A Perfect Eye Read online

  She drove downtown, past the cash-register shaped skyscraper where she’d practiced law, and to the museum. Framed against the stars, it looked more than ever like an extraterrestrial vessel blown wildly off course. I’m the one who’s lost.

  The one thing she wouldn’t let go of was what she and Paul had shared. Driving past the Ritz-Carlton, she swallowed a Percocet dry to stave off the pain that made it hard to hold onto the wheel. When did she last eat? But the gnawing in her stomach wasn’t hunger.

  Where did she most want to go? Back to the night mom died. What if she’d run to her in that doorway, grabbed her knees and begged her to stay? What if she had another chance? To be a different person, to save her dad from himself? To be the kind of daughter she would’ve wanted to be there for. That fantasy was cruelest of all. Elena warned her not to look. Now she saw.

  At the condo, she took two more Percocet. Just before they hit, she saw her attacker in her head. Felt, rather, him clambering over the rope at the Samurai exhibition and slowly circling the table in her lab. Something familiar…

  “Jack?” she called. But he was with Louise. Her own bed was empty and far away. She grabbed an afghan and collapsed on the couch.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Paul dipped his silver-handled brush in his shaving cream. He lathered his face and neck. In the bathroom mirror at the Ritz, he looked almost as lousy as he felt. After his two-day bender with Johnson, he could barely get out of bed; if not for his flight to D.C. he’d still be sleeping it off. Not that he had a choice. The FBI Director himself had ordered him to return, and it wasn’t for a commendation.

  How many bars did they hit after the Nick Lang fiasco? The last thing he remembered about Friday night was his fourth Jim Beam chased by beer and peanuts at some cop dive. They’d spent Saturday reviewing the case file for the last time before sampling the boilermakers at another set of bars. Johnson was divorced—three times—and Paul had a vague sense of having confided in him more than he’d intended. His bloodshot eyes said the rest.

  You’re too old for this.

  As he dragged his double-bladed razor up his neck, his whiskers grated like static. He plowed on, his blade sawing like a scythe through a field of weeds. The first slip came at a sideburn. The second in the tender spot at the base of his nose. He repeated the process in the opposite direction. By the time he was done, his face was covered with toilet paper confetti.

  Some hero you are.

  Maybe Kurtz’s murder was a one-off nut job. All he’d accomplished was to prove how ethically low he could sink and to destroy any chance he might’ve had with Lily. And now he was being recalled like an old Ford Pinto. Sure, he’d neutralized Nick. That thumb drive neutered him; with him holding it over his head, Nick wouldn’t have the guts to contact her. At Johnson’s urging, he’d tried to call her last night, regaining his senses sufficiently to avoid leaving a drunken maudlin message. Nick was right. He was ten years too late. He started to rinse his razor and brush, gifts from a woman at the Department of Justice he barely remembered.

  Fuck ’em and forget ’em.

  Self-loathing roiled his stomach. He threw the razor and brush in the trash.

  He was to blame for her leaving law. And for upending the new life she’d made for herself by dragging her into the Kurtz investigation. Had he also cost her her job? There was a knock at his suite’s outer door.

  “Room service…” called a cheery voice. He hadn’t ordered anything.

  The door opened. Dishes clanked. The door closed. The Ritz was either concerned about the Do Not Disturb sign on his door for the past three days, or it was politely reminding him of checkout time. Ignoring the food, he donned an old grey T-shirt, Levi’s and sneakers. He quickly packed. His eyes were gritty and when he rubbed his face shreds of toilet paper came off. Returning to the bathroom, he took a good look at himself in the mirror.

  Is this who you want to be?

  His laugh caught in his throat. Turning away, he saw something round and shiny on the counter, almost hidden amidst the Ritz toiletries. Her compact with the galaxy and stars. He ran his fingers over the lid. When he opened it, her woodsy scent rose like a whisper. He slipped it in his back pocket. He looked at his cell. More messages from D.C. and a dirty text from Johnson. He listened again to the two-second messages she’d left Thursday night. Call me… Nothing more from her. He stared at her number on his phone.

  Didn’t you hurt her enough?

  That perfect eye of hers, the crazy game she and her father played. Funny thing was, it worked. She’d caught that line break in the Schiele all those experts missed. He wondered if she was right about Kurtz’s killer. Was he a forger, had the murder been inspired by a painting? A Caillebotte landscape, for Christ’s sake!

  Can’t let go, can you?

  Closing his eyes, he played a game of his own. He went back and forth between the painting and the crime scene. Technique, palette, composition—something else linked them. Something that didn’t belong.

  What’s hiding in plain sight?

  But it was no good. He wasn’t her. He put his service weapon in his carry-on bag and found his rental car keys. He did one last check of the room. In the trash was her ball cap.

  The hat.

  The one at the crime scene was a grey felt fedora with a broad brim and shallow indented crown. It was Kurtz’s, but it didn’t belong on the divan in the library. The man in Seven wore a farmer’s hat with a wider brim and a taller crown. A long time ago, his own father had one like it, too. So what?

  The killer likes old hats.

  Paul chuckled grimly. But the fedora must mean something, or why leave it in the library? She was right: the crime scene was artistically composed. Every element had meaning to the killer. Was the hat his calling card? But if it belonged to Kurtz and not the killer—

  He kept the real one.

  If he could find the hat—and that damn beer can—he’d have the killer! He laughed again. Two needles in a Caillebotte haystack. Johnson was right. The hotshot from Quantico had blown it beginning to end.

  He checked out and tipped the valet who brought his rental car. As he drove on I-70 to the airport, he kept thinking about Lily. Something else didn’t make sense. She was damned good at her job, and despite being distracted by Nick, far too competent to allow a Degas to be destroyed. In the distance, the main terminal rose like sheets in the wind. In an hour he’d be up in that sky, and if he was lucky, tomorrow he’d be at his desk chasing a tax fraud or Ponzi scheme. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her and the Degas.

  Was she right, was she set up? No matter how insecure Gina was, he couldn’t imagine her destroying a masterpiece to get Lily fired. If it wasn’t an accident or Gina, was it connected to Kurtz? Kurtz had business enemies galore, but he’d always thought the murder had something to do with the museum. The violence and precision, the grotesqueness of the crime itself, said it was personal. He’d dismissed her every step of the way, but maybe she was right. If the killer was an artist who forged the Caillebotte, he’d want to see his painting every day. And she was a dog with a bone: if she went after him, getting fired wouldn’t stop her. Does she know how much danger she could be in? He pulled to the shoulder. Cars whizzing past, he dialed a number on his cell.

  “Gina?”

  “Didn’t expect to hear from you again, Paul.” Kittenish, toying. He felt a pang of remorse. She deserved better than to be a distraction. “Dinner tonight?”

  “I’m on my way to the airport.”

  “Oh. Next time, then.”

  Tell her what she wants to hear. He pulled out the compact and ran his finger over the swirls. So like Lily, that galaxy and stars. “I don’t think so, Gina.”

  “You used me!” She waited for that old line to land. “It’s Lily, isn’t it?”

  Tell her the truth.

  “Yes.” In the shocked silence that followed, he fiddled with the compact’s clasp. It was loose; how many times had it been opened? “What happen
ed with that Degas?”

  “If you’re begging for her job again...”

  “Of course not, Gina.”

  She snorted. “Nobody entrusts a masterpiece to an assistant!”

  “Assistant?” Give me a name. “But surely—”

  “Amy’s twenty-six years old!”

  The copper-haired girl in the lab. He had the museum’s directory on his iPad. If she still worked there, he could track her down.

  “And this—Amy. What happened to her?”

  “She came crying to me, of course. I had an opening for an assistant.” Now all he had to do was scroll through the curator’s staff. “You two belong together. You know what Lily tried to do to keep her job? Convince me Seven’s a fake. She said she had proof!”

  I better find him fast.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  It was Sunday afternoon when Lily rose. Her swaddled arm reeked and her hand was a baseball mitt. A dining room chair was shoved against her front door. Did I do that? Except for the hospital, the last thirty-six hours were a blur. She remembered being attacked and somehow thinking she could handle it herself. She rummaged in her refrigerator. A jar of pickles, some old cheese, a slimy artichoke. She drank a bottle of water and took two Percocet. Her attacker flickered in and out of her head. A shambling gait. Would he come back to finish the job? Not now, and not here. He’d wait until dark.

  She vacuumed her carpet with one hand and tried to scrub the kitchen floor. She resisted going next door to visit Jack. She didn’t want to bring grief to him or Louise. Should she let Kurtz’s killer come to her? That was the Percocet talking. But she was just an afterthought; Seven was why Kurtz was murdered. What was the killer’s grievance, what was his point? One thing was sure: His appetite for risk made him a gambler.

  A fraud with a poker chip on his shoulder. Sound like anyone I know?

  She almost laughed. In the meantime, no matter how angry and disgusted she was with her dad, he was her responsibility. Elena had told her to sleep on it. He could damn well cool his heels at Swedish until she figured out what to do next.

  ―

  Poet’s Row was a trendy area near the museum. The art deco buildings on Amy’s block were named for literary figures. Hers was The Mark Twain. Paul knew getting what he wanted wouldn’t be easy; his experience with twenty-something girls was less extensive than women scorned. And Amy had something to lose. He found her in the building directory and rang.

  “Who is it?” Amy said through the intercom static. He answered unintelligibly. She buzzed him in. The copper-haired girl three flights up recognized him immediately.

  “Oh!” Her hands flew to her cheeks. “You’re Lily’s FBI agent.”

  He smiled disarmingly and planted a sneakered foot on the doorsill. Behind her big eyes the wheels turned. “Can I come in?”

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk.” He gestured at his T-shirt and Levi’s. “This isn’t official.”

  Past her shoulder he saw an oil painting of an elderly woman. Expensively framed, it dominated the room. Amy automatically stepped back so he could see better. From the threshold, he scrutinized the portrait. Every wrinkle and mole had been rendered with the remorselessness of a high-resolution photograph. He was no fan of hyper-realistic art, but even by its standards this painting was downright scary.

  “She doesn’t look anything like you,” he said.

  “Not yet, but she did win a prize.” Amy smiled ruefully and stepped aside so he could enter. Her windows faced north. On an easel in the corner, away from that precious light, sat a smaller portrait of a copper-haired girl. One side of the face showed the skill of the prize-winning canvas. The other was a web of cracks.

  “Work in progress?” he said.

  “Maybe.” Amy had circles under her eyes.

  “Crappy week?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Your work’s pretty unforgiving,” he said gently. “Too much realism can be unfair.”

  “An FBI art critic!” Her laugh was forced.

  “Know what I see?” he said. “A girl whose life’s just beginning. And an artist with talent to burn.”

  “Maybe ten years ago—”

  “I have news for you, Amy. You can’t be a has-been at twenty-six.”

  She sank onto the sofa bed. “Lily trusted me.”

  He sat next to her. “She doesn’t blame you.”

  “She warned me not to use the spray bath!” She was about to cry.

  “Why did you?”

  “I—” She was protecting someone.

  “Who loaded the varnish in the machine?” he said softly. “Nick?”

  “Nick the geek?” She was genuinely confused. “He had nothing to do with it.”

  Shit. He regrouped.

  “Look, Amy, no one’s in trouble. I just want to understand.”

  “He was trying to help.”

  “Who?”

  “He said if we used the spray bath, we could surprise Lily on Monday.”

  “Who?” he repeated.

  “He offered to load it. I told him to use matte.”

  “Damnit, Amy! Who?”

  “Dave.”

  What the…?

  “Dave Byers,” she said. “A senior docent at the museum.”

  Another dead end. Go back to D.C. and hand in your badge.

  “He’s my friend,” Amy said, “the only one who really understands. You won’t tell on him, will you?” she begged. “Lily likes him, too.”

  He started to rise.

  “Dave knows his way around a lab, he’s a chemist.” She was practically babbling now. “He’s retired, but he worked at Coors—”

  He stopped. “Coors?”

  “He feels worse about the Degas than I do. Any artist would.”

  “Artist?”

  “Lots of docents paint, but Dave’s a master. His oils should hang in a museum. He knows how it feels—”

  To be a loser who can’t sell his work.

  “— and he’s great to have a beer with. He brews his own.”

  Paul struggled to make his next question casual.

  “And where does Dave live?”

  ―

  At Swedish, a bouquet at the nurses’ station wilted. Wheeled carts with trays of half-eaten food stood in the corridor, and a heart-shaped mylar balloon wafted forlornly from a door. Empty-handed—forget Boston Market!—Lily walked briskly down the hall to her dad’s room. She flung open the door.

  The room was empty. His bed was stripped. Even the wastebasket had been dumped.

  “Where’s Harry Sparks?” she asked the duty nurse. “I’m his daughter.”

  “Mr. Sparks was discharged an hour ago.”

  “Discharged?”

  “He left against medical advice,” the nurse said defensively. “He signed the waivers.”

  “Fuck the waivers! Why didn’t you call me?”

  “He instructed us not to.”

  Lily took a deep breath. “Where did he go?”

  “A friend picked him up.”

  “My father has no friends!”

  But he did. One who was a gambler, with a shambling, bearish gait. She heard his armor clank, smelled oil and metal and sweat. The sheer weight of him, pushing her onto the heat vacuum table… The carrot-haired nurse who thought her dad was such a charmer came out from the back. She smiled at Lily.

  “His name was Dave.”

  Lily tried to clear her head.

  They didn’t bond because they were widowers. If Dave was ever married at all.

  Their bond wasn’t gambling, or art. It was a grievance against the world and an instinct for fraud. Would he harm her dad?

  Or use him as bait?

  He wants me.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Dave’s Dodge Ram was parked in front of his house. Lily drove past it to the dead end and parked at the barricade. To the west a tall fence strung with wire prevented access to Four Mile Park, now closed. Directly ahead lay
the greenbelt. July’s monsoons had thickened the scrub. Now it was brittle and dry. Across the ravine lay the bike path and walking trail. Beyond them, cottonwoods marked the plunge to Cherry Creek.

  Dave likes him.

  In the middle distance, a cyclist in a helmet and red jersey sped past a clutch of joggers and two women with a Saint Bernard. Soon the paths would be deserted. At dusk, foxes and coyotes went on the hunt. Past the cottonwoods and the creek, headlights flickered. Families returning from soccer games in the park.

  What if he won’t let him go?

  Lily locked the Prius and crossed to Dave’s property. From this direction, his lot was bigger than she’d thought. A chicken wire fence ran from his driveway to the ravine. At the corner farthest from the road the sun’s last rays glinted like a mirror off the shed’s metal roof. For an instant it seemed on fire. Then the light softened to a velvety glow that made the surrounding foliage black. Was that a lamp in the window? Like those ’90s kitschy oils of cabins in the woods. Pay a little extra, and a master highlighter would add a splash of paint to make the work truly yours.

  Dave’s house was dark. The one next door looked abandoned. Its owner had obviously cared for it. Neat flower beds had gone to weeds and the little doghouse was forlorn. A sign said For Sale—New Price. No help there.

  Lily elevated her swaddled arm and slung her backpack over her good shoulder. She picked her way around Dave’s house and down the slope towards the shed. The only light came from the shed; he’d wired it from his deck. She peered in the window.

  Dave hunched over a sketchbook. Her dad sat across from him in an armchair with his bad leg hooked under. He was wearing a pair of old overalls that were too big. He looked dopey, lost. A little boy who’d awoken in a strange bed.

  Leave now and go to the police.

  But the way he sat made the hair on her good arm rise. Pont’s dog with its leg cut off, Kurtz’s broken ankles… Was Dave cropping her dad’s frame? Those same hands rent Kurtz in two. If he’d caught her in the Samurai exhibition, her guts would have been on the gallery wall. She set down her backpack and opened the door.