Killing Critics

“Hello, Koozeman. I believe you’ve met Mallory.”

“Who could forget such a face? If I had known you were coming, my dear, I would have made up a guest list with a better class of collector.”

Charles nodded to the near corner. “I see J. L. Qui

“Yes, he is,” said Koozeman, as though he could not figure out why Qui

Mallory looked around at the walls, stark and bare but for the small red bits of paper held in place with pins. “So where is the artwork?”

“The artwork?” For a moment, Koozeman seemed baffled by the idea of art in his gallery. “Oh, the tickets. See the tickets on the walls? They all have numbers. Dean Starr did it with numbers.”

“Pardon?” Charles knew he would regret asking for clarification.

“Numbers. See?” Koozeman waved a small red velvet bag in front of them, gri

“Every one of them matches up with an idea, just like the tickets on the walls. They all have numbers on them. Please pick one.”

She dropped a white hand into the bag and pulled out a red ticket. It was number twenty-two.

“All right, Dean’s idea for number twenty-two. Let’s see.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “Oh, yes. His idea for number twenty-two is a broad steel beam that goes half a mile straight up in the air.”

Mallory seemed skeptical. “What for?”

“To make you uncomfortable. You can’t see the base support, it just stands there while you wait for it to fall down. It’s meant to be threatening. Not his most original theme, though. He’s building on the work of a sculptor who once wrecked the side of a government building when the plaza sculpture fell down.”

“A half-mile beam. That’s a rather ambitious project,” said Charles, playing the good sport. “How are you pla

“Oh, no. Dean never intended to create the pieces. He just thought of them.”

Mallory tilted her head to one side, and Charles wondered if she was listening for the audible snap of her mind, which could only be moments away.

“Well, of course. He just thought of them.”

Koozeman missed her sarcasm, as he took her hand and kissed it. “You do understand. I sell the artist’s thoughts, his intentions. Very pure, isn’t it?” He handed a price list to Charles.

Charles sca

“I’ve sold four of them in the past half hour.”

“You sell the artist’s thoughts.” Mallory gave equal weight to each word.

“Yes. I sit over there.” Koozeman pointed to the side wall where an armchair sat on a platform. “When you see a number you like, you come and tell me the number on the ticket, and I tell you the idea Dean Starr had for that number. Simple?”

Charles watched J. L. Qui

And then suddenly, Charles realized he had been robbed. Mallory was walking away with the art critic.

A matron, wearing a pearl choker, gasped audibly at the specter standing by the gallery window.

On the sidewalk outside the gallery, face pressed up against the window, a ragged derelict was holding a tea tin to her head and staring after the retreating figures of Qui

The matron with the pearl choker made a mental note to send a nice check to the Coalition for the Homeless and drained her full wineglass in one swig. What dark thing had lived and brooded on the wrong side of the glass, she did not want to know, but thought it might have come from hell and felt rather at home there.

Mallory stood very close to the wall, eyes level with ticket number thirty-four. “Tell me again about the metaphor, the poetry of shape and color-”

“That pertains to fine art,” said Qui

“What’s this?”

“The demystification of art.”

“Well, thanks for clearing that up for me.”

“It’s not a technical term. It’s a eulogy.” Qui

“Gregor Gilette said Koozeman used to be an artist.”

“Yes, he was. You know, the tickets could be Koozeman’s concept.”

“What are you doing here, Qui

“I’ve been pla

“How will you write it up?”

“I intend to promote Koozeman as a genius of the new order. A genius of hype, and hype, don’t you know, is the art form of the era. He’s truly a man of his times. But it hardly merits writing. I can phone this one in.”

“Will anyone know you’re kidding?”

“No.”

“What did you think of Koozeman when he was a working artist?”

“I thought he was very good.”

“According to your brother-in-law, Sabra thought he was a genius.”

“She was probably right. Some of his work was brilliant, and now he promotes hacks. Every third person you meet in this town is a creative artist. If you have an old can of spray paint knocking around in the garage, Koozeman can make you a star.”

“Must be tough for the people with the real talent.”

“New York City,” said Qui

Now Koozeman joined them with fresh wine and a gallery boy at his side to take away their empty glasses.

“Qui

“No, not if they’re done right. My own profile tells me the killer is successful. He’s rich and getting richer. I smell money every time I think about the case. So I’m looking for someone with a soul that’s interchangeable with a cockroach or an advertising executive.”

Koozeman stared into his wineglass as he spoke to her. “And you think the killer of Dean Starr-”

“Oh sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of the wrong murder. Sometimes I get confused. I understand you were once an artist. Is that true?”

“It was a long time ago.” His words were halting.

“What kind of work did you do?”

“Nothing of any consequence.” Koozeman sipped his wine, eyes reevaluating her over the rim of his glass.