A Perfect Eye Read online

  Creativity was so easily destroyed, the call so fleeting and ephemeral. He had a soft spot for young artists, especially those who feared their best work was behind them. But there was more than one way to get inspiration back. He himself had never felt so productive or fulfilled as now. So fertile… His frown deepened.

  Width created volume. To capture the vase’s contour, he turned the pencil on its side and shaded with the edge. But the broken tip had left a ridge. When he tried to soften the line, it smudged and the graphite on his hand soiled the paper. Soiled—like Jay Kurtz, whom he’d known from the bars. Jay had told him about his father’s hypocrisy and pretentions, the yellow silk robe he wore in private. When he met Kurtz at the Kimbell in Fort Worth later, after Jay had died, it was as if he already knew him. Like a line, an idea had begun to form.

  He started on the vase again.

  Speeded up, his stroke was less halting and more assured. Closer to Caillebotte’s—but just as suddenly, the Master fled. Who am I kidding? He tore out the page and crumpled it up. He tossed the soiled effort in the trash. He knew exactly how Caillebotte felt. And Jay.

  He gathered his pencils and sketchbook. Opening the door, he braced for a dog’s bark. But there was silence. It was weeks since he’d seen Candace. Once when he was in his yard she’d poked her head out the door. Seeing him, she scuttled back in. A few days later a cab came and she left with suitcases. How long before the For Sale sign went up? He hoped his new neighbors had kids.

  Au revoir, Candace. She’d been good for limbering up, honing his blade. An étude. Now he had a more interesting work in progress. Not like his old man, nor his annoying but ultimately harmless neighbor, nor Kurtz who’d needed a lesson. Too bad Jay wasn’t around to see it! Kurtz in particular had expanded his portfolio.

  But Lily was different.

  She’d ignored his labors with her toothbrush. For that insult her cat paid the price. She’d refused to let well enough alone. Looking into Kurtz was dangerous, but her choice again. What came next would be her own fault. He glanced up at the sky. Clouds were moving in. Best pack up for the day.

  If pentimenti were regrets, for her he had none.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Don’t burglars get lawyers in Denver?” Paul said.

  Johnson, the lead detective, shrugged. “Public defender.”

  They were in Johnson’s office at Denver Police headquarters. Paul hid his impatience; the FBI had no jurisdiction over Kurtz’s murder, and he understood why the locals wanted to pin it on a guy caught red-handed by a gun-toting country club homeowner. But the crimes had nothing in common, and no forensics tied the burglar to Kurtz. The only leads were the trace chemicals in Kurtz’s wounds and the methane used to gas him.

  “The library’s next to the garage,” Paul said. “You ruled out fuel vapors?”

  “Kurtz’s garage has its own HVAC.”

  The crime scene was above the cellar, where heavy gases collected, and he bet it wasn’t as fancy as the garage. “You checked drains and pipes? Any cracks in plumbing lines or vents?”

  Johnson scribbled on a pad.

  “What about septic tanks?” Paul said.

  Johnson jotted another note, and Paul wanted to throttle his fat throat. The DPD would be better off hiring a plumber. But it was unlikely Kurtz was accidently gassed. Sewer gas contained hydrogen sulfide, which smelled like rotten eggs. And why use methane, or gas Kurtz at all? There were easier ways to disable an eighty-year-old.

  “We tested the air in the house,” Johnson said. “It was stuffy, but so was Kurtz.” He grinned, and Paul gritted his teeth.

  He hated everything about this case. How dare Lily accuse him of throwing it? The Senator made it an FBI priority, but he couldn’t care less if Kurtz had been slipping her money or anything else. He’d agreed to go to Denver, though for the life of him he couldn’t understand why.

  Johnson offered him a donut. “Woman trouble?”

  I should have told her I was married.

  After Lily kicked him out, he’d gone back to D.C. and confessed to his wife. With no kids the divorce was quick and painless. Since then he’d put everything into his career. Focus. “Methane comes from compost, waste pits, water treatment plants, horse manure. You can inhale or ingest it.”

  “I dunno,” Johnson said. “Can you picture Kurtz eating rotten bananas, dirt or shit?”

  “You have a point.” The donut wasn’t bad either. Johnson slid the carton over.

  The first couple years, he’d called her over and over. She never returned his messages and finally he’d moved on. Granted, to a series of one-week stands, but he had neither the time nor desire for anything real. Not like they’d had. The Schiele nude flashed in his head but he blinked it away. “What about those trace chemicals?” He’d sent samples to the FBI lab.

  “Formaldehyde’s pretty common.”

  So now Johnson was a chemist. “It wasn’t just formaldehyde. Did you find anything with all three chemicals? And how did they get in Kurtz’s wounds?”

  Johnson set down his mug and rocked back in his chair. “You seriously expect me to inventory and test every product in his house?”

  Yes.

  Paul ached to call in his own team. He was juggling cases in D.C., but Susan Grace had made her priorities clear. But Kurtz wasn’t butchered and flayed by a burglar. Having gotten away with it once, the killer could do it again. And there was Lily… The Schiele came back more insistently, refusing to be blinked away. Witnessing Lily awaken to her own power that night in the conference room was more erotic than any watercolor nude. In front of that damn Caillebotte with her the other day, he’d felt it again.… Get a fucking grip. “Where are we on Nick Lang?”

  “He’s been under surveillance for weeks.”

  “Around the clock?”

  Johnson looked at him with something like pity. “Enough to know that expert of yours is spending quite a bit of time at his place.”

  “My expert?”

  “That cute little blonde you brought to the crime scene. You didn’t mention she works at the museum.”

  Paul felt himself flush. What was he—sixteen years old? He’d blown every conceivable chance with her, but what hurt most was she evidently believed he was sleeping with Gina Wheelock. She thinks so little of me.

  “Ms. Sparks is an FBI resource.”

  “Whatever.” Johnson sighed. “We don’t have your manpower, son, and it’s damn hard to allocate it to a wild goose chase. Particularly one involving—”

  Paul rubbed his neck. “I’m not sleeping with her.”

  “I can see that. But she’s affecting your judgment.”

  “Nick Lang has a motive,” he insisted.

  “Because he was suing Kurtz?”

  “I need to get inside—”

  “If you want to search his place, we need a warrant.”

  Johnson was right. The Schiele faded, and Paul reached for the blow-ups on the desk. Something nagged. Not the glossies of a skinless Kurtz in that chair, or the disgusting gobs on the wall… He stopped at a shot of the divan in the library. He remembered that coat and fedora on it. Kurtz’s maid said they were Kurtz’s. Why weren’t they hanging in his closet?

  “Did he take walks before bed?” Paul asked. “Maybe someone followed him home.”

  “No forced entry.”

  “Maybe it was a pick-up….”

  “… who happened to be carrying a tank of methane gas? Chrissake, Paul, the guy had three exes!”

  Paul sighed. “We need to look into Jay Kurtz’s friends.”

  “Why?”

  So I can take a woman who despises me to the swankest steakhouse in town.

  “The kid drank himself to death,” Paul said. “Maybe a friend bore a grudge.”

  Johnson snorted. “Gutting a man and smearing his shit on a wall is a helluva payback for a grudge. This wouldn’t be another of your girlfriend’s—”

  “Of course not!” If he told Johnson about the Armenian r
ug dealer he’d never hear the end of it. “But if Jay had a pal who blamed Kurtz for his death, prudence dictates eliminating him.”

  “Prudence?” Johnson’s eyes gleamed. “So that’s her name.”

  “Just check the bars, for Christ’s sake. Drinks are on me.”

  ―

  Paul looked at his cell phone. Two messages from Susan Grace.

  “Senator?” he said. Another party in the background. Campaigns began on election day.

  “Did you look into George’s son?” she said.

  George. Paul described the efforts to locate Jay Kurtz’s friends.

  “But you have that burglar.”

  “The killer wasn’t a burglar,” he said patiently. “He had finesse.”

  “Finesse?”

  “Artistry.” He winced. Now he was thinking like Lily, the last person he wanted on Susan Grace’s radar screen.

  “Wrap this up, Paul.” Laughter rang through the phone. Which K Street gun was footing the bill? “I don’t care who it is. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bag—and you have two birds.”

  What will she do when neither comes home to roost?

  “I’m looking at someone else,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “An engineer named Nick Lang.”

  “Why?”

  “He was suing Kurtz and it got ugly.” The missing pieces were why Kurtz let Lang in, and how he gassed him. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “George would’ve swatted him like a fly, Paul. Don’t worry about charges. I’ll come up with something to hold him.”

  “Hold whom?”

  “The burglar. I have informants.”

  Is she kidding—or setting me up?

  “Burglary isn’t a federal crime, Susan.” Nor was murder. “The locals have jurisdiction.”

  “Quit talking to that Denver cop. What’s his name, Johnson?”

  I didn’t tell her that.

  “Never forget your friends, Paul. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in Washington, it’s—”

  “—get a dog?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, I’m in a bar. Good night, Susan.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The combo plate was a salute to the Mexican flag. The burrito and enchiladas were striped red and green, and the tacos were slathered with sour cream. Paul draped his suitcoat over the back of his chair, tucked his tie into his crisp white dress shirt, and dug in. Special Agent Slatkin passed him the pozole.

  “They soak the hominy in lye, Paul. You can’t get food like this in D.C.”

  “Damn right.”

  The taqueria was way out on Colfax, deeper into East Bumblefuck than the local FBI fortress itself. For the Feds after 9-11, downtown offices no longer sufficed; the towering fence, colossal floodlights, and pervasive cameras made the new Denver headquarters look like a maximum-security prison. When Slatkin suggested lunch off-site, Paul offered to buy. As temporary license plates started outnumbering permanent tags, neon signs gave way to hand-painted block-lettered ones, and holes in the wall began touting catfish hotlinks, he knew he was being pimped. But dives were his kind of place. He reached for the menudo.

  “You like cow’s stomach?” Slatkin said doubtfully.

  “When it’s this tender.” The chile was gelatinous from pork neck bones. “What’s in the red sauce, ground coffee?”

  Slatkin threw up his hands and surrendered to the menudo. As he slurped, the consternation on his face slowly turned to unalloyed delight.

  “Tell me about the Petrosian case,” Paul said. “You were the lead agent, right?”

  Slatkin grimaced. “It was supposed to be a slam-dunk seizure under the Trading with the Enemy Act.”

  “The case went sideways?”

  “Fiasco start to finish. I warned them not to file it.”

  Paul ordered Coronas, and Slatkin continued.

  “We got a tip Petrosian was planning to smuggle in an antique Chinese vase. When it landed in Denver, he claimed he bought it in Taiwan from a family who said it was modern. We seized the vase and indicted him for a false Customs declaration. Then the fun began.”

  “Fun?”

  “His lawyers had the U.S. Attorney on the ropes from day one. Customs regs unconstitutionally vague, improper seizure, violation of Fifth Amendment, yada yada. The corker came first day of trial.”

  The waiter slammed two cold cans of Corona on the table. As Paul popped the tab and brought his can to his mouth, foam spurted up his nose and down his chin. He pulled the sweaty can back just in time to avoid staining his tie and shirt.

  “Our expert was from Harvard,” Slatkin said. “He said the vase was Qing Dynasty.”

  Paul’s nose tickled from the beer. When was the last time he drank from a shaken can? It reminded him of the time he stuck a Mentos tablet in his old man’s Coke.

  “And?”

  “He walks into court and looks at the defense table. ‘Rosie!’ he cries.”

  “He knew Petrosian?”

  “Harvard classmates. Rosie has a PhD in art history.”

  “Shit.”

  “Experts pull their opinions from their ass,” Slatkin groused. “Had a fraud case once—”

  “What happened next?”

  “‘Rosie’s the real expert,’ our guy says. ‘If he says it’s modern, who am I to disagree?’ Case didn’t even reach the jury. The U.S. Attorney blamed us, then bitched about being micromanaged from D.C.” Slatkin smiled with grim satisfaction. “He slunk back to Washington, but we tied that vase up in so much red tape Rosie had to climb up his own ass to see it again.”

  Paul signaled the waiter for another beer. “Is Rosie connected?”

  “To organized crime?” Slatkin laughed with real amusement. “If he was, we wouldn’t have screwed around with a Customs violation. We would’ve filed a RICO.”

  Paul was disappointed and relieved. The Armenian was a long shot, but you had to be thorough. That left Nick Lang and whatever friend of Jay Kurtz’s Johnson scared up. Was that goose chase any wilder than Lily’s theory?

  “What do you know about art forgers?” he asked Slatkin.

  Slatkin wiped his mouth. “Bunch of losers who can’t sell their work.”

  “Any on your radar lately?”

  “Nope.”

  Now he couldn’t even take her to a steakhouse. Just one more loose end.

  “I heard Kurtz tipped off Customs.”

  “So they say.”

  “Why would the Justice Department—”

  “You’ll have to ask the prosecutor. Or that gal from D.C. who had it in for Rosie. She pushed us to file, then micromanaged the case.”

  “Gal?” Paul said.

  “Susan Grace.”

  ―

  “Did you arrest Jay Kurtz’s friend?” Susan Grace asked that night.

  “Not yet.” Careful now. “I have another lead. Does Anton Petrosian ring a bell?”

  “Petrosian… I don’t think so.”

  “A defendant in a smuggling case twenty years ago.” He waited. “George Kurtz tipped Customs off.”

  “What an odd coincidence!”

  Coincidence, my ass.

  “And you think this Petrushkin killed George. Who came up with that lead? Johnson, or your other friend?”

  Does she mean Slatkin—or Lily?

  “Local scuttlebutt,” he said. “Johnson isn’t in the loop.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “I wondered about a mob connection. Armenians are tough—”

  “Drop it, Paul.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’ve got the burglar. If it’s smuggling you want, a joint task force in Seattle is investigating antiques from China…”

  Or should we say Taiwan.

  “… more suited to your talents. One call to the Director and you’ll be heading it.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Susan.”

  She laughed. “One day his job will be yours.”

&n
bsp; Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Don’t play with that, Ollie!” Margo called out.

  They sat on a bench in City Park, watching Margo’s seven-year-old daughter examine a glob of goose poop in a puddle of mud. Olivia prodded the poop with her tiny Ugg. Mud splattered her white leggings, stopping short of her ballerina skirt.

  “Mommy, the poop’s green!”

  Margo rolled her eyes at Lily. Once or twice a month she had Saturday morning off, and while Margo’s son was at hockey or Little League, they took Olivia to the playground. As usual, they’d stopped on the way for lattes and one pink-frosted donut with sprinkles. Lily remembered the day Olivia was born, and the first time she looked up and recognized her.

  “Don’t the monkey bars look like fun, Ollie?” Margo said. Olivia twirled in her ballerina skirt and was off to the slides. “I can’t get her out of a dress,” she muttered with unmistakable pride. “What have I done wrong?”

  “Not a damn thing. You’re the best mother I know.”

  A peacock screeched from the zoo next door. Would they have time to take Olivia to see the baby giraffe? As they sipped their coffee, watching her and enjoying the sun, Lily remembered other Saturdays. Margo almost read her mind.

  “Remember that bond lawyer who made us work weekends, just because he could?” They’d sworn they’d never do that when they made partner.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Died reading a trust indenture.”

  “Jeez!” Paul saved me from that.

  Margo’s voice softened. “Miss it?”

  “No—yeah, maybe a little.” She’d driven fifty miles to that client’s bank, just to make sure it was real. That meant something, didn’t it?

  “The firm would take you back in a heartbeat. We still talk about that painting, you know.”

  “The Schiele?” Lily almost laughed. What would they say if they knew what she and Paul did on the conference room table afterwards? Not even Margo knew that.

  “You’re a role model for a generation of associates…” Margo insisted.