing-down you gave him? I suppose he’s playing the injured party.”

“Which would be like him, wouldn’t it?”

Peter reached for his drink again and sipped it while watching her thoughtfully. “It’s unlike you to speak ill of Chris. Even knowing what a fornicating, lying, opportunistic bastard he is, you’ve always defended him. Until now. Why the switch?”

“He asked me for a divorce.” The secret was out. Everyone had heard her; there was no point in hiding it now. “He insisted on a divorce.”

“And you lost it. Or so I gather by last night’s scene.”

“Maybe I will have a drink.” She poured herself a glass of white wine and sipped from it, aware of her brother’s amused gaze. She wondered if he noticed that her hands were trembling.

“Imagine Chris showing up at the museum this morning,” he said around a chuckle. “How did he face the staff? Your friend Tony Olsen looked ready to kill him. He’s probably called an emergency meeting of the board of directors, but I’ll bet he was there to greet Chris-”

“Chris didn’t go to work today. At least he wasn’t there this morning.” She told Peter about the call she’d received.

“Where do you suppose he spent the day?”

“Honestly, I don’t care.”

“Bunking with one of his lovers?”

Rosemary acted as though she hadn’t heard.

“Perhaps making cozy with the beautiful Justine?”

Justine. Rosemary’s blood turned hot when she thought of Chris’s latest conquest. Everyone at the museum knew he had taken Justine on his most recent trip to France. She was the latest in a long line of pretty curators singled out for special attention by him.

Peter continued with his speculation. “Or maybe he’s with that redheaded bitch, the one with the long fingernails who was draping herself over him last night when you made your move?”

“They deserve each other,” Rosemary mumbled. Then, rousing herself, she said, “I don’t know where he is, only that I haven’t seen him since I left the museum last night.”

“As for the state of your marriage…?”

Tears filled her eyes. “My children,” she said hoarsely. “This will be awful for them.”

Peter linked his hands and turned them inside out high above his head, stretching luxuriantly. “Ah, well,” he said on a sigh, “maybe you won’t have to worry about the messiness of a divorce. Maybe Chris’s other sins have also caught up with him.”

She wiped her eyes. “What other sins?”

“Come now, Rosemary. You can’t be that naïve. If he breaks his wedding vows, do you really believe he would be true blue to other covenants?”

“What are you talking about?”

Peter brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off the leg of his trousers. “It’s not for me to say. Maybe you should ask Stan.”

Stan Ballard, their lawyer and estate manager.

“What would he know that I don’t?”

Rosemary could tell by her brother’s sly grin that he was itching to tell. “Remember Chris’s recently broken finger?”

She nodded.

“He didn’t get it by slamming the car door on it as he claimed.” Peter’s gaze wandered to the Golden Gate Bridge, which was shrouded in fog. He smirked. “If Chris doesn’t turn up soon, maybe someone should drag the bay for his body.”

At the San Francisco Police Department, Detective Jon Nunn’s cell phone rang. It was Tony Olsen.

“Mr. Olsen. What-”

“I thought we were past that ‘Mr. Olsen’ business.”

They’d known each other for a few years now, but for some reason Jon Nunn could only think of Tony Olsen as Mr. Olsen. But he humored him now. “All right, Tony. It’s been a while. What’s up?”

“Do you remember the McFall Art Museum?”

“Of course,” Nunn said, remembering all too well the awkward hours he’d spent there like a fish out of water. Olsen had enlisted Nunn and his wife, Sarah, for a charity event at the McFall-the museum’s feeble attempt to give back to the community by establishing summer programs to keep kids likely to commit crimes off the streets. Olsen said the exposure would be great PR for Nunn’s career, and he felt safer having Nunn and a couple of other cops in attendance while inviting a shady element indoors. Sarah jumped at the chance and enjoyed every minute of it.

“Well, you know I’m on the museum’s board. Chairman in fact.” Olsen paused. “Something’s come up that I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Sure, Tony.” Nunn was thinking the theft of a valuable painting, vandalism maybe.

“It concerns Christopher Thomas, one of our curators.”

Nunn remembered the name-how could he forget with the way Thomas had ogled his wife and every other attractive woman at the fund-raiser.

“He hasn’t been seen in a week. It seems he’s gone missing.”

Recognizing the seriousness in the older man’s voice, Nunn stepped into his cubicle to help block out the ambient noise in the Violent Crimes Unit, where detectives who weren’t actively detecting were talking on their phones or bullshitting with each other.

Nunn listened as Tony Olsen described an ugly scene that had taken place between Christopher and Rosemary Thomas at a black-tie museum function a week earlier.

“According to the staff, he didn’t report to work the following day, which was understandable,” Olsen said. “Everyone in the hall had overheard the confrontation. It was believed he was embarrassed and needed some time to sort things out with Rosemary.”

“That’s the wife?”

“Yes. She’s a dear friend of mine. She also works at the museum. A valued employee, a very knowledgeable woman.”

“But they had issues.”

“Well, his affairs have been no secret,” Olsen said scornfully. “He’s not a particularly nice guy, Jon. He and I have had our differences.”

“Then why are you concerned?”

“He’s disappeared. He hasn’t been seen since that night. Rosemary had her say, then ran from the hall. Chris excused himself and followed her out. That’s the last anyone saw of him.”

Nunn thought a moment. “Has she reported him missing?”

“She’s gone to Mexico.”

“What?”

“No, it’s not what you’re thinking. She went on behalf of the museum. There’s an exhibit in Mexico City, Spanish armaments from the conquest. She oversees the Arms and Armor department of the museum, so she went to check it out.”

“Just like that?”

“She’s been in conversation with the museum down there for some time. But, yes, her decision to go seemed rather sudden, though I encouraged it. She was still very upset over what she called ‘making a fool of myself at the Pollock event.’ If you ask me, the SOB had it coming to him, and more, for a long time. I told her a few days away would do her good.”

“Is she aware that no one’s seen her husband since she told him off?”

“She acknowledged that he didn’t come home the night of the incident, but she wasn’t that worried about it. I’m assuming it wasn’t unusual for Chris to spend a night out. Certainly since she had brought his philandering into the open, it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t go home.”

Nunn mulled it over. “So no one’s actually reported him missing?”

“No.”

“I’m in homicide, Tony.”

“I realize that. But I hoped to get your read on it before getting the police officially involved. There’s no love lost between Chris Thomas and me, but I’d hate for Rosemary’s heartache to be made public. More so than it’s already been. Not to mention the museum’s reputation. The board’s concern is safeguarding that.”

“I get it. Donors wouldn’t appreciate a scandal involving museum personnel. But marital problems are marital problems, Tony. Common and not that scandalous.”

After a slight hesitation Tony said, “I suspect that Chris’s extracurricular activities may have extended beyond unfaithfulness to his wife.”

“Care to expand on that?”

There was a pause, then Olsen said, “Not until I have to.”

“Well, can you venture a guess where he might be?”

“After five days, when he still hadn’t come to work, the museum staff came to me. Things were stacking up. Issues needed his attention. Beyond that, they were concerned for his well-being. I called Rosemary at her hotel in Mexico. She still hadn’t had any contact with him. She said if I wanted to find him, I should talk to one of his girlfriends.”

“What exactly is it you’re asking me to do, Tony?”

“To look into it, his disappearance. You’re the only policeman I know personally, and I know I can trust you to be discreet.”

“I understand, but if he doesn’t turn up soon…”

“I know.”

They talked a few more minutes. Nunn promised to be back in touch soon.

He would put out feelers, interview the girlfriends, do some snooping, and it would probably result in his locating Christopher Thomas sunning himself on a private beach with one of his babes, her ass in one hand, a tropical drink in the other.

But a week after Nunn’s initial conversation with Tony Olsen-there’d been numerous conversations since-he was waiting outside customs when Rosemary Thomas reentered the United States.

She looked bedraggled as she pulled her suitcase behind her. Nunn placed himself in her path. “Rosemary Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Jon Nunn.” He presented her his badge. “I’d like to talk to you about the disappearance of your husband, Christopher Thomas.”

6 Faye Kellerman

If anything had taught her patience, it had been the past couple of weeks. Ostensibly, the trip to Mexico was a chance for her to eye a magnificent collection of colonial Spanish armor, but the real reason for the sudden departure was to give Rosemary something that she had sorely been lacking for years.

Perspective.

She gave the intruder a quick once-over with a cool eye. His jacket was a size too small and a couple of years out of fashion. His hair appeared as if it had been styled by a nearsighted barber, and he was in need of a shave. His mouth was thin, his nose too long, but he was attractive and looked intelligent. “Who are you?”

Again, Nunn presented his shield, but she shrugged. “I know a dozen artisans who could forge that for five dollars or less.” She started walking, her suitcase in tow. Act tough, she told herself. “Leave me the hell alone.”

Nunn had to do a two-step to keep pace with her. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

“Not for a second.” She stopped and glared at him. “How dare you come to me with your badge and your insinuations?”

“I don’t remember any insinuation, ma’am.”

Rosemary kept walking but Nunn dogged her heels. She slung a large purse over her shoulder, almost clipping his face.

“Your husband’s missing.”

“Oh?”

“That doesn’t concern you?”

Rosemary swallowed. “My husband’s business is not my business.”

“Really?” Nunn tried to look her in the eye; impossible.

“Two weeks ago, it might have been, but not now. Christopher told me in no uncertain terms that I was a blight on him both professionally and personally, so why should I give a damn about him?” Rosemary took a deep breath, then another. “I don’t know where he is-and I don’t care.” She reached the automatic doors, and when they opened, she stepped outside. The traffic was thick and the noise deafening. She debated jaywalking to get rid of the cop, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. She found the crosswalk and waited for the light to turn green. “Please, just… go away.”

“I hear you two fought. What else?”

Rosemary kept up the false bravado, though her head was starting to pound. “If you’re a detective, you should know.”

“Okay, let me tell you what I do know. Your husband had demanded a divorce, and that night you had a meltdown.”

“And…?”

“And then you fought, publicly.”

“Silly ninny that I was. I made a complete ass out of myself.” She tried to smile. The light changed to green, and suitcase in tow, she started across the four-lane roadway. “And for what? For some pompous, adulterous, priggish twit who has been using me-or more to the point, my money-for umpteen years? God, I detest that man!” she said, though a part of her ached when she said it.

When she got to the other side of the street, she ducked into the parking structure, took a deep breath, and picked up her pace, and Nunn had no choice but to follow.

“And you have no idea where he is?”

“No, nor am I concerned that he is missing. If God is half as benevolent as the preachers claim He is, He’ll make good and sure he stays missing.” Rosemary stopped and turned on Nunn until they were almost nose to nose. She wanted to run, but she stood fast. “Have I made myself clear, Officer?”

“Like it or not, Mrs. Thomas, you’re going to have to deal with the situation.”

“I told you, Christopher Thomas is no longer my business.”

“I’m afraid he is.” Nunn looked into the woman’s eyes, which were pale blue and sad. He didn’t buy her tough-gal act. “How about we go for a cup of coffee and discuss this?”

“Look, mister, I-”

“It’s Detective Jon Nunn. SFPD-homicide.”

She eyed him once again. “Why in the world would I want to talk to you?”

“I’m here because I had my arm twisted by a friend of mine-and yours.”

“Whose name is…?”

“Tony Olsen.” He studied her face as her eyes widened. “And he’s worried about your husband.”

“Well… I’m not.”

“You’re not the least bit concerned that your husband has vanished?”

“Vanished is a rather strong word.”

“It’s an applicable word, Mrs. Thomas. No one has heard from him in two weeks. He’s hasn’t shown up at work. He isn’t answering his calls. His cell phone mailbox is full. E-mails sent to him go unanswered.”

Rosemary bit her lower lip. “I-I don’t know where he is, Detective. I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”

“You were the last person to see him alive.”

“Are you threatening me again?”

“Just stating an obvious fact, Mrs. Thomas. Everyone at the museum, at the Jackson Pollock event, saw you run out of the room. And everyone there also saw your husband run after you. And no one-and I mean no one-has heard from your husband since. And I know that because I’ve interviewed every one of them… except you.” Nunn let that sink in. “Right now, you’ve got a chance to talk to me unofficially. How long that’ll last…” He shrugged.

Rosemary swallowed hard. “How do you know Tony?”

“We go way back. It’s complicated.” He took the handle of her suitcase. “Where’s your car?”

She grabbed her suitcase back from him. “This-this is none of your business.”

“Last chance, Mrs. Thomas. Official or unofficial?”

Rosemary didn’t speak for a moment. Then, finally, she said, “There’s a coffee shop about five minutes away-ten blocks to the north. I’ll meet you there.”

The woman had been described to Nunn as mousy and meek, but from his first impression he’d have to say she was anything but. Still, he felt it was an act, a bruised woman acting tough. And she was good-looking, not exactly a knockout, but her sad blue eyes were beautiful, and she had a dynamite figure he hadn’t missed, and a tan courtesy of her sojourn in Mexico. He liked that she looked him squarely in the face when she talked to him, her eyes trying not to betray her vulnerability.

She was nothing like the suspects he was used to dealing with.

Olsen, what did you get me into?

She arrived five minutes after he did and slid into the red Nauga-hyde bench seat opposite. She hid her face behind a plastic menu.

Nunn studied the list of food items. Typical coffee shop fare. The place was staffed with hairnetted waitresses in white, fluffy skirts and white aprons. He said, “What can I get you?”

“Peace and quiet.”

Nunn laughed.

She put the menu down. “I’m not hungry and the greasy smell is making me ill. Just get your questions over with-please.”

“Hey, you picked the place, not me.”

“I’m noted for picking losers.” Rosemary tried to smile but her eyes filled with tears. After a moment she said, “I’m usually not a bitch. Christopher was the nasty one. Now that he’s gone, I suppose I’ve discovered the wicked side of myself.”

“Now that he’s gone?”

“Gone as in gone from my life, not gone for good.” Rosemary dried her eyes on a paper napkin. “See, this is precisely why I didn’t want to talk to you. I say one thing and you’ve warped it into an accusation.”

“Look, Mrs. Thomas, I don’t know what happened to your husband, but if something did happen, this little interview is only going to be a dress rehearsal. So in reality, I’m doing you a favor.”

Rosemary stiffened again. “Am I supposed to be thankful?”

“You can continue with your snide comments or we can work together to figure out what’s happened to your husband.”

“You see, here is where we differ. I don’t care. Christopher stepped out of my life that awful night and I’m glad.” She straightened her shoulders to emphasize what she’d said.

“So what happened that awful night?”

“You’re the one with the facts. You tell me.”

“You stormed out of the gallery and Christopher followed you. People heard you argue, slinging accusations at one another.”

Rosemary said, “I told him he was pathetic, and he told me I was frigid. But what really infuriated me was his calling me an albatross around his neck. As if I was a liability. It was my money and my devotion to his career that made him what he was.”

“That must have really angered you.”

“I already said that.” She paused. “So now you’re playing shrink?”

Nunn smiled as a waitress came over to take their order. Rosemary surprised him by ordering a hamburger with all the fixings, a double order of french fries, and a Coke. He ordered coffee, black.

“What happened after you argued?”

“I went home, Detective. I don’t know what Christopher did-and I don’t care.”

Nunn gave her a chance to add to her story. When she didn’t speak, he said, “Aren’t you leaving something out?”

“Yes. I forgot to tell you that I absolutely loathe the bastard!”

Nunn dropped his voice. “Mrs. Thomas, I told you. I’ve talked to people. All sorts of people. I know you went home-eventually.” He leaned back in the booth and saw the panic in her eyes. “I spoke to the guards. You two weren’t very discreet. They heard the both of you arguing.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Why don’t you get it off your chest? Tell me about it.”

Rosemary stared at a worn spot on the Formica tabletop. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“You did go back to the museum.”

“I went back to my office to get some peace and quiet. I was…” Her eyes watered again. “I was so ashamed of my behavior.”

Nunn nodded sympathetically. In the back of his mind, he was cursing himself for not bringing her into the station house, for not formally Mirandizing her. But now that she was talking, he didn’t want to interrupt.

“I couldn’t believe how low I had sunk.” She looked up at Nunn. “Why should I care if we divorced? We hadn’t been a real couple in ages. I was angry, I was spiteful, I was sick. After arguing outside the event, I knew that if I didn’t leave, I’d do something I really regretted. So I got in my car and drove away from him. I couldn’t possibly go home-not in my condition-so I turned around.”

“And went back to the museum, to your office?”

She nodded. “But Christopher, being Christopher, couldn’t leave it alone. He had to torture me. He had to make sure that he had the last word.”

“He followed you.”

“He couldn’t leave it alone,” she said, a bit breathless.

“He came to your office?”

“My first mistake was thinking that we could actually have a civil conversation.”

“He was mad.”

“He was irate.” She sighed. “My head had cleared… somewhat. I replayed that horrid scene in my head and decided that, above all, I wasn’t going to stoop to his childish level of hurling barbs and insults. Our marriage was over and the sooner I accepted it, the happier I would be.” She studied Nunn’s face. “One of the reasons I went to Mexico. It was time to be good to myself. To discover the old Rosemary-the one who probably attracted Christopher in the first place.”

“What happened when he followed you into your office?”

“We argued. I threw things. He threw things. It was loud and embarrassing. One of the guards came in to investigate. At that point, I was so flustered, I just picked up my purse and left.”

She locked on his eyes. He now noticed flecks of silver amid the blue, like diamond dust. They were beautiful.

“That was the last time I saw him.” She almost smiled. “And what an image it was-his beet-red, sweaty face… his snarled mouth… his shaking hands. He looked like a… gargoyle.” A sad laugh. “I’ve carried that image with me. Every time I think about the upcoming divorce and I get scared, I just picture that face. It calms me down.” She bit her lower lip. “And he was alive when I left him, Detective. Alive.”

That might have been true, but Nunn had already caught her in a lie. Although the guard had gone in to investigate, he never said anything about her leaving. As a matter of fact, the guard distinctly remembered Rosemary smiling, telling him that they just had a little marital tiff. But Nunn didn’t want to confront her-not yet.

Nunn looked at the woman sitting across from him. “I need a favor from you.” Rosemary looked up but didn’t speak. “I need you to come down to the station house and give a statement. It’ll clear up everything and then I won’t have to bother you again.”

“Why should I do that?”

“But why wouldn’t you want to do that?” Nunn asked. “Clear up this business and your name.”

“I never realized that my name was sullied.”

“It’s just a simple statement.”

“Once you put things in writing, it’s never simple.”

Nunn could see that she wasn’t going to fold that easily. “Hey, you walked out of your office, so technically the guard was the last man to see Christopher alive.”

“Exactly,” Rosemary told him. “So talk to him.”

Her hamburger came. Rosemary picked up a french fry but then let it fall on her plate. “I don’t know why I ordered this.” She pushed her plate aside. Her eyes darkened and she stood up. “I’m leaving.”

Nunn dropped a twenty on the table and followed her outside. “Mrs. Thomas-wait!”

But she didn’t stop. When she got to her car, she couldn’t unlock the door. Her hands were shaking too hard. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She dropped her keys and buried her face in her hands. “Please… just go away.”

Nunn tried to make his voice as soothing as he could. “I can go away, Mrs. Thomas. But what happened… is not going to go away. It’s never going to go away until we find your husband.”

“So go look for him and stop bothering me!”

She was sobbing by this point. Nunn picked up her car keys and placed them in his pocket. “You’re way too upset to drive.”

Her hands slowly peeled from her face. “Please, please leave me alone.”

Nunn placed his hand on her shoulder. “Make it easy on yourself. Let me take you down to the station house so you can get all of this off your chest.”

“I told you everything.”

“I know you did,” Nunn said calmly. “You were very forthright. And that’s good. All I need from you is a written statement of what you told me. That’s it. Simple.”

“Nothing in life is simple,” she said, her face suddenly older.

“Look, once I get a statement from you, I get Tony off my back, I get my superiors off my back, and that’s that.”

“I may be the jilted wife but I’m not a moron, Detective.”

“I can see that. But it doesn’t have to be complicated.” Nunn’s brain was obsessing on a single thought: how to get her voluntarily into the interview room. “Look, forget about the statement, don’t write anything down. You come down to the station house and we’ll talk. That’s all. Just you and me. We’ll talk. What do you say?”

Rosemary dried her tears on her shirtsleeve and took a deep breath.

Nunn waited for a response, but when she said nothing he gently took her elbow and guided her to his waiting car.

Diary of Jon Nunn Andrew F. Gulli

Once she stepped into the interview room, that look in her eyes seemed to tell me how it was going to go.

Rosemary gave her statement. Unlike our talk in the coffee shop, her voice now shook. She second-guessed and contradicted herself even more than she had earlier. But any cop will tell you the innocent are never consistent; it’s the ones who look you in the eye without blinking, say their piece as if they’re reading from a script, they’re the ones you have to watch out for.

I couldn’t help liking her. She was nothing like the suspects I’d dealt with before. At times I wanted to help her along, help clarify things, but it was useless. The wheels were turning in one direction and I had to be an unwilling participant. God-yeah, God should bless those suckers who go against the tide and get crushed-I never did back then and look where I’m at now.

After she finished giving her statement, she got up from the gray institutional chair and smoothed out her skirt. She didn’t belong in that dingy office. I drove her back to the coffee shop so that she could get her car and gave her the line about calling me if anything came up.

She called three days later asking if there were any leads. I used that as an excuse to see her. I told myself I was just doing police work… and I was.

But as I got deeper into the case, in the days and weeks that followed, I realized that I liked being around her even if her story didn’t add up.

I’ll never forget that day-bright and sunny-the kind of day when even as a cop you felt nothing bad could happen.

Sarah and I woke up at the same time. “Something bothering you?” she asked. After ten years of marriage, she could tell by how I stirred when I was sleeping if I was struggling with something.

“No, just this museum case.” I stretched out my arms. “No body or blood yet, but when he does turn up… he won’t look pretty.”

Sarah was surprised. I hardly ever talked about my cases and rarely expressed my opinions. I’d always prided myself on keeping my cool-cop distance. But something about the Thomas case had gotten to me. Sarah could see it had become personal even though I denied it.

“You sure you’re not going to find this guy on the Riviera with a case of convenient amnesia?” she asked, getting out of bed.

“I don’t think he’s coming back alive.”

“His wife must have done it.” Sarah was never the judgmental type, so I was surprised. I watched her as she walked over to the window and pulled open the curtains.

“What makes you think that?” I sat up in bed.

She turned around to face me “The plain wife, married to the dashing, philandering husband who married her for her money and status, decides she’s had enough one day and kills him.”

“How do you know all that about him?”

She smiled. “You’ve only told me all that a million times.” She walked back to the bed, got in, and snuggled up next to me. “This is your chance to shine, Jon. Our dreams may come true if a high-profile case you’re working on goes to court. You can retire, write a book-the whole world will be yours.”

I wished she had said something else.

On my way back home from work that day, I stopped at Rosemary’s house. I wanted to see her, though I couldn’t tell you why, or what I was planning to say. Part of me wanted her to crumble completely, admit everything, and that would be it. But I knew that if and when she did, I’d feel dirtied up by the whole thing. Even if she did kill him, I’d hate the part I’d played in bringing about her demise.

The maid showed me in, and as I was walking into that palatial living room of hers, I heard a man’s voice: “It was only a matter of time before the big boys got him…”

It was some guy with long hair, a scraggly beard, and dark, intense eyes. He was sitting on the sofa, scotch in hand, very much at home. Rosemary turned, studying my face, looking for a sign that might betray why I was there. I didn’t have much to say, so she smiled and said, “I’d like you to meet Hank Zacharius.”

I had heard of Zacharius, the investigative reporter. He’d been a thorn in the side of the SFPD ever since he’d uncovered some kind of corruption involving higher-ups at the department.

“Jon Nunn,” I said. He stared at me as if trying to assess what I was all about, then gave me a loose handshake, kissed Rosemary’s cheek, and left.

I looked around the place-living room big enough to fit my apartment four times, the marble this and marble that, the cut-glass chandeliers, expensive art on the walls, the swimming pool I glimpsed through the French doors-the kind of place that would make Sarah happy. Although the woman to whom all this belonged was anything but. She sat back down on the couch after Zacharius left and was looking up at me, almost questioningly. Her face had grown thinner since our first meeting, and her eyes seemed to have grown larger, prettier.

“Who are the big boys, Rosemary?”

“Oh, you know Hank Zacharius, he’s into that stuff… he has his theories.” She paused. “So why are you here? Is there any news?”

“No, nothing.” I suddenly felt awkward at being there. “I guess I just wanted to check up on you…”

Her face reddened. “I’ve told you all I know, Detective.”

I walked over to the window and looked down at the tree-lined valley. I thought of Christopher Thomas standing where I now stood. Nothing was enough for him, the money, the wife, the power-some people’s appetites could never be satisfied. What a bastard. I wouldn’t blame her if she did kill him. Something in me stirred, the big boys… Zacharius and his clichés…

I walked back to the sofa and sat down across from her. “Rosemary, you need to level with me.”

“I have leveled with you.” She looked steadily into my eyes.

“You have to tell me whatever you know about your husband’s shady dealings.”

She wouldn’t budge. “You really need to leave right now; my lawyer told me that I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“Look, it’s probably only going to get worse after this. You’re the main suspect in his disappearance. The chance of him turning up alive is zero. You have to give me some information that’ll point the police in another direction-take the spotlight away from you. This is no time to be worrying about protecting the family name.”

She sighed. “I guess there were rumors about forgeries, about drugs. He knew about the rumors. He thought they were funny. I never took any of them seriously.”

The sky had started to darken. “What was Zacharius-?”

Rosemary looked up behind me. I turned. The maid had come in; behind her were two guys I recognized from the department-Grygera and Swanson.

“What is it?” I asked. For some reason, I had thought they’d come to talk to me, but, no, it was Rosemary they were looking at. I turned to her. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes.

Grygera said, “Rosemary Thomas, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

7 Jonathan Santlofer

Joseph Arthur Kroege hated the summer. Not just the heat, but the attitude it seemed to foster, the total lack of professionalism among his museum employees. As if the warm weather were not only an excuse to play, but justification to drop all responsibility. Each year he knew half his staff would be vacationing at one European shoreline or another, although he didn’t know which and didn’t care.

The German Historical Museum of Berlin was his only concern since taking over as director nearly two decades earlier. An academic by training-and some said by nature-Kroege believed in hard work and routine.

Today, as every other day, he’d left his flat in Mitte on upper Friedrichstrasse at exactly 8:12, had taken the U-Bahn to Museumsinsel, and had arrived at the museum at nine sharp. He’d spent only six minutes, rather than his usual ten, reviewing his daily calendar when he realized the crate from America was still languishing in a basement workroom and had been for a week. That was it. Enough. Infuriating. That one of his prized objects-and one of the most popular with the museum’s visitors-should be sitting in a dank workroom galled him.

Kroege reached for his phone, then realized the museum installers were, like just about everyone else, on vacation.

The hallway leading to the basement storeroom was hot, the consequence of turning off the museum’s air-conditioning at night, an energy-saving effort that Kroege disapproved of despite the board vote, and particularly irritating at the moment with his starched white shirt already sticking to his thick upper body.

He was sorry he’d loaned the iron maiden to the American museum in the first place and would not have if the curator hadn’t persisted in a letter-writing campaign that culminated in her calling and pleading, insisting it would be the centerpiece of an exhibition devoted to savage-torture devices, and, in her polite-though-forthright manner, convincing him. Unlike most of the American curators Kroege dealt with, who acted as if they were entitled to anything and everything, Rosemary Thomas had been a velvet steamroller, as genteel as she was persuasive. And good to her word, her exhibition at the McFall Art Museum had garnered serious press, which had credited his museum with the loan, and so perhaps it had not been a bad idea, though right now he was anxious to get it back on display.

The workroom felt like a tomb, no sign or sense of a human presence among the multisized crates and art objects awaiting repair, tools strewn along a worktable, sawdust on the floor, more suspended in the hot, sticky air.

Kroege snorted with disgust. How dare his employees leave the room in such condition? He shook his head as he made his way toward the largest crate, taller than he by several feet and twice as wide.

Kroege circled the crate as if inspecting some object from outer space and stopped dead when he noticed a foot-long crack in the plywood. Had the maiden been damaged in shipping?

He plucked an electric drill from the worktable and quickly removed a dozen Sheetrock screws until one side of the panel fell open-and with that came the faint odor of rotten eggs or fruit.

Kroege, features screwed up, imagined some idiotic American workman accidentally packing his lunch along with the precious maiden.

He stared at the one exposed side. It looked fine. But he had to see if it had been damaged elsewhere.

More screws undone, more plywood tugged away, until the maiden stood in all her glory, a black iron monolith, forbidding and impressive.

Kroege pictured its insides, the iron prongs that closed on its living victims, a torture device from which the only escape was death.

He ran his hand over the hard, pebbly surface, ignoring the smell, which was stronger now, more like rotting meat than fruit or eggs, but the device itself looked fine, unscathed.

Just then he looked down and saw the liquid seeping out from the bottom.

“Was zum Teufel…?”

Kroege bent over to swipe a finger through the puddle, but never reached it, the stench so strong, so repulsive, that he immediately straightened up, fighting the urge to gag.

He stared at the iron maiden, then slowly, and with much effort, began to pry her open.

He didn’t get far.

The object inside, as big as Kroege, wrapped in heavy, opaque plastic and bound with tape and rope, tumbled out and hit the floor with a thud. Then, as its contents settled, the top of the plastic split open and a milky ooze, studded with lumps and streaked with lemony yellow and deep crimson, pooled around his shoes, while the stench filled his nose and caught in the back of his throat like burning acid and rot. When, as if hypnotized, he dared a closer look, he recognized a human skull and the black hole of a mouth that appeared to be moving.

Hand over his nose, Kroege looked closer, realizing too late that the movement was caused by a swarm of maggots.

Then he was spinning, flailing, shoes skidding in the primordial ooze, and slipped and fell, his face inches from the hideous skull, one murky, jellied eye socket staring at him as he frantically scampered away and somehow managed to right himself, the contents of his belly having finally worked their way up into his throat, vomit spewing forth as he raced from the workroom.

The Police Reports Kathy Reichs

EVIDENCE

TRANSFER RECORD

Institute of Legal Medicine

REPORT OF AUTOPSY EXAMINATION

DECEDENT

Document Identifier: C1998073042

Autopsy Type: ME Autopsy

Name: Unknown (Presumed, Thomas, Christopher, DOB 19 09 52)

Age: 35 to 50 years

Race: White

Sex: M

Stature: 183 centimeters +/-

AUTHORIZATION

Authorized by: Dr. Dagmar Zepper

Received From: Berlin City Police, District 3

ENVIRONMENT

Date of Exam 20/7/1998 Time of Exam 0915 hours

Autopsy Facility Institute of Legal Medicine, Berlin

Persons Present. Adolph Munger, Mette Brinkman

CERTIFICATION

Cause of Death

Undetermined

Manner of Death

Homicide

The facts stated herein are correct to the best of my knowledge and belief.

Signed by

Bruno Muntz, MD 20/7/1998, 1429 hours

DIAGNOSES

Decomposed human adult

IDENTIFICATION

Body Identified By

Personal effects; partial print, left fifth finger

EXTERNAL DESCRIPTION

Body Condition Decomposed/skeletal

Hair Degraded, original color is undeterminable

Teeth Missing, save one fragment

Clothing was adult male-type trousers, jacket, shirt, and undergarments. A gold belt buckle bore the initials CT, surrounded by a circular diamond pattern. When removed from the apparatus, the remains weighed 60 kilograms. Organs were liquefied. Brain and soft tissue were putrefied. Some bones remained connected by ligamentous tissue. One digit was deeply embedded in the left femoroacetabular junction, preserving the tissue of the distal aspect. Insect specimens were collected and submitted for analysis. See separate entomology report.

INJURIES

Though sloughing, the skin of the torso and limbs showed multiple sharp-instrument perforations. Though putrefied, the muscles of the torso and limbs showed multiple sharp-instrument perforations. Fifty-three fractures and perforations were seen on the skull and postcranial skeleton. No associated hemorrhage was evident. All sharp- and blunt-instrument trauma was consistent with postmortem injury due to spikes projecting inward within the iron maiden apparatus.

DISPOSITION OF CLOTHING AND PERSONAL EFFECTS

Clothing discarded. Belt buckle returned to family along with remains.

PROCEDURES

Radiographs

Selected postmortem odontological and long-bone radiographs were obtained to aid in determining identity and cause of death. See separate radiology and odontology reports.

IDENTIFICATION

See separate fingerprint report.

INTERNAL EXAMINATION

Body Cavities

Organs liquefied. No samples retained.

Skeletal examination

Survey

The bones consisted of a complete adult skeleton. Fractures and perforations were noted at fifty-three locations. (See attached skeletal diagram.) Femoral measurements were taken to establish height. Following skeletal survey and measurement, radiographs were made of the maxilla and mandible, the torso, and the long bones of the lower and upper extremities. Blunt- and sharp-instrument trauma was evident at fifty-three sites. No associated hemorrhage was observed at any trauma site. Following the examination of radiographs by the radiologist and the odontologist, the bones were packaged for transport to the United States.

SUMMARY AND INTERPRETATION

At the time of discovery decedent’s identity was unknown. The body had been wrapped in thick plastic and taped.

Officials at the San Francisco Police Department provided information of a missing person, Thomas, Christopher, last seen alive 20/06/1998. Dr. Dagmar Zepper, Berlin, medical examiner, assumed jurisdiction of the body and authorized autopsy. Review of Christopher Thomas’s medical records showed that he was a white male, stature 180 centimeters, forty-five years old at the time of his disappearance.

Autopsy examination showed a skeletonized human adult with liquefied organs and putrefied brain and musculature. Long-bone measurements were consistent with a white male of stature of approximately 180 centimeters. Findings were consistent with enclosure of the body within the iron maiden apparatus following death.

Fingerprint analysis positively identified the decedent as Christopher Thomas. See fingerprint report.

Entomological analysis suggested a PMI greater than 18 days, a time period consistent with an LSA for Christopher Thomas of 20/06/1998 with discovery of the body on 18/07/1998. See entomology report.

In my opinion, the cause of death in this case is most appropriately certified as “undetermined.” Examination of the skeletal remains does not allow differentiation of death from a natural disease process such as pneumonia, or from a nontraumatic external means, such as asphyxia.

The circumstances of body treatment require manner of death be classified as “homicide.”

Bruno Muntz 20 July 1998

Bruno Muntz, MD 20 July 1998

DIAGRAMS

1. Skeleton (front/back)

ASSOCIATED REPORTS

Entomology

Fingerprint

Odontology

Radiology