Frenzy

Relatively famous.

Someone who had worked with Jeanine Carson had made the appointment for Qui

When Qui

“Bellezza,” he said, smiling at Qui

“If it is,” Qui

Doyle seemed to assess Qui

“Even if it were stolen and unsalable on the open market?”

“Especially then.”

“I can understand,” Qui

Or owning in a different way, like our killer, who might own and cherish the memories of beauty’s violent end at his hands. Not for nothing did the French describe orgasms as “the little death.”

“Fanatical collectors,” Doyle said. “The art world is full of them. Always has been.”

Qui

Or might he collect both?

It seemed likely.

Serial killers often had a horrible or confused relationships with their mothers, or sometimes their sisters. A woman of true beauty, of marble perfection, might provoke extreme possessiveness. Or murder.

Doyle leaned back at a dangerous angle, causing his desk chair to squeal the way Qui

“I’m not sure the kind of collector we’re talking about has the bust.”

A gray, arched eyebrow raised. “Oh? Why not?”

“There isn’t a story,” Qui

“Story?”

“About what happened to Bellezza. People who are willing and able to sit on valuable stolen merchandise usually provide some sort of explanation as to what happened to it—a fire, maybe. Or destruction by vandals. Or another art thief or a gang steals it to resell. Or they don’t know its value and destroy it. Or it’s in somebody’s attic, or was painted over and made into a lawn ornament.”

“I understand. It’s easier if you have an explanation, even if it isn’t terribly plausible.”

“But they’re all plausible? Given the context.”

Doyle absently ran his manicured thumb back and forth over a sharp pencil point. “All those things are possible,” he admitted.

“At least on Antiques Roadshow.” Qui

“Then what do you want?”

“To know more about it.”

Doyle raised his gaze so he was looking up at a point somewhere above Qui

“It’s said that the bust was sculpted from marble by the hand of Michelangelo himself in the early sixteenth century,” Doyle said. “It was commissioned by the church. As you probably know, the subject and model for the sculpture was a woman who was of questionable moral fiber, especially for those days. Still, she was a favorite of many high in the priesthood.”

“How high?”

“Think big, Detective Qui

“Ah.”

“The bust had its place in the nave of the great cathedral, but a new pope didn’t like its co

“But you don’t think so.”

“I don’t know. It seems to have turned up in the hands of a wealthy merchant in Venice around sixteen hundred. A man who dealt mostly in spices, but was also a collector.”

“What about Bellezza? The flesh-and-blood one?”

“Congratulations,” Doyle said. “Most people forget to ask that. She disappeared at the same time the bust was removed from the cathedral.”

“What did Michelangelo have to say about all this?”

“Nothing, as far as we know.”

“And the wealthy Italian Merchant?”

“After his death, his premises were searched and, supposedly, Bellezza wasn’t found.”

“Untimely death?”

Doyle shrugged.

“What did the church do?”

“It provided solace. As it is now, it was then in the business of saving souls, not solving crimes. In the nineteenth century, Bellezza turned up in the collection of an Egyptian art aficionado who died a violent death. Though no one I know of actually claims to have seen it. It is said that the man’s brother claimed the bust, and took it with him to Morocco. A wealthy Moroccan bought it for an unknown price, and the sale was contested. The French government declared it theirs, as the French were wont to do, and it was shipped to Paris and installed in the Louvre.”

“Then it’s real. There’s a record of it being in the Louvre.”

Doyle smiled. “Yes and no. The records of the Louvre became more than slightly altered during and immediately after the Second World War and German occupation.” Doyle made a face as if there was a bad taste on his tongue. “Shortly after the occupation of Paris, the Nazis confiscated much of the city’s great art. Among the pieces they . . . stole, was Bellezza.”

“Or so it’s said.”

Doyle again shrugged his almost nonexistent padded shoulders. “Lots of people tell lots of lies about things that are beautiful. The truth is, we don’t know what happened to Bellezza. Rumor had it the bust became part of Herma

Doyle took a sip of coffee or tea. Both eyebrows raised. “I’ve been remiss. Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?”

“Thanks, no,” Qui

Doyle blew on the cup, as if the tea were scalding. “And now you are attempting to find our missing beauty.” He sipped cautiously. Didn’t say ouch. “Forgive me if I’m cynical, but I have reason. You aren’t the first to search for Bellezza. For a while it was the great daydream accomplishment of hundreds of art students. That’s all changed now.” Another sip. “I’ll be glad to talk to you anytime. To help you any way I can. But I can’t pretend I don’t think your quest is hopeless. You might as well have dropped in to ask for help in finding the Holy Grail. The possibilities are about the same. Virtually nonexistent. Everyone has conceded that Bellezza isn’t going to be found.”

“Not everyone,” Qui

Doyle didn’t stand up immediately. He still had his enigmatic smile pasted to his face. Kept it while he stood and offered his hand. “Good luck, Detective Qui