The Shadow of Venus (7 page)

“Good luck,” Detective Owen said.

Claire hung up the phone and stared at her books-with-wings screen saver. Books were her passion and her business. She was a librarian and rare-book expert. It wasn't up to her to find out who Maia was and notify the next of kin; that job belonged to the APD. To them she was just another unidentified homeless person who had OD'd, but she was the only homeless person or addict Claire had ever known. Everyone else she had encountered had a name, a history, an identity, was more than a few snippets of conversation. But it had been years since anyone had called her beautiful. Was it that
compliment
that connected her to Maia and drove her to find out who she was? Was it because Maia was about the same age as her own daughter and she couldn't stand the thought of Robin disappearing and dying alone in a storage room with no one to bury her or to mourn her passing? Or was it because she suspected Maia was a sister, another girl who'd longed to escape to the sky?

The books with wings flew across her computer screen—red books, green books, leather-bound books, classic books, forgotten books, boring books, illuminating books. Claire turned off the computer. She had agreed to examine the other expedition books, but she hadn't agreed to do it today. There were times when even Claire tired of books.

She called Edward Girard and got voice mail in a recorded man's voice that might, or might not, have been Edward's. She left a message saying she was interested in attending the Maximum Moon celebration and asking him to call her back as soon as possible.

Chapter
Eight

C
LAIRE LEFT WORK
,
BUT INSTEAD OF HEADING FOR HOME
in the foothills she turned her truck toward the Valley. She drove west on Central, passed the cluster of movie theater, lights, restaurants, and the NYPD (the New York Pizza and Deli) that made downtown Albuquerque look almost upscale. She turned south on Third and in a few blocks she was in derelict city, the area she thought of as Mission Row, where the homeless went seeking shelter. Except for isolated pockets around Central there wasn't much street life in Albuquerque, so little that Claire sometimes questioned why the city even had sidewalks. It was a sprawling Western city where trucks and SUVs ruled. Every year people's driving-around-town vehicles got larger. In tired moments Claire thought of them as tanks that fortified and protected the drivers while giving them a sense of power that turned them belligerent. When her pickup truck was new it had seemed substantial, but now it felt like a little red wagon surrounded by a column of tanks.

Those who could protected themselves; those who couldn't walked the streets. There were people on the sidewalk in this part of town, clusters of ragtag warriors, some wearing football shirts, some wearing miniskirts, some in camouflage. Many of the men on the street were veterans. One result of war and aggression was that even the victors ended up with no place to live. Claire passed the churches and missions that administered to the homeless and stopped at Hope Central, which displayed no cross or religious symbol. Claire had met Christopher Hyde and knew that was a deliberate choice on his part. Hope Central was a humanist shelter. The homeless came from many different walks of life and followed many different paths. Christopher's goal was to help them get back on their feet, not to convert them. The lack of a church connection made it even harder for him to raise money. Periodically he put together a book of writings and artwork created by people who had spent time at the shelter. The arts were taught at Hope Central by a loyal group of volunteers. Christopher raised money by selling this book. Claire always bought several copies for the library, but book sales rarely supported individuals, much less institutions, and Hope Central was always strapped for cash.

She parked in front of the building, which was shabby even for south Third Street. Claire had last seen Christopher Hyde at a signing the University Bookstore held for the latest edition of his book. She remembered him as a small, vibrant man with a fringe of reddish hair. Would he remember her?

Claire glanced at her watch. It was four thirty, still afternoon in her opinion. If she were at the library she would have hours of work left. But at Hope Central the day was ending. Homeless drifted
toward
the door like bees returning to the hive. Most of their clothes were drab and shabby. The pale, neat Maia would have stood out here. Claire negotiated her way through the swarm of people at the door, went inside, and asked a volunteer if she could speak to Christopher Hyde.

The woman gave her a quick glance, recognized that she didn't need a place for the night, and asked, “Does he know you?”

“We've met. My name is Claire Reynier. I'm a librarian at UNM.”

The woman buzzed Christopher on the intercom. “Hey, Chris,” she yelled, “there's a woman named Claire somethin' or other from UNM who wants to talk to you.” She went back to gathering information from people at the door. “Excuse me,” she said. “Dinner time.”

The living room at Hope Central reminded Claire of the lobby of a seedy hotel furnished with sagging, broken-springed sofas. The room was filling with hungry people, including crying babies, squirming children, defeated and tired men with empty eyes. As the noise level escalated, she could see how the confusion and lack of privacy might have driven Maia to the sanctuary of the library.

While she waited for Christopher, Claire was drawn to the artwork on the walls of the living room, portraits of the homeless. In one way they mirrored the people in the room. Their faces showed the ravages of street life, yet their expressions were vibrant and hopeful. Many were shown as performers in an imaginary circus—clowns, tightrope walkers, animal trainers. The colors were bright as circus posters but never garish.

Christopher Hyde crossed the room, stopping several times to take a hand and smile at someone he recognized. Claire had the thought that if she were painting him, she would have painted him as a clown. His fringe of orange hair resembled a clown's ruff. His pants were baggy. He wore a yellow shirt.

Christopher took her hand. His eyes were puzzled and his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I know we've met. I just can't remember where or when.”

“I work at the Center for Southwest Research at UNM. I go to your signings at the University Bookstore. I always buy several copies of your book for the library.”

“Well, that's good to know.” He patted her hand and Claire saw that the back of his was ruddy and freckled. “We always need the money. Do you like our paintings?”

“They're wonderful,” Claire said. “I love the colors, the optimism, the expressions on the subjects' faces.”

“These are all people who stayed at the shelter at one time or another,” Christopher said. “It's empowering for them to see themselves represented in a work of art. We sell the paintings to raise money for the shelter.” He laughed. “We're shameless. We sell anything we can, except, of course, sex and drugs. Any drugs we confiscate are destroyed.”

“Who is the artist?”

“A
woman named Lisa Teague, who teaches here. It would be hard for us to survive without the help of Lisa. I can't walk around with my hand out all the time.”

Claire intended to make a contribution to the shelter but she hadn't decided what to give yet. “If you have some time, I'd like to talk to you about Maia, the woman who died in the basement of Zimmerman.”

“The police told me she stole an illustration from the library.”

“I'm hoping she only stole one. Could we talk? I should have called first. I didn't realize this would be such a busy time for you.”

“No problem. We have a half hour yet before dinner.”

He led Claire through the living room to a minuscule office in the back of the building. The solitary window had a battered air conditioner filling the lower panes. The upper panes faced a brick wall on the far side of an alley. A bookshelf was filled with copies of Christopher's book.

“Maia was interested in art,” Christopher said. “She participated in Lisa's workshops. Lisa probably knew her as well as anyone. You might want to talk to her.”

“I would,” Claire said.

Christopher took Lisa's card from his desk and handed it to Claire. “After all my years in this business very little shocks me, but I am surprised that Maia would steal from the library. She loved art.”

“I don't know for sure that she stole it,” Claire said. “I only know that an illustration was cut out of the book
Ancient Sites
and it was found in the room with Maia. It's possible she took other artwork and sold or traded it for drugs. We have so many valuable illustrated books in the library. It's difficult and time consuming to look through every one/'

“La jeringa
and the damage done,” Christopher said. “Maia had a heroin addiction. I had to ask her to leave when she started using. For a while she kicked it, but she must have started up again. It's a powerful addiction, almost as powerful as cigarettes, so they say. Street life is also intoxicating. Everyone gets to be a heroine or a hero on the street. They rescue their fellow addicts by bringing them drugs or finding them a place to stay. Lisa catches some of that element of heroism-on-the-edge in her paintings, doesn't she?”

“Yes,” Claire agreed.

“Life on the street is dangerous but it has a purpose. Addicts know what they have to do next to get high. That can be addicting, too. Most people kick it by going into a treatment center. Maia claimed she did it by being locked up alone in a house.”

“Really?” Claire asked.

“That's what she said.”

“1 thought she was claustrophobic. I saw her at a reading in the Willard Reading Room. When I
closed
the door she panicked, pushed me aside, and ran out.”

“Sometimes if a claustrophobic person has a place to see out of she can cope. A window helps, but not this window.” He pointed to the brick wall and laughed a deep laugh that displayed the gold in his teeth.

“The door had a deadbolt. The maintenance man claims he locked it for the weekend, not knowing anyone was inside.”

“Well, if Maia was trying to kick she wouldn't have gone into that room with heroin. An addict alone with her
ansia,
that's a recipe for disaster. What exactly was the illustration? The police didn't say.”

“It was a drawing of Spiral Rocks, an archeoastronomy site in southern Colorado that the artist Edward Girard is developing. Do you know if that place had any special meaning to her?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I met her last year, and she talked to me about the Venus-Jupiter conjunction. Maia is the name of a star in the constellation Pleiades, which many cultures have considered the constellation of the homeless. It's possible she had an interest in astronomy.”

“She was an intelligent woman. That was obvious. But she revealed very little else about herself while she was here.”

“She told a graduate student that she became homeless because Coyote chased her.”

“That's not surprising. Many women become homeless because they're running away from an abuser. They go to a new city, assume a new identity, and hope the guy won't find them. Coyote isn't a bad name for that kind of a predator.”

“Do you know if Maia was an assumed name?”

“My guess would be yes, but I don't know for sure.”

“I'm a mother myself. It bothers me that no one has filed a missing-person's report.”

“It's tragic, isn't it,” Christopher asked, “that someone as bright and attractive as Maia could fall through the cracks and no one cares?” His expression changed to the droopy frown of a clown.

“I care,” Claire said.

“Good. Somebody needs to. Somebody needs to care for every single person who has ever passed through this shelter. I can't do it all myself.”

“I'd like to make a contribution.”

“Money is always welcome. We need sheets, we need blankets, we need pots, we need pans, we need art supplies for our workshops. You name it, we need it.” He put his hand on his bookshelf. “One hundred dollars will get you a signed copy of my book. Two hundred dollars will get you two.”

Claire already had signed copies of his books. “I was thinking of a painting,” she said.

“The ones on the living room walls are for sale.”

“They
are not quite what I had in mind. Do you know if Lisa painted Maia?”

“She did. It was a lovely painting. Why don't you talk to her about it? She lives in the Old Albuquerque High School.”

“I could stop by on my way home.”

“I'll call her and tell her you're coming. Would you like to join us for dinner? We're having franks and beans tonight, right out of the can, and a Jell-O salad.”

It sounded like the perfect comfort meal, but Claire had other things on her mind. “I need to get going,” she said. “Thanks for your help.

“My pleasure,” Christopher said, smiling and squeezing her hand.

Chapter
Nine

C
LAIRE DROVE EAST ON
C
ENTRAL
to the Old Albuquerque High School. For years it had been an abandoned wreck of a building with broken windows and boarded-up doors, home to derelicts and strays, but it had recently been renovated and the former classrooms turned into light-filled studios.

Claire parked her truck, went into the lobby, and rang Lisa's bell, Lisa buzzed her in. When she reached Lisa's floor, Claire found her standing in the doorway waiting. Lisa was small and slender. She wore the sandblasted jeans that were currently in fashion, but her sandblasted sections had been tinted pink instead of the usual shimmering white. Her cropped top showed her navel. Her hair was short and spiky with a purple streak. Her long fake nails were the same shade of purple. She wore rings on most of her fingers. Claire guessed her to be in her early twenties.