The Murder Book

CHAPTER 32

Nicholas Hansen's green BMW sat in the cobbled driveway of the house on North Roxbury Drive. The street was lined with struggling elms. A few trees had given up, and their black branches cast ragged shadows on the sparkling sidewalks. The street was quiet but for a Beverly Hills symphony: teams of gardeners pampering the greenery of mansions up the block.

Milo was parked in a new rental car- a gray Oldsmobile sedan- six houses north of Hansen's vanilla hacienda. By the time I'd switched off the engine he was at my window.

"New wheels," I said.

"Variety's the spice." His face was pallid and sweaty.

"Something else happen to make you switch?"

"Contacting Hansen is a risk and maybe not a smart one. If he's still in touch with the others, everything hits the fan. If he's not, there may be no real payoff."

"But you're going ahead, anyway."

He yanked out a handkerchief and sopped moisture from his brow. "The alternative is doing nothing. And who says I'm smart?"

When we reached Hansen's property, he scowled and peered through a window of the BMW. "Clean. Meticulous." As he stepped up to the door and stabbed the bell, he looked ready to tear something apart.

Nicholas Hansen answered wearing faded black sweats, white Nikes, and a distracted look. Brown and red paint stains on his fingers were the only clues to his occupation. He was tall and spare with an oddly fleshy face, looked closer to fifty than forty. Soft neck, basset eyes the color of river silt, grayish mouth stitched with wrinkles, a bald, blue-veined scalp ringed by a beige buzz. A middle-aged crisis stoop rounded his shoulders. I'd have guessed a burnt-out lawyer taking a day off.

Milo flashed the badge, and Hansen's muddy eyes came alive. But his voice was low and mumbly. "Police? About what?"

I was standing behind Milo, but not so far that I couldn't smell the alcohol breeze Hansen had let forth.

Milo said, "High school." His voice was rough, and he didn't use Hansen's name, hadn't even offered a cop's patronizing "sir."

"High school?" Hansen blinked, and the paint-stained fingers of one hand capped his bald head, as if he'd been afflicted by a sudden migraine.

"The King's Men," said Milo.

Hansen dropped the hand and rubbed his fingers together, dislodging a fleck of paint, inspecting his nails. "I really don't understand- I'm working."

Milo said, "This is important." He'd kept the badge in Hansen's face, and the artist took a step backward.

"The King's Men?" said Hansen. "That was a very long time ago."

Milo filled the space Hansen had vacated. "Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it, and all that."

Hansen's hand floundered some more, ended up on the doorjamb. He shook his head. "You've lost me, gentlemen." His breath was ninety proof, and his nose was a relief map of busted capillaries.

"Be happy to clarify," said Milo. He flicked his wrist, and sunlight bounced off the badge. "I assume you don't want to talk out here in full view."

Hansen shrank back some more. Milo was only an inch or so taller than Hansen, but he did something with his posture that increased the gap.

"I'm a painter, I'm in the middle of a painting," Hansen insisted.

"I'm in the middle of a homicide investigation."

Hansen's mouth slackened, revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. He shut his mouth quickly, looked at his watch, then over his shoulder.

"I'm a big art fan," said Milo. "Especially German Expressionism- all that anxiety."

Hansen stared at him, stepped back farther. Milo remained in the dance, positioned himself inches from Hansen's worried eyes.

Hansen said, "I hope this doesn't take long."

The house was cool and dim, saturated with the geriatric reek of camphor. The chipped terra-cotta tiles of the entry hall floor continued up the steps of a narrow, brass-railed staircase. Thirteen-foot ceilings were crossed by carved oak beams. The wood was wormholed and aged nearly black. The walls were hand-troweled plaster two shades deeper than the external vanilla and dotted with empty niches. Smallish leaded windows, some with stained-glass insets picturing New Testament scenes, constricted the light. The colored panes projected rainbow dust beams. The furniture was heavy and dark and clumsy. No art on the walls. The place felt like some ill-attended church.

Nicholas Hansen motioned us to a sagging, fringed sofa upholstered in a scratchy tapestry fabric, sat down facing us in a bruised leather chair, and folded his hands in his lap.

"I really can't imagine what this could be about."

"Let's start with the King's Men," said Milo. "You do remember them."

Hansen gave his watch another glance. Cheap digital thing with a black plastic band.

"Busy day?" said Milo.

Hansen said, "I may have to interrupt if my mother wakes up. She's dying of colon cancer, and the day nurse took the afternoon off."

"Sorry," said Milo, with as little sympathy as I'd ever heard him offer.

"She's eighty-seven," said Hansen. "Had me when she was forty-five. I always wondered how long I'd have her." He plucked at a cuff of his sweatshirt. "Yes, I remember the King's Men. Why would you connect me to them after all these years?"

"Your name came up in the course of our investigation."

Hansen showed yellow teeth again. His eyes creased in concentration. "My name came up in a murder investigation?"

"A very nasty murder."

"Something recent?"

Milo crossed his legs. "This will go more quickly if I ask the questions."

Another man might've bristled. Hansen sat in place, like an obedient child. "Yes, of course. I'm just- the King's Men was just a stupid high school thing." Slight slur in his voice. His eyes shot to the ceiling beams. A pliable man. The addition of booze made Milo 's job easier.

Milo pulled out his notepad. When he clicked his pen open, Hansen was startled but he remained in place.

"Let's start with the basics: You were a member of the King's Men."

"I'd really like to know how you… never mind, let's do this quickly," said Hansen. "Yes I was a member. For my last two years at Uni. I arrived as a junior. My father was an executive with Standard Oil, we moved around a lot, had lived on the East Coast. During my junior year, Father was transferred to L.A., and we ended up renting a house in Westwood. I was pretty disoriented. It's a disorienting time, anyway, right? I guess I was irritated at my parents for uprooting me. I'd always been obedient- an only child, overly adult. I guess when I got to Uni I figured I'd rebel, and the King's Men seemed a good way to do it."

"Why?"

"Because they were a bunch of goof-offs," said Hansen. "Rich kids who did nothing but drink and dope. They got the school to recognize them as a legitimate service club because one of their fathers owned real estate and he let the school use his empty lots for fund-raisers- car washes, bake sales, that kind of thing. But the Men weren't about service, just partying."

"A dad with real estate," said Milo. "Vance Coury."

"Yes, Vance's father."

Hansen's voice rose at the word "father," and Milo waited for him to say more. When Hansen didn't, he said, "When's the last time you saw Vance Coury?"

"High school graduation," said Hansen. "I haven't been in touch with any of them. That's why this whole thing is rather odd."

Another glance upward. Hansen had never boned up on the body language of deception.

"You haven't seen any of them since graduation?" said Milo. "Not once?"

"By the time we graduated, I was moving in another direction. They were all staying here, and I'd been accepted at Columbia. My father wanted me to go to business school, but I finally accomplished a genuine rebellion and majored in anthropology. What I was really interested in was art, but that would've caused too much tumult. As is, Father was far from amused, but Mother was supportive."

A third look at his watch, then a glance toward the stairs. Only child hoping for maternal reprieve.

Milo said, "You didn't really answer the question. Have you seen any of the other King's Men since graduation?"

Hansen's muddy irises took yet another journey upward, and his mouth began to tremble. He tried to cover it with a smile. Crossed his legs, as if imitating Milo. The result was contortive, not casual.

"I never saw Vance or the Cossacks or Brad Larner. But there was another boy, Luke Chapman- though we're talking twenty years ago, for God's sake. Luke was… what is it you want to know, exactly?"

Milo's jaw tightened. His voice turned gentle and ominous. "Luke was what?"

Hansen didn't answer.

Milo said, "You do know he's dead."

Hansen nodded. "Very sad."

"What were you going to say about him?"

"That he wasn't very bright."

"When, after graduation, did you see him?"

"Look," said Hansen. "You need to understand the context. He- Luke- was no genius. Honestly, he was dull. Despite that, I'd always thought of him as the best of them. That's why- does this have to do with Luke's drowning?"

"When did you see Chapman?"

"Just once," said Hansen.

"When?"

"My first year in grad school."

"What month?"

"Winter break. December."

"So just weeks before Chapman drowned."

Hansen blanched and brought his eyes back to the carved beams. He sank in his chair and looked small. Incompetent liar. Painting had been a better choice than the corporate thing. Milo slapped his pad shut, shot to his feet, strode to Hansen and placed his hand on the back of Hansen's chair. Hansen looked ready to faint.

"Tell us about it," said Milo.

"You're saying Luke was murdered? All those years ago… who do you suspect?"

"Tell us about the meeting with Chapman."

"I- this is-" Hansen shook his head. "I could use a drink- may I get you something, as well?"

"No, but feel free to fortify yourself."

Hansen braced himself on the arms of his chair and rose. Milo followed him across the tiled entry, across an adjoining dining room and through double doors. When the two of them returned, Hansen had both his hands wrapped around a squat, cut-crystal tumbler half-filled with whiskey. When he sat down, Milo resumed his stance behind the chair. Hansen twisted and looked up at him, drained most of the whiskey, rubbed the corners of his eyes.

"Start with where."

"Right here- in the house." Hansen emptied the glass. "Luke and I hadn't been in contact. High school was long out of my consciousness. They were stupid kids. Stupid rich kids, and the thought that I'd found them cool was laughable. I was an East Coast nerd scared witless about making yet another lifestyle switch, thrown into a whole new world. Tanned bodies, loud smiles, social castes… it was a sudden overdose of California. Luke and I had World History together. He was flunking- he was this big blond lunk who could barely read or spell. I felt sorry for him so I helped him- gave him free tutoring. He was dull, but not a bad kid. Built like a fridge, but he never went out for sports because he preferred drinking and smoking dope. That was the essence of the Kingers. They made a big point of not engaging in anything but partying and at that specific time in my life that kind of abandon seemed attractive. So when Luke invited me to join the group, I jumped at it. It was somewhere to belong. I had nothing else."

"Were you welcomed by the others?"

"Not with open arms, but they weren't bad," said Hansen. "Tested me out. I had to prove myself by drinking them under the table. That I could do, but I never really felt comfortable with them and maybe they sensed it because, toward the end, they got… distant. Also, there was the economic thing. They'd figured I was rich- there'd been a rumor circulating that Father owned an oil company. When I told them the truth, they were clearly disappointed."

Hansen passed the tumbler from hand to hand, stared at his knees. "Listen to me, going on about myself." He took a deep breath. "That's the sum total: I hung out with them for the second half of my junior year and a bit into my senior year, then it tapered off. When I got into Columbia, that put them off. They were all planning to live off their parents' money in L.A. and keep partying."

Milo said, "So you were home on break and Luke Chapman just dropped in."

"Yes, it was out of the blue," said Hansen. "I was spending my time holed up in my room drawing. Luke showed up unannounced, and Mother let him in."

Hansen hefted the empty tumbler.

"What did he want?" said Milo.

Hansen stared at him.

"What was the topic, Nicholas?"

"He looked terrible," said Hansen. "Disheveled, unwashed- smelled like a barn. I didn't know what to make of it. Then he said, 'Nick, man, you were the only one who ever helped me, and I need you to help me now.' My first thought was he'd gotten some girl pregnant, needed guidance about where to get an abortion, something like that. I said, 'What can I do for you.' And that's when he broke down- just fell apart. Rocking and moaning and saying everything was fucked up."

He held up the tumbler. "I could use a refill?"

Milo turned to me. "The bottle's on the counter. Nicholas and I will wait here."

I entered the kitchen and poured two fingers from the bottle of Dalwhinnie single-malt on the counter. Taking in details as I made my way back: yellow walls, old white appliances, bare stainless-steel counters, empty dish drainers. I opened the refrigerator. Carton of milk, package of sweating bacon, something in a bowl that looked like calcified gruel. No food aromas, just that same mothball stink. The whiskey bottle had been three-quarters empty. Nicholas Hansen cared little for nutrition, was a solitary drinker.

Back in the living room, Milo was ignoring Hansen and flipping the pages of his notepad. Hansen sat paralytically still. I handed him the drink and he took it with both hands and gulped.

Milo said, "Luke fell apart."

"I asked him what was wrong but instead of telling me he pulled out a joint and started to light up. I grabbed it out of his hand, and said, 'What do you think you're doing?' I guess I sounded irritated because he shrank back and said, 'Oh, Nick, we really fucked up.' And that's when he let it all out."

Hansen finished the second Scotch.

Milo said, "Go on."

Hansen regarded the empty glass, seemed to be considering another shot, but placed the tumbler on a side table. "He told me there'd been a party- a big one, some place in Bel Air, an empty house-"

"Whose house?"

"He didn't say and I didn't ask," said Hansen. "I didn't want to know."

"Why not?" said Milo.

"Because I'd moved on, they were long gone from my consciousne-"

"What did Chapman tell you about the party?" said Milo.

Hansen was silent. Looked anywhere but at us.

We waited him out.

He said, "Oh my."

"Oh my, indeed," said Milo.

Hansen snatched up the tumbler. "I could use a-"

Milo said, "No."

"A girl got killed at the party. I really need another drink."

"What was the girl's name?"

"I don't know!" Hansen's irises were wet- boggy mud.

"You don't know," said Milo.

"All Luke said was there'd been a party and things had gotten wild and they'd been fooling around with a girl and things got even wilder and all of a sudden she was dead."

"Fooling around."

No answer.

"All of a sudden," said Milo.

"That's how he put it," said Hansen.

Milo chuckled. Hansen recoiled, nearly dropped the tumbler.

"How was this sudden death brought about, Nick?"

Hansen bit his lip.

Milo barked, "Come on."

Hansen jumped in his chair and fumbled the glass, again. "Please- I don't know what happened- Luke didn't know what had happened. That was the point. He was confused- disoriented."

"What did he tell you about the girl?"

"He said Vance tied her up, they were partying with her, then all of a sudden it was bloody. A bloody scene, like one of those movies we used to watch in high school- slasher movies. 'Worse than that, Nick. It's much worse when it's real.' I got sick to my stomach, said, 'What the hell are you talking about?' Luke just babbled and blubbered and kept repeating that they'd fucked up."

"Who?"

"All of them. The Kingers."

"No name for the girl?"

"He said he'd never seen her before. She was someone Vance knew, and Vance noticed her and picked her up. Literally. Slung her over his shoulder and carried her down to the basement. She was stoned."

"In the basement of the party house."

"That's where they… fooled with her."

"Fooled with her," said Milo.

"I'm trying to be accurate. That's how Luke put it."

"Did Chapman take part in the rape?"

Hansen mumbled.

"What's that?" demanded Milo.

"He wasn't sure, but he thought he did. He was stoned, too. Everyone was. He didn't remember, kept saying the whole thing was like a nightmare."

"Especially for the girl," said Milo.

"I didn't want to believe him," said Hansen. "I'd come home from Yale for ten days. The last thing I needed was this dropping in my lap. I figured it had been a dream- some sort of drug hallucination. Back when I'd known Luke he was always on something."

"You said he wanted help from you. What kind of help?"

"He wanted to know what to do. I was a twenty-two-year-old kid, for Christ's sake, what position was I in to give him advice?" Hansen's fingers tightened around the tumbler. "He couldn't have picked a worse time to drop it on me. People were telling me I had talent, I was finally standing up to Father. The last thing I needed was to get sucked into some… horror. It was my right not to get sucked in. And I don't know why you feel you have a right to-"

"So you just dropped it," said Milo. "What'd you tell Chapman?"

"No," said Hansen. "That's wrong. I didn't drop it. Not completely. I told Luke to go home and keep all of it to himself, and when I figured things out, I'd get back to him."

"He listened to you?"

Hansen nodded. "It was what… he wanted to hear. He thanked me. After he left, I kept telling myself it had been the drugs talking. I wanted to drop it. But something happened to me that year- a painting class I'd taken. The teacher was an Austrian expatriate, a Holocaust survivor. He'd told me horror stories of all the good citizens who'd claimed to know nothing about what was going on. What liars they were. How Vienna had cheered when Hitler took power and everyone had turned a blind eye to atrocities. I remembered something he'd said: 'The Austrians have convinced themselves that Hitler was German and Beethoven was Austrian.' That stuck with me. I didn't want to be like that. So I went over to the library and checked out the newspapers for the time period Luke said the murder had taken place. But there was nothing. Not an article, not a single word about any girl being murdered in Bel Air. So I decided Luke had been freaking out."

Hansen's shoulders dropped. He allowed himself a weak smile. Trying to relax. Milo played the silence and Hansen tightened up again. "So you're saying there really…?"

"Did you ever call Chapman back? Like you said you would?"

"I had nothing to tell him."

"So what'd you do next?"

"I went back to Yale."

"Chapman ever try to reach you at Yale?"

"No."

"When were you in L.A. next?"

"Not for years. The next summer I was in France."

"Avoiding L.A.?"

"No," said Hansen. "Looking for other things."

"Such as?"

"Painting opportunities."

"When did you move back to L.A.?"

"Three years ago, when Mother became ill."

"Where were you living before that?"

"New York, Connecticut, Europe. I try to spend as much time as I can in Europe. Umbria, the light-"

"What about Austria?" said Milo.

Hansen's face lost color.

"So you're here to take care of your mother."

"That's the only reason. When she passes, I'll sell the house and find myself somewhere peaceful."

"Meanwhile," said Milo, "you and your old buddies are neighbors-"

"They're not my bud-"

"-ever make you nervous? Your being a semipublic figure and having a bunch of murderers knowing you're back in town?"

"I'm not semipublic," said Hansen. "I'm not any kind of public. I paint. Finish one canvas and start another. I never truly believed anything happened."

"What did you think when you learned about Chapman drowning?"

"That it was an accident or suicide."

"Why suicide?"

"Because he'd seemed so upset."

"Suicide out of remorse?" said Milo.

Hansen didn't answer.

"You believed Chapman had been hallucinating, but you left town without trying to convince him there was nothing to worry about."

"It wasn't my- what is it you want from me?"

"Details."

"About what?"

"The murder."

"I don't have any more details."

"Why would Chapman feel remorse for something that never happened?"

"I don't know, I'm not a mind reader! This whole thing is insane. Not a word in the papers for twenty years, and all of a sudden someone cares?"

Milo consulted his pad. "How'd you learn about Chapman's death?"

"Mother included it in her weekly letter."

"How'd you feel about it?"

"What do you think? I felt terrible," said Hansen. "How else could I feel?"

"You felt terrible, then just forgot about it."

Hansen rose out of his chair. Spittle whitened the corners of his lips. "What was I supposed to do? Go to the police and repeat some far-fetched, stoned-out story? I was twenty-two, for Christ's sake."

Milo flashed him a cold stare, and Hansen slumped back down. "It's easy to judge."

"Let's go over the details," said Milo. "The girl was raped in the basement. Where'd Chapman say they killed her?"

Hansen shot him a miserable look. "He said there was a big property next door to the party house, an estate, no one living there. They brought her over there. He said she was unconscious. They took her into some wooded area and started talking about how they needed to make sure she didn't turn them in. That's when it got…"

"Bloody."

Hansen covered his face and exhaled noisily.

"Who's 'they'?" said Milo.

"All of them," Hansen said through his fingers. "The Kingers."

"Who exactly was there? Names."

"Vance and Luke, Garvey and Bob Cossack, Brad Larner. All of them."

"The Kingers," said Milo. "Guys you don't see anymore. Guys you're not worried about being your neighbors."

Hansen's hands dropped. "Should I be worried?"

"It does seem odd," said Milo. "For three years you've been living in L.A. but you've never run into them."

"It's a big city," said Hansen. "Big as you want it to be."

"You don't run in the same social circles?"

"I don't have any social circle. I rarely leave the house. Everything's delivered- groceries, laundry. Painting and taking Mother to the doctor, that's my world."

I thought: Prison.

Milo said, "Have you followed the others' lives?"

"I know the Cossacks are builders of some kind- you see their names on construction signs. That's it."

"No idea what Vance Coury's been up to?"

"No."

"Brad Larner?"

"No."

Milo wrote something down. "So… your buddies took the nameless girl to the property next door and things just kind of got bloody."

"They weren't my buddies."

"Who did the actual killing?"

"Luke didn't say."

"What about the rape? Who initiated that?"

"He- my impression was they all joined in."

"But Chapman wasn't sure if he participated or not."

"Maybe he was lying. Or in denial, I don't know," said Hansen. "Luke wasn't cruel but- I can see him getting carried along. But with-out the others, he never would've done anything like that. He told me he'd felt… immobilized- as if his feet were stuck. That's the way he phrased it. 'My feet were stuck, Nick. Like in quicksand.' "

"Can you see the others doing something like that on their own?"

"I don't know… I used to think of them as clowns… maybe. All I'm saying is Luke was a big softie. A big Baby Huey type of guy."

"And the others?"

"The others weren't soft."

"So," said Milo, "the murder started out as a way to silence the girl."

Hansen nodded.

"But it progressed to something else, Nicholas. If you'd seen the body, you'd know that. It was something you wouldn't want to paint."

"Oh, Lord," said Hansen.

"Did Luke Chapman make any mention at all of who initiated the murder?"

Hansen shook his head.

"How about taking a guess?" said Milo. "From what you remember about the Kingers' personalities."

"Vance," said Hansen, without hesitation. "He was the leader. The most aggressive. Vance was the one who picked her up. If I had to guess, I'd say Vance was the first to cut her."

Milo slapped his pad shut. His head shot forward. "Who said anything about cutting, Nicholas?"

Hansen turned white. "You said it- you said it was ugly."

"Chapman told you they'd cut her, didn't he?"

"Maybe- he could've."

Milo stood and stomped his way slowly toward Hansen on echoing tiles, came to a halt inches from Hansen's terrified face. Hansen's hands rose protectively.

"What else are you holding back, Nicholas?"

"Nothing! I'm doing my best-"

"Do better," said Milo.

"I'm trying." Hansen's voice took on a whine. "It's twenty years ago. You're making me remember things I repressed because they disgusted me. I didn't want to hear details then, and I don't want to now."

"Because you like pretty things," said Milo. "The wonderful world of art."

Hansen clapped his hands against his temples and looked away from Milo. Milo got down on one knee and spoke into Hansen's right ear.

"Tell me about the cutting."

"That's it. He just said they started cutting her." Hansen's shoulders rose and fell, and he began weeping.

Milo gave him a moment of peace. Then he said, "After they cut her, what?"

"They burned her. They burned her with cigarettes. Luke said he could hear her skin sizzle… oh God- I really thought he was…"

"Making it up."

Hansen sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, let his head fall. The back of his neck was glossy and creased, like canned tallow.

Milo said, "They burned her, then what?"

"That's all. That really is all. Luke said it was like it became a game- he had to think of it as a game in order not to freak out completely. He said he'd watched and tried to pretend she was one of those inflatable dolls and they were playing with her. He said it seemed to go on forever until someone- I think it was Vance, I can't swear to it, but probably Vance- said she was dead and they needed to get her out of there. They bundled her up in something, put her in the trunk of Vance's Jaguar, and dumped her somewhere near downtown."

"Pretty detailed for a hallucination," said Milo.

Hansen didn't respond.

"Especially," pressed Milo, "for a dull guy like Chapman. You ever know him to be that imaginative?"

Hansen remained mute.

"Where'd they take her, Nicholas?"

"I don't know where- why the hell wasn't it in the papers?" Hansen balled a hand into a fist and raised it chest high. Making a stab at assertiveness. Milo remained crouched but somehow increased his dominance. Hansen shook his head and looked away and cried some more.

"What'd they do afterward?"

"Had coffee," said Hansen. "Some place in Hollywood. Coffee and pie. Luke said he tried eating but threw up in the bathroom."

"What kind of pie?"

"I didn't ask. Why wasn't there anything in the paper?"

"What would your theory be about that, Nicholas?"

"What do you mean?" said Hansen.

"Given what you know about your buddies, what's your theory."

"I don't see what you're getting at."

Milo got up, stretched, rolled his neck, walked slowly to a leaded window, turned his back on Hansen. "Think about the world you inhabit, Nicholas. You're a successful artist. You get thirty, forty thousand dollars for a painting. Who buys your stuff?"

"Thirty thousand isn't big-time in the art world," said Hansen. "Not compared to-"

"It's a lot of money for a painting," said Milo. "Who buys your stuff?"

"Collectors, but I don't see what that has to-"

"Yeah, yeah, people of taste and all that. But at forty grand a pop not just any collectors."

"People of means," said Hansen.

Milo turned suddenly, grinning. "People with money, Nicholas." He cleared his throat.

Hansen's muddy eyes rounded. "You're saying someone was bribed to keep it quiet? Something that horrible could be- then for God's sake why didn't it stay quiet? Why is it coming to light, now?"

"Give me a theory about that, too."

"I don't have one."

"Think."

"It's in someone's best interests to go public?" said Hansen. He sat up. "Bigger money's come into play? Is that what you're getting at?"

Milo returned to the sofa, sat back comfortably, flipped his pad open.

"Bigger money," said Hansen. "Meaning I'm a total ass for talking to you. You caught me off guard and used me-" He brightened suddenly. "But you screwed up. You were obligated to offer me the presence of an attorney, so anything I've told you is inadmissable-"

"You watch too much TV, Nicholas. We're obligated to offer you a lawyer if we arrest you. Any reason we should arrest you, Nicholas?"

"No, no, of course not-"

Milo glanced at me. "I suppose we could exercise the option. Obstruction of justice is a felony." Back to Hansen: "Charge like that, whether or not you got convicted, your life would change. But given that you've cooperated…"

Hansen's eyes sparked. He pawed at the scant hair above his ears. "I need to be worried, don't I?"

"About what?"

"Them. Jesus, what have I done? I'm stuck here, can't leave, not with Mother-"

"With or without Mother, leaving would be a bad idea, Nicholas. If you've been straight- really told us everything, we'll do our best to keep you safe."

"As if you give a damn." Hansen got to his feet. "Get out- leave me alone."

Milo stayed seated. "How about a look at your painting?"

"What?"

"I meant what I said," said Milo. "I do like art."

"My studio's private space," said Hansen. "Get out!"

"Never show a fool an unfinished work?"

Hansen tottered. Laughed hollowly. "You're no fool. You're a user. How do you live with yourself?"

Milo shrugged, and we headed for the door. He stopped a foot from the knob. "By the way, the pictures on your gallery website are gorgeous. What is it the French call still-lifes- nature morte? Dead nature?"

"Now you're trying to diminish me."

Milo reached for the door, and Hansen said, "Fine, take a look. But I only have one painting in progress, and it needs work."

We followed him up the brass-railed staircase to a long landing carpeted in defeated green shag. Three bedrooms on one end, a single, closed door off by itself on the north wing. A breakfast tray was set on the rug. A teapot and three plastic bowls: blood-colored jello, soft-boiled egg darkened to ochre, something brown and granular and crusted.

"Wait here," said Hansen, "I need to check on her." He tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, looked inside, returned. "Still sleeping. Okay, c'mon."

His studio was the southernmost bedroom, a smallish space expanded by a ceiling raised to the rafters and a skylight that let in southern sun. The hardwood floors were painted white, as was his easel. White-lacquered flat file, white paint box and brush holders, glass jars filled with turpentine and thinner. Dots of color squeezed on a white porcelain palette fluttered in the milky atmosphere like exotic butterflies.

On the easel was an eleven-by-fourteen panel. Hansen had said his current painting needed work, but it looked finished to me. At the center of the composition was an exquisitely bellied, blue-and-white Ming vase, rendered so meticulously that I longed to touch the gloss. A jagged crack ran down the belly of the vase, and brimming over its lip were masses of flowers and vines, their brilliance accentuated- animated- by a burnt umber background that deepened to black at the edges.

Orchids and peonies and tulips and irises and blooms I couldn't identify. Hot colors, luminous striations, voluptuous petals, vaginal leaves, vermiform tendrils, all interspersed with ominous clots of sphagnum. The fissure implied incipient explosion. Flowers, what could be pret-tier? Hansen's blooms, gorgeous and boastful and flame-vivid as they were, said something else.

Gleam and hue fraying and wilting at the edges. From the shadows, the black, inexorable progress of rot.

Conditioned air blew through a ceiling vent, flat, artificial, filtered clean, but a stink reached my nostrils: the painting gave off the moist, squalid seduction of decay.

Milo wiped his brow, and said, "You don't use a model."

Hansen said, "It's all in my head."

Milo stepped closer to the easel. "You alternate paint and glaze?"

Hansen stared at him. "Don't tell me you paint."

"Can't draw a straight line." Milo got even nearer to the board and squinted. "Kind of a Flemish thing going on- or maybe someone with an appreciation of Flemish, like Severin Roesen. But you're better than Roesen."

"Hardly," said Hansen, unmoved by the compliment. "I'm a lot less than I was before you barged into my life. You have diminished me. I've diminished myself. Will you really protect me?"

"I'll do my best if you cooperate." Milo straightened. "Did Luke Chapman mention anyone else being present at the murder? Any of the other partygoers?"

Hansen's fleshy face quivered. "Not here. Please."

"Last question," said Milo.

"No. He mentioned no one else." Hansen sat down at the easel and rolled up his sleeves. "You'll protect me," he said in a dead voice. He selected a sable brush and smoothed its bristles. "I'm going back to work. There are some real problems to work out."