Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“Yep.”

“This real important to the defense?”

“I doubt it, but the alternative is reading cases.”

He looked at me sideways, then back at the door. “Must be manual.”

“What?”

“The door.” He bent over and gripped a rusty handle on the bottom of the garage door. It opened after four hard yanks, and a bare lightbulb in the ceiling shone down on the damndest thing. A motorcycle. It was a shiny turquoise blue with bright chrome pipes underneath and a leathery black seat. So Patricia had a motorcycle. There was no car in sight. I filed this piece of information and looked around the musty garage.

“Well, will you look at that?” Johanssen said with sudden animation, and glommed on to the bike as if pulled into its gravitational field. “It’s a BMW.”

“I didn’t know BMW made motorcycles,” I said idly.

“BMW? Are you kidding? They’ve been making them for years, since World War II. They made them for Rommel, the first shaft-drive bikes. He needed them because the sand from North Africa, it got in the chains on the old bikes. Abraded them. Motoguzzi copied it, and by the eighties everybody had the drive shaft.”

“Really?” Like I care. Against the cinderblock wall of the garage was a shelf with tins of painting supplies, slim cans of brush cleaner, and linseed oil. So Patricia did keep her painting stuff in here.

Johanssen wolf-whistled. “Jeez, this is a 750.”

“A 750?” I asked, keeping him distracted so he wouldn’t see me snooping. “What does that mean?”

“Seven hundred and fifty cubic centimeters. The displacement, the size of the engine. Like the horsepower in a car.”

“Interesting.” To others. I walked by the motorcycle to the other side of the garage. In the light from the window I could make out some suitcases, a pink steamer trunk, and some papers against the wall.

“My bike’s a Honda,” Johanssen said. “It’s only a 550. They don’t even make it anymore. They start at 650 now.”

“I guess there’s nothing down here,” I said, trying to sound disappointed. “She must’ve used the garage for storage.” I walked over to the cardboard boxes and peeked under one of the flaps, which was slightly damp. Inside was a pile of wool skirts and pullover sweaters. “Just a lot of old winter clothes. I wouldn’t put my sweaters in an open box, would you?”

Johanssen shook his blond head over the bike. “Five hundred ccs just isn’t enough, especially on an on-ramp when you need the acceleration.”

Terrific. My usual communication with men. I walked softly to the steamer trunk. “I would never leave wool in a garage where the moths could get it, would you?”

“No. Half the time, the cars don’t see you. That’s the leading cause of motorcycle accidents, poor visibility of the bike. That’s why you need the power, for maneuvering. You have to drive defensively on a bike.”

“You know how I store my sweaters, Officer?” The latch on the trunk was a mottled brass. I lifted it quietly with my best fingernail. “I get each one dry-cleaned, then I store it in the plastic bag they give you. You know the ones I mean?”

“Yeah. Lotta power in this baby. Lotta power.” He squatted on his haunches to drool on the chrome pipes. “This needs a belly cowling. I’d put a belly cowling on it if it were mine.”

“Then, after I have each sweater in its own individual bag, I slip in a couple of mothball crystal packets, the kind that come with the lavender sachets.” Inside the steamer trunk was a slew of paperback books, Grateful Dead albums, old shoes, and sketchbooks. “You know the sachets I mean? The lavender? Purple?”

“Blue is nice. I think it comes in red, too. Like a maroon.” His voice came from behind the motorcycle.

“This way you don’t get that mothball smell in your clothes, you know what I mean?” Under the paperbacks were a bunch of spiral composition books. “I hate that mothball smell, don’t you? I’ll take lavender any day.”

“Sure. And black. Black is something else. If I were gonna spring for one of these babies, I’d get the black.”

“Black is nice,” I said supportively, and closed the trunk. Behind it was a workbench made out of a door resting across two sawhorses. On top of the door were coffee cans and jars filled with paintbrushes and painter’s knives, and a stack of small sketchbooks. Underneath were canvases, their rough white edges sticking out from between the sawhorse. Maybe the portrait of Paul and me was among them.

Johanssen had been quiet for some time, so I checked over my shoulder. He sat astride the motorcycle with his eyes closed. At least he wasn’t making engine sounds. Not out loud, anyway.

I bent down and flipped through some of the canvases. More wildflowers, one after the other, then a portrait of the young black man, again nude. He stood and faced the artist almost obscenely. I passed by it quickly. There were three other canvases, each of different nude men. Patricia had a wild side, all right, despite her cherubic appearance.

I glanced back at Johanssen. His eyes were closed in orgasm. Again, mercifully silent.

I flipped over to the next canvas and swallowed hard. I was looking at a gorgeous portrait from our Bermuda trip. Paul was sunburned under the moongate, his jacket an idealized white. The garden behind us was lush, the sky shone a faultless blue. The only part unfinished was me. My face was barely sketched in, like a ghost.

“Find anything?” Johanssen asked. He was standing behind the motorcycle looking at me.

Bluff, girl. “Yes. Some beautiful paintings. I love art, don’t you?”

“It’s okay.”

“You should really see this one, Officer. It’s lovely. A still life of some Gerber daisies in a vase. You can see each brushstroke. Come on over and see.”

“Uh, Gerber daisies?”

“Thick stems, a big bloom. Pinks, oranges, yellows. So perfect, so real. You’d love them. Come see.”

“I guess I’m not a real good art fan,” he called out, walking around the back of the motorcycle. “But my wife, she likes art. She grew up in Chadds Ford, so she likes Wyeth and those Brandywine guys. Sure is a nice bike.”

“I like Wyeth, too, some of those meadows he did. And the snow scenes. I love those, don’t you?” I flipped the portrait back in place and straightened up. I grabbed one of the small sketchbooks and quickly paged through it. They were pencil drawings of nude men, black men and white men, short men and tall men. The second sketchbook was more of the same, and I felt myself sweating by the third sketchbook, not knowing what I’d find. “Remember the Helga paintings?” I called out.

“Yepper, maybe I’d go with the maroon. I could live with the maroon. I bet I could pick one up, used. That shop in Montgomeryville, they’d have it.”

I opened the cardboard cover of the third sketchbook and froze on the spot. It was a sketch of Paul. His eyes were closed, in sleep, on a lacy bed. He was naked, with a sheet draped carelessly over his thighs. I wanted to cry out but didn’t.

“Maybe I should ask for it for Christmas?” Johanssen said.

I felt stunned. “Uh… worth a try.”

“We could take long trips together. She’s always saying we don’t spend enough time, just the two of us. Be good for our marriage.”

“Sure. Sounds like it.” As if I knew what was good for a marriage. I tore through the other sketchbooks. Paul wasn’t in any of them, but the young black man was, the one with the short dreadlocks. I returned to the drawing of Paul, holding the sketchbook in my hand. Deciding what to do with it.

“Yes sir,” he said, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I think I’ll put it on my Christmas list.”