Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

“Not really.”

“But it explains why no pictures.”

“Yep.”

I thought about the timing. David’s London trip did him no good, and I wondered if he had a story for Tuesday. I didn’t relish asking. “In the face is…”

Mike found the word for me. “Intimate.”

“Anger like that, you think lover-which doesn’t necessarily narrow the field with Holly.”

Mike made an affirmative noise. “According to my friend, the gunshots weren’t all of it. Sometime before she was shot, she was beaten, and pretty badly.”

“Jesus,” I sighed. “How long before?”

“Days, they think. Apparently the bruises had started to heal.”

“The cops think it was the same person that did both?”

“My guy says they’re still debating. Why- you have a theory?”

“Not even close,” I said. “Holly seemed to make a lot of people mad, or scared, or both.”

“I just wish we knew who some of those people were.”

“I’m working on it.” My voice was louder than I intended.

Mike’s voice was quiet. “I’ll let you get back to it, then,” he said, and hung up.

Four times, in the face. Jesus.

Getting back to work was dragging on a pair of jeans and a turtleneck, and making another call to Gene Werner. I got no answer and left no message, and afterward I called Orlando Krug’s gallery. The deep, faintly accented voice answered after five rings, and there was a long silence on the line when I told him who it was.

“Like most of the city, we are closed today, Mr. March.”

“I guess that leaves you time to talk.”

“We’ve already discussed Cassandra’s work; I don’t know that I have any more to say.”

“It’s not Cassandra’s work I want to talk about, Mr. Krug. It’s Holly.”

There was another long silence, and finally Krug spoke. “I will be in the gallery for another few hours.”

The walk to the West Village was slow going through stabbing cold on mostly empty streets. A few hardy shopkeepers shoveled their patches of pavement against the tireless snow, and were rewarded with the business of a few desperate souls- coffee and bagels and cigarettes, diapers and beer. I limped in the road, and moved aside now and then for the churning orange mass of a snowplow.

Orlando Krug hadn’t bothered to clear his piece of Perry Street, but the security gate was up on the door of his gallery. I rapped on the glass and he let me in. Krug was still neatly pressed, but he was pale under his dark tan, and his blue eyes were clouded. I followed him through the gallery and into his office, a snug, bright space with more beadboard, a red and green kilim on the floor, and a big cherry desk in front of a shuttered, deeply recessed window.

“You’ve come through the snow; I suppose the least I can do is offer you coffee.” Krug went to the windowsill and poured coffee from a steel carafe into a heavy mug. He handed the mug across and settled into a tan leather chair.

“I was surprised to find you here today,” I said.

“No more so than I. I’d planned to wake up in Palm Beach this morning.”

“I was surprised you agreed to see me too.”

Krug’s nut-brown face creased more deeply for a moment. “You piqued my curiosity, Mr. March, which I assume was your intention.”

“When’s the last time you saw Holly, Mr. Krug?”

Krug smiled thinly. “Who is this Holly you keep mentioning?”

I sighed. “You didn’t make me shlep over here for this, did you? Because it’s cold out there and my socks are wet, and if all we’re going to do is dance around, the coffee doesn’t cover it.” The little smile went away and Krug’s face fell again into tired folds, but he said nothing.

“I know that Cassandra Z is Holly Cade, and that Holly Cade is Wren,” I said. “I’ve seen two of her videos. You’re not violating any confidences.”

“What do you want with her?”

“I’m a private detective.” The news didn’t seem to shock him. “I’m trying to find Holly, but she hasn’t been home for a while now.”

“On whose behalf are you trying to find her?” I shook my head and Krug laughed harshly. “But I am supposed to trust you?”

“I promise you, I mean her no harm.”

“This from a man who has lied to me from the moment we met.”

I drank some more coffee and stretched my leg out and looked at Krug. “Did you invite me here out of curiosity, Mr. Krug, or out of worry?”

Krug pursed his lips. “It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve heard from her.”

“Is that a long time for you two?” He nodded. “You’re close?”

“ ‘Close’ is difficult with Holly. There are things she discusses with me, and things she never mentions, and always she is jealous of her privacy. But I’m fond of her, Mr. March, and I’m not fond of many people.”

“Is there anything in particular that’s making you anxious?”

Impatience flitted across Krug’s face. “If you’ve seen her videos, you know the risks Holly takes for her art. They’re reason enough to worry.”

I nodded. “How long have you known her?”

“Since that group show at my upstate gallery, two years ago now. She came to see me several months later, to discuss Cassandra’s work, and I must confess I was surprised.”

“Surprised how?”

“When we first met, I’d pigeonholed her as a girl of a certain type. A beautiful girl, unquestionably, but just one of many, I’d thought, who come to the city with expensive educations, vague artistic aspirations and precious little in the way of talent. You must know the kind. They float around town for a few years, and play at painting, or acting, or what have you, and fill space in the clubs until they settle down with their pudgy little bankers. But then I saw the early edits of Interview One, and I knew I’d been wrong about her.”

“She has talent.”

“Talents-plural- and a remarkable vision as well, and there’s nothing dilettantish or lazy about her.”

I nodded some more. “Have you tried to reach her?”

“At her apartment. As you said, no one’s been home for some time. I don’t know where else to look.”

“How about friends or family?”

“I don’t know Holly’s friends, Mr. March, and all I know of her family is that she’s not in contact with them.” Krug’s eyes narrowed. “I assume you have tried them yourself.”

“Only her family, who know next to nothing about her. As far as friends go, I haven’t found many, at least none who’ve been in touch lately. I’m trying to locate her boyfriend.”

His eyes narrowed some more and his brown face hardened. “You’re referring to Gene?”

“Gene Werner- he’s one of the men I’m looking for, though I understand they stopped seeing each other several months ago.”

“That is my understanding as well,” he said. He looked unsure of whether to say more.

“Do you know Werner?”

“I saw him once, waiting for Holly when she left here one day, but we were never introduced.” There was distaste in Krug’s voice.

“You have any idea why they broke up?” Krug gave me a speculative look but didn’t speak. “I’ve been trying to reach Werner for days now,” I said, “and he seems to be missing too. Frankly, it makes me a little nervous.”

Krug sighed. “It’s not as if Holly sobs on my shoulder about her love life, Mr. March, but my sense is that the relationship was always fraught. He was, by the sound of things, quite obsessed with Holly. She was less invested, but she let things go on- I’m not sure why. Perhaps she liked being the object of his mania, or perhaps staying with him was the path of least resistance; perhaps she liked the element of abuse that I think was there; but, whatever the reason, she allowed the relationship to carry on for years. Then- sometime in late summer or fall- he found out about her videos.”