Angel With a Bullet (19 page)

He takes a breath, the sound of his own voice and the story he's inventing pleasing him. He continues.

“One day, the artist woke to find his heart was empty and his soul had become so frail it was barely a wisp of air. Desperate to regain both, the artist ventured into the world in search of his peddled art. He believed that by reclaiming his old paintings, he could also rebuild his heart and reclaim his joy. But every time he found a painting, its new owners refused to sell such a wise investment and slammed the door. The artist was lost. How could he go on in the world without the happiness he once felt? Then, a final bolt of inspiration struck. If he couldn't recover his lost art, he could join it.”

My skin turns cold and every hair stands on end. I know what hides under the sheet.

“The result,” Kingston says, his voice rising with excitement, “is this.”

The sheet is pulled back and Diego's blood painting screams at me.

Even in the bright expanse of the room, I feel its darkness throbbing on the canvas.

“It's one of a kind,” Kingston brags. “Art and artist merged together on canvas. You can actually see pieces of bone and brain matter.”

I want to speak, but my mouth refuses to work.

“Are you hungry?” Kingston downs the rest of his beer. “I feel like steak.”

_____

Numbly, I follow
Kingston out of the room and up a narrow staircase to the peak of one of the castle's four turrets. A cozy, circular room offers a spectacular view of the valley. Oddly, there is no glass in the narrow, rectangular windows and the soft breeze is cool on my skin.

In the center of the room awaits a small table with just enough room for two. It is set with china plates, white linen cloth, silver cutlery, and crystal wine glasses. It makes me wonder if I am being seduced.

Crossing to one of the open windows, I gulp in a lungful of air with the hope of disguising how shaken the unveiling has left me. The vineyards below stretch for miles, their stringy trunks looking like fortified fields of barbed-wire fence. It reminds me of
Sleeping Beauty,
where the creeping vines and dagger-sharp thorns closed in around the castle to hide the spellbound princess until she was all but forgotten.

Oxford enters the room, carrying a bottle of wine on a silver tray. When he looks at me, no emotion escapes his face. With a false calm, I follow him to the table and take my place.

“How do you like your steak?” Kingston asks, watching eagerly as Oxford pours a thimbleful of wine into his glass.

“Medium rare is fine.”

Kingston swirls the wine around in his glass, watching for impurities as it catches the light. He inhales its bouquet, dumps it into his mouth, and does everything except gargle.

“Excellent.”

Oxford nods appreciatively and fills both our glasses before placing the bottle in a new silver ice bucket. He retreats out the door, only to return a minute later with a chilled pewter platter heaped with large pink prawns, beheaded but still in their shells.

After setting the prawns in the middle of the table, Oxford produces two bowls of cocktail sauce and two of spicy peanut. He places one of each in front of our plates.

“Hope you like shrimp.”

“Will there be anything more, sir?” Oxford asks.

“Yeah,” Kingston barks. “Stand someplace where I don't have to look at you.”

“Certainly, sir.” Oxford moves to the wall directly behind his employer and stands as stiff and silent as a statue.

Kingston winks at me; I am rather pleased that I don't shudder.

“Dig in,” he commands and grabs a prawn by the tail to noisily suck the meat from its shell.

I fill my plate, suddenly realizing how hungry I am.

“Do you like caviar?” Kingston asks between bites.

“I haven't—”

“I despise the stuff,” he interrupts. “It's the only thing the Commies have worth exporting, and they've tricked the West into thinking it's something great. Well, I say screw 'em. If I want to eat fish eggs, I'll squeeze 'em out of an American trout.”

The thought makes me feel sick.

“I wanted to ask about Adamsky,” I say to get the conversation on track.

“Ask away.” Kingston brushes spent shrimp shells off his shirt.

“First, where did you get Diego's blood painting?”

“I bought it.”

“From his agent?”

“No, his family.”

“They're in town?”

“Doubt it. I had a representative in New Mexico make the deal there.”

“You don't waste time.”

“Never do.”

“How much did you pay?”

“None of your damn business.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Ah!” Kingston's face lights up. “Do you know much about computers?”

And I've blown it. Once your subject starts asking the questions, the only thing to do is ride the wave for a while until you can get back on track.

“Computers connect everything,” he says with enthusiasm. “Fridges talking to clocks talking to stores talking to schools talking to banks. Everything. And the money to be made is damn near criminal. The trick is to corner a market and squeeze everyone else out of your way. Look at those two bozos that set up a video site, got the users to upload their own content, and then sold the damn thing—plus all the copyright headaches—to Google for millions. And do you know why it succeeded?”

I shake my head.

“Because America is a dangerous place. Who wants to get car-jacked on the drive to work? Who wants to send their daughter out at night to rent a video? The streets are filled with rapists, druggies, and murderers. So why go out when you can get everything you need delivered at home? We're becoming a nation of hermits, imprisoned within the walls of our own homes.”

His teeth tear the shrimp apart like a lawnmower blade across grass.

He continues, “The future means the closing of libraries, art galleries, museums. But people still need to feel civilized, right? They need to know they're part of a larger community, one with history and beauty. Cyberspace, virtual reality,
those
are the galleries of the future.”

I interrupt. “But what does this have to do with Diego?”

Kingston glares at me. “Everything,” he hisses. “I'm going to bring the galleries and libraries into your home. I'm going to supply the culture America craves. Imagine sitting in your favorite chair and being transported to the greatest museums in the world. And I'm not talking about interactive DVD on a forty-two-inch screen. I'm talking
virtual reality
. You'll actually walk along the corridors, smell the musty air, and virtually stroke every painting. And you know what that means?”

I shake my head again.

“Copyright. Just like YouTube and iTunes and all the rest. Whoever owns the art gets a piece of every dollar. That's where Chino and other artists like him come in. Before long, people will be bored with plain old museum tours. They'll crave more.

“Imagine now, instead of clicking on the TV, you slip on a VR headset and you're transported to an artist's studio. You watch him paint, you listen to his story, you feel his pain. Now you watch as he stands in front of a raw canvas and puts a shotgun in his mouth.”

“Jesus!” I feel sick.

Kingston laughs. “Don't be squeamish, girl. You've already seen the blood; your curiosity is quenched. Let everyone else have a go.”

“It sounds like the worst of tabloid TV to me,” I say.

“That's because your imagination is limited. You have to think beyond today. Once people know the story of an artist, they'll want his art. Imagine another scenario where a painting in your own home could be of anything you wanted. Just hang a paper-thin digital frame on your wall and with the touch of a finger it's Van Gogh's ‘Sunflowers.' Bored with Van Gogh? Touch it again and it's Chino's blood painting. Don't want horizontal? Hang it vertically and touch it once more. Mona Lisa smiles at you, six times larger than life, if you want.”

I've heard enough.

“What about Adamsky?” I ask. “When Diego's body was found, he had an Adamsky under his bed. Do you know anything about it?”

Kingston looks annoyed that I've changed the subject, but he answers. “Sure, it was mine.”

I pause. “He stole it from you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When he worked for me.”

“When did he work for you?”

Kingston mindlessly plucks the legs off a headless shrimp one by one before peeling back the carapace and shoving the rubbery meat into his mouth.

I try again. “Where did he work?”

“A warehouse I own on the docks.”

“Doing what?”

“How the hell should I know? I don't have time to keep track of all the people who work for me. He probably unloaded crates or something.”

“Why would he steal an Adamsky?”

“Money.”

“It would be difficult to sell.”

Kingston shrugs. “Not if you already have a buyer.”

“Did he have a buyer?”

“How should I know? But
I
wouldn't steal a painting unless I did.”

“Why didn't you report it?”

“What?” He frowns, warning me off the question.

“The police didn't know it was stolen until after they took possession,” I press. “Why didn't you report it?”

Kingston pushes away from the table and walks to the window. He stands with his back to me, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“I can't keep track of everything,” he says. “I own a lot of paintings.”

“When did you notice it missing?”

“I didn't. A friend called.”

“Chief McInty?” A guess.

“I don't recall.”

“Do you know the police chief?”

“I know everyone who is important to know.”

“Where was the painting stolen from?”

A blue vein pulses in his neck. “The warehouse probably.”

“Probably?”

Kingston spins, his face flushed. “Look,” he huffs. “I invite you into my home, break bread and share wine, and all you can do is fire unintelligent questions like a … a … dung beetle.”

“I explained on the phone why I wanted to meet.”

“Yes, to ask about Adamsky. As his agent, one of my duties is to meet with the press no matter how lowly. But all you've done is blab on about Chino, some second-rate artist—”

“Whose final painting you rushed out to buy and unveil to me,” I interrupt. “They're connected.”

He snorts. “How? Chino was a thief; Adamsky is an artist. Where's your connection?”

“Diego didn't need to steal.”

“Oh. Friend of yours, was he? Lover, perhaps?”

I stumble, caught off guard by the change of direction. “He—”

“Let me tell you something before I have you thrown out,” Kingston snaps. “Chino was a good-for-nothing, backwater Indian with a history of trouble, but I gave him a job that paid his rent and afforded him time to work on his art after his fifteen minutes were up. He rewarded my generosity by stealing from me. The man was worth nothing, but thanks to his dramatic exit, at least his death should be profitable. I like to profit.”

“You're all heart,” I say.

“Get out now, Miss Flynn, while you still can.”

“I still have questions.”

“You should have thought of that earlier.” Kingston's voice has returned to an icy calm. It worries me more than his rage.

Twenty-eight

Back in the Bug,
I slam my good hand against the steering wheel and curse. I did that all wrong. Kingston is obviously a chauvinist who likes his women meek and accommodating. I should have used my feminine wiles to flirt with the jerk instead of coming across like … well, like myself. Some bats of the eyelashes and a padded push-up bra and I might even have lasted long enough to try the steak I ordered.

Then again, I wasn't naive enough to believe he hadn't planned the whole damn thing—especially the unveiling of the painting.

That was a nice touch.

To calm myself, I take a deep breath, hold it until my bruises ache, and release it slowly through my nose. It doesn't work, so I put the car in gear, stuff the Police's reunion tour CD into the deck, and try to burn a little rubber on the annoyingly pristine white road.

The Bug squeaks more than roars, and instead of rubber we may have left a dribble of oil, but what the hell. It's the thought that counts.

Two hours later, I'm crossing the bridge back to the city and singing “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” for the fourth time at the top of my lungs. I'm feeling relaxed and hungry. I only managed to eat a couple of prawns at Kingston's, and I hadn't been smart enough to grab a handful before I left. The thought of take-out from Pegasus brings a grin to my face.

I press down on the accelerator, but no sooner does the Bug begin to respond when flashing red and blue lights fill my rearview mirror.

With a resigned groan, I finish crossing the bridge and pull off to the side of the road. The cruiser pulls in behind with two blank-faced officers, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

Using the rearview mirror, I watch as the driver radios in my license plate. I take the opportunity to slip Lily, my pearl-handled switchblade, out of my boot. Just in case I end up being searched, I toss it under the seat. Cops tend to have a bad reaction to concealed weapons.

After a minute, the driver nods to his partner and steps out. To my surprise, he's drawn his handgun. Just as that gun is registering, I am doubly shocked to see his partner pull the shotgun from its cradle between the front seats and crouch behind his open door. He aims the shotgun directly at the back of my don't-give-a-damn haircut, which instantly makes me give a damn.

“Is there a problem, officer?” I call nervously, being careful not to move.

“Keep your hands on the steering wheel,” the driver shouts back.

“No problem.”

I stay perfectly still until I feel the hard muzzle of a Glock automatic pressing into my left ear. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I steal a glance toward the passenger door to see the other officer approaching, his shotgun still aimed at my head. From this distance, and without a roof or rear window to deflect any of the shot, he can rip me in half.

“Search the trunk, Cort,” the driver says.

His partner moves to the rear of the Bug.

“That's not—” I try, but am silenced as the gun's muzzle digs deeper into my ear.

“What you got?” the driver calls.

“Uh, nothing, Harley,” Cort replies. “Looks like the engine's back here.”

“That's what—”

Harley hisses menacingly. “Best you shut it.”

Good advice.

Cort moves to the front and opens the hood.

“It's here,” Cort calls out as he removes a brown paper bag from the Bug's interior.

“Care to explain?” Harley asks.

“What's to explain?” I ask. “You found somebody's old lunch bag?”

“Show her.”

Cort reaches into the bag and pulls out a small black chalk sketch in a hermetically sealed glass frame. I have recently seen one exactly like it on the mantel of an unused fireplace in Sir Roger Kingston's whitewashed castle.

“Well, well.” Harley pushes the gun deeper into my aching ear. “I suppose you have a receipt for that?”

Fuck.

“Honestly, I don't know how it got there.”

Harley laughs. “You wouldn't believe how often we hear that line.”

“It's the truth.”

“That one too.”