The Murder Book

"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 thi

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."

CHAPTER 33

When we were back on Roxbury Drive, Milo said, "Believe his story?"

"I do."

"So do I," he said, as we walked to our cars. "I also believe I'm a hypocrite."

"What do you mean?"

"Playing Grand Inquisitor with Hansen. Making him feel like shit because he repressed twenty-year-old memories. I did the same damn thing, with less of an excuse."

"What's his excuse?" I said.

"He's weak. Cut him open you'll find a Silly Putty spine."

"You sensed the weakness right away," I said.

"You noticed that, huh? Yup, moved right in on ol' Nicky. Got a nose for weakness. Doesn't that make me pleasant company?"

When we reached the gray Olds, I said, "I know you're going to tell me I'm laying more shrink stuff on you, but I don't believe your situation's comparable to Hansen's. He had access to firsthand information about the murder and kept it to himself for twenty years. In order to do that, he convinced himself Chapman had been hallucinating, but those details- cigarette burns, the way they moved Janie- say he knew better. Hansen engaged in two decades of self-delusion, and who knows what it did to his soul. You tried to do your job and were ordered off the case."

"Following orders?" He gazed up the block absently.

"Fine," I said. "Torment yourself."

"Hansen paints, I don't," he said. "We all need our hobbies… listen, thanks for your time, but I need to sort things out, figure which way to go with this."

"What about the main point we got from Hansen's story?" I said.

"Which is…"

"What you were getting at with that final question in the studio about anyone else being at the murder. Chapman spilled his guts to Hansen but made no mention of Caroline Cossack or Willie Burns. Meaning they probably weren't there. Despite that, the Cossacks stashed Caroline at Achievement House for six months and had her tagged with a behavioral warning. Burns returned to the streets, got busted for dope, took a big risk by getting himself a job at Achievement House. Maybe he skipped on Boris Nemerov because of what he'd seen at the party. If he went to jail on the drug beef, he'd be a sitting duck."

"Burns as a witness."

"Maybe he followed the King's Men because he figured there'd be more doping and he could peddle more merchandise. Caroline could've just been hanging with him. Or she wanted to hang out with her brothers- the odd little sister who'd always gotten shunted to the background. The initial motive for Janie's murder was to silence her. Luke Chapman may have died for the same reason. Caroline and Burns would've been extreme liabilities."

"Victims, not murderers," he said. "And all the more likely to be dead."

"Those two photos preceding Janie's death shot. A dead black guy and a mangled white female mental patient. Maybe whoever sent the book was trying to tell you about two other db's."

"Except, as you pointed out, the dead black guy was in his forties, which would be Burns's age now, not twenty years ago." He took hold of the door handle. "I need to develop a few migraines over this. Ciao."

"That's it?"

"What?" he said.

"You go your way, I go mine?" I said. "Is there something you aren't telling me?"

His half second hesitation belied his answer. "I wish I had something not to tell, Alex- look, I appreciate your effort but we can go over theories till the Second Coming, and it won't move me any closer to solving Janie."

"What will?"

"Like I said, I need to do some thinking."

"Alone."

"Sometimes," he said, "alone helps."

I drove away wondering what he was keeping from me, peeved at being shut out. Thinking about what didn't await me at home turned irritation to dread, and before I knew it I was hunched over the wheel, driving too fast- going nowhere fast.

Nothing worse than a big house when you're alone. And I had no one to blame but myself.

I'd screwed things up, royally, despite Bert Harrison's wise counsel. Like most expert therapists, the old man wasn't one for offering unsolicited advice, but during my visit he'd made a point of warning me off the paranoia trail when it came to Robin.