The Museum of Desire

Chapter 54

A Going Out of Business Sale banner striped the front window of New World Elegant Jewelers. The Flower Drum motel was doing some sort of business; four women in minimal clothing dispersed as we arrived. So did three vagrants nearby.

I thought of Mary Jane Huralnik being plucked off the street.

No sign of the locksmith. Milo parked in a red zone in front of the gallery building, scanned night-blackened windows, and pulled out a panatela that he actually smoked.

The smoke bothered Reed. He moved a few feet away, stretched and flexed, did a quick ten push-ups on the sidewalk, racewalked back and forth.

I used the time to phone Robin.

She said, “It’s in the news. Sounds horrible. My first thought was are you okay?”

“I was never in danger. Not even close.”

“I figured that out when they said one female victim. Her?”

“At the hands of her husband. Who poisoned himself and died on the scene.”

“So two victims, not one,” she said. “They can’t even get the basics right. You saw it?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh, baby, sorry. Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“Okay.” Doubtful but too loving to say it. “What’s next?”

“When a locksmith shows up, we check out the gallery building.”

“Big place?”

“Three stories.”

“So you’ll be late.”

“They can do without me, I’ll Uber home.”

“Your brain, your eyes? No, I’ll sacrifice for the common good. But soon as you can swing it — when your mind’s really free of this — let’s go somewhere, okay? Maybe a beach — no high culture.”

I laughed.

She said, “That’s a lovely sound.”

Marc Coolidge showed up just before nine p.m. The locksmith’s ETA was twenty minutes minimum.

As we waited, Alicia called in from Clearwater. “No one lives here, L.T., it’s basically a storage facility. Alarm went off, phone started ringing, I convinced the security company I was the real deal.”

Milo said, “Art storage?”

“Nothing but, L.T. Every room’s piled high. There seem to be two kinds that I can make out: The bulk is posters and prints and a few junky-looking paintings including that candle deal by Manatee Man. There is one bedroom at the back with extra bars on the windows that has maybe thirty paintings that look like good stuff, bubble-wrapped, those carved gold frames. I’m assuming you don’t want me to unwrap, better to wait for some kind of expert.”

“You assume right,” said Milo. “Anything else?”

“Like blood or signs of a struggle? Nope, it’s basically a high-priced storage locker. On to Conrock, maybe there’ll be juicier stuff there.”

“Do it.”

A beat. “That was some scene, L.T.”

“It was.”

“Beyond the pale,” said Alicia. “Not even sure exactly what that means but it sounds right.”

Six minutes later, Sean phoned from Okash’s flat.

“It’s a pretty small place, Loot. One bedroom, one bath, not much in the way of furniture. Or art — no art, as a matter of fact. I found her purse in a nightstand drawer along with her phone. All her calls and texts were deleted but I’m sure the subpoena can tell us who she called.”

Milo smiled. Still waiting for records, everything academic now.

I said, “With her purse there, she was taken and brought to the gallery.”

Sean said, “That you, Doc? Yeah, I guess. Only there’s no sign of struggle, everything’s neat as a pin.”

“Someone she knew.”

“Makes sense. Like I said, it’s small, I’ll go over every inch.”

Milo said, “Go for it.”

“When I’m finished,” said Binchy, “just tell me what else to do.”

The locksmith was a rotund, apple-cheeked, toolbox-toting extrovert named Guillermo Tischler wearing LAPD overalls and a big grin.

“At your service.” He looked at the three doors. “Which one?”

Milo said, “All three and once we’re in, probably some interior doors.”

Tischler said, “Looks like it was a bank. Maybe there’s a safe I can play with?” He gloved up and inspected each of the three dead bolts. “Nothing special. Any reason to play nice?”

“Nope, everything belonged to my suspects and they’re both dead.”

“Yeah, heard about that.” Humming, Tischler produced a power drill from the box. Grind grind grind. Three doors swung open.

He cupped an ear. “No alarm, the sound of silence. Good song. Here you go.”

AB-Original Gallery was smaller than Medina Okash’s place: a single slit of a room, no storage area.

Nothing to store. Blank dusty space, not a stick of furniture. Milo tried the light switch. Dead. He took out his Maglite and strode to the back. An unmarked door sprung by a turn-latch opened to an unlit parking lot.

Guillermo Tischler said, “Business this bad, I can see why they killed themselves.”

No one laughed but he was one of those people who don’t care about being appreciated and resumed humming.

I said, “The name of the place. Maybe AB-O? A thing for blood?”

Milo, Reed, Coolidge, and Tischler stared at me.

Coolidge said, “That makes creepy sense, given what we know.”

Tischler said, “They did themselves bloody?”

Milo said, “Next.”

He led the procession back outside and into The Hoard Collection.

Same size and layout as Okash’s place. These lights worked but most of the bulbs on the overhead tracks were out and the stingy light available told a story of disuse. As did the bare shelves of the rear storage area.

Unlike its neighbors, no door to the lot.

I said, “At one time, this place and AB-O were probably connected.”

Guillermo Tischler said, “That makes total sense.”

Moe Reed examined the wall bordering AB-Original. Tapped with gloved hands. At a spot just west of center, he said, “Hollow, yeah, there was a door here.”

Guillermo Tischler said, “This empty stuff keeps up, you’re going to have an easy night.”

Milo said, “Next.”

Verlang Contemporary was just as we’d seen it, minus people, wine, and Geoffrey Dugong’s paintings. Desk, phone, lights.

Tischler opened his mouth. Milo said, “Yeah, it’s hustling and bustling.”

He hurried to the storage area, now empty, tried to open the door leading to the mystery area. Locked.

“Go,” he told Tischler.

Tischler rapped the door once. “Hollow crap, I could kick it in.” Out came the drill.

The door shuddered as the bolt came loose but when Tischler tried to turn the knob, it resisted.

“That’s a surprise — oh, okay, just stuck.” He kneed the door ajar. We walked past him.

More empty space, closet-sized, lit by a single bare bulb.

Limited geography but two doors.

One, dispatched easily by Tischler, led to the parking area. The other, on the left wall, reacted with a thud to Tischler’s poke and made him frown.

“This is solid. And oversized.”

White slab, an L-shaped handle painted the same color. Below, three bolts.

Tischler tapped twice. “Yup, this is metal. From the resonance, probably some pretty serious steel.”

Milo said, “Maybe the vault you want to play with.”

Tischler ran his hand over the middle of the slab. “Doubt it. A vault door would have a central wheel in the middle, don’t look like anything’s been patched or painted over. But it could be a security door leading to the vault... serious security hinges. This much steel, probably weighs a ton and a half minimum.”

Milo said, “You have what you need to pop it?”

“What do you think?” said Tischler. “These locks are newer, look like... twenty years ago and nothing special.”

He got down on a knee. “Two Yales, one Schlage, here comes Poppa!”

The drill did its job. Tischler reached for the handle but Milo got there first, turned hard, and stepped into darkness.

Reed and I filed past Tischler.

He muttered, “Someone’s in a hurry,” and brought up the rear.

Milo’s Maglite located the light switch. One flick and everything turned bright.

We’d entered ten square feet of windowless space with walls covered by intricately patterned green, white, and red tiles. The floors were white subway tiles feeding to an ornate steel staircase.

Flight and a half, the steps granite, the railing adorned by vines and flowers and newel posts shaped like snarling lion’s heads.

A curious, yeasty smell.

Milo held us back and began climbing.

Twenty footfalls later: “Clear.”

At the top of the stairs was brick-walled loft space, sixty or seventy feet long and half as wide, backed by a partition on the north end that failed to reach the ceiling and gapped six feet on either side.

Towering ceiling, at least thirty feet, stripped to raw boards, the ducts naked. Double-stacked windows had provided the illusion of a three-story.

Lighting, harsh, ashy, pervasive, suffused with dust, came from four tracks that paralleled the ceiling’s center beam. The floors were wide-plank pine, pitted and scarred and burnished by decades of foot traffic.

The yeast stronger, here.

Paper.

Half the loft was filled with ten-foot stacks of posters grouped by the hundred or so, piles of mailing tubes bound together by metal strips, and heaps of flat brown cardboard, the makings of shipping cartons.

The top poster, a low-res copy of Irises. A label on the back was printed in Chinese characters. One bit of translation:

A second stack featured a soup can.

Tischler said, “Their spelling improved. So what, these were junk art dealers?”

Reed said, “Something like that.”

“Hate that, ruining art. I paint. Used to make a living at it in Chile. Commercial. You respect art, you don’t tacky it up.”

Milo said, “Hold that thought.” He walked through the opening on the left side of the partition.

No Clear call for what seemed like a long time.

Guillermo Tischler said, “You okay?”

Milo reappeared. “You can go now, my friend. Thanks.”

“I don’t get to hear the punch line?”

“Thanks for your time. A man of your skills, I’m sure you can find your way out.”

“Really?” said Tischler. Sighing, he picked up his toolbox and left.

When the sounds of his footsteps died, Milo turned to Reed, Coolidge, and me. “I won’t say ready because you can’t be.”