Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“We have to see those paintings, John.”

“If she took one of our planes,” says Bowles, “we could put the Hostage Rescue Team inside. She goes in wired, and if it starts going south, they can bust in and bring them both out – Glass and de Becque.”

“If it starts going south?” echoes Kaiser. “You mean like if de Becque shoots her in the head? Then HRT, which is at the airport, starts for the estate?”

“Don’t waste your breath,” scoffs Lenz. “He’s talking about invading a foreign country.”

“We’d talk to the Brits first,” says Bowles. “Cayman is still a British colony.”

“Good God,” mutters Lenz, as though rendered speechless by the ignorance around him. Either the psychiatrist has forgotten whose territory he’s on, or he feels that Baxter’s patronage makes him bulletproof.

“Let me get this straight,” I say to Kaiser. “You think a seventy-year-old man is going around New Orleans kidnapping women in their twenties and thirties? Without leaving a trace? My sister ran three miles a day and worked out with weights. She could kick the crap out of most seventy-year-old men, pardon my French.”

“Seventy isn’t that old,” says Lenz, playing devil’s advocate. “There are seventy-year-old men in excellent health.”

“And you’re forgetting the taser wound on the Dorignac’s victim,” says Kaiser. “But if de Becque is behind it, I see him commissioning the paintings. Paying one or more men to take the women for him, and one artist to paint them. A guy like that? A wanted expatriate? He probably has all kinds of bodyguards on his property. Retired Israeli commandos. Ex-Paras or -Foreign Legion. Maybe even GIGN.”

“An elegant scenario,” says Lenz.

“You think de Becque could paint them himself?” asks Bowles.

“He’s a collector, not a painter.” Lenz sighs dismissively. “But if he commissions them, why does he only own five paintings? Why wouldn’t he have them all?”

“He could be selling them,” says Baxter.

“A guy worth fifty million?” asks Bowles.

“An elaborate hoax,” suggests Kaiser. “Turning the art world upside down. For kicks. For some twisted fantasy we don’t yet understand.”

I can’t tell who’s arguing for what. Though Lenz and Kaiser dislike each other, they clearly respect each other’s opinions, and Baxter respects them both, because he’s letting them run with the ball. As they bat it back and forth, something occurs to me.

“ Wingate told me de Becque bought the first five Sleeping Women,” I tell Baxter. “So how did you test the first painting for talc?”

“The paintings didn’t sell in the order they were painted,” he replies. “We tested the first one painted. One of the more abstract ones. It was the realistic ones that sold first and started the phenomenon.”

“His Nabi period,” says Lenz.

“The Nabis,” I echo. “Wingate mentioned them. Hebrew for ‘the Prophets.’”

“Just so.”

“Did de Becque know I’m already involved with you?” I ask.

“He seemed to,” says Baxter.

“How the hell would he know that?” Kaiser asks.

“I don’t know, John.”

Kaiser turns to Bowles. “How tight have you kept this?”

The Irishman’s lips tighten. He is, after all, Kaiser’s boss. “If there’s a leak, it’s not our people.”

Kaiser doesn’t look convinced. Neither does Lenz.

“So, what are we going to do?” asks the SAC.

“I’m going to Grand Cayman,” I tell them. “One way or another.”

Lenz nods approval, but Kaiser gives me a hard look.

“This isn’t some jaunt through Somalia with a press pass in your pocket.”

Now my face is red. “I’m flattered by your desire to protect me, Agent Kaiser, but I don’t think it’s going to advance this investigation.”

“She’s right,” says Lenz.

“What we’re going to do,” Baxter says in a conclusive tone, “is let Ms. Glass go about her business. We know her wishes. It’s up to us to decide what strategy makes the most sense.”

“She needs protection,” says Kaiser. “We have no idea what’s going on in this case, no idea about motive. De Becque could have people in New Orleans right now. They could snatch or kill her any time.”

“Agreed,” says Baxter. “Patrick, could you put one of your agents with Ms. Glass until we contact her?”

Bowles nods assent.

“Ms. Glass,” Baxter says in a conclusive tone, “I appreciate your willingness to go through with this. And if Agent Kaiser knew you like I do, he’d know there’s no point in arguing with you.”

Bowles looks at Kaiser. “Take her outside and find her some protection, John. Somebody you’ll be satisfied with.”

Kaiser gets up and walks out without a glance in my direction.

I stand and say, “Gentlemen,” with the panache I’ve developed over twenty years working in a profession dominated by men, then follow him out.

Kaiser is waiting in the hall, his jaw tight.

“Your work has dulled your ability to assess risk,” he says. “You think because you’ve tromped through a few battlefields, a visit to the Cayman Islands is nothing. But there’s a difference. In a war zone, a journalist’s enemy is bad luck. You might take a stray bullet or a piece of shrapnel, but nobody’s trying very hard to kill you. De Becque may have nothing else on his mind but killing you. Do you get that? You could walk in the front door, and he could stick a knife in your throat and laugh in your face.”

“Are you through?”

“Not if you still think you’re going. We can get pictures of those paintings some other way. You have no business taking that kind of risk.”

“Do you have a sister, Agent Kaiser?”

“No.”

“A brother?”

“Yes.”

“So why are we arguing?”

He sighs and looks at the floor. I start past him, but he takes hold of my shoulder.

“What about the protection?”

“Find me somebody who’s not a robot, and I’m fine with it.” I touch him lightly on the elbow. “I’m not stupid, okay?”

“What do you plan on doing his afternoon?”

“Buying presents for my niece and nephew. I’m supposed to stay with them tonight. My brother-in-law’s house.”

“That’s where your sister disappeared. The Garden District.”

“Which proves no neighborhood’s safe, right? Unless you move across the lake with all the white flight. Where do you live?”

“Across the lake. Most of the agents here do.”

“What does that say about your crime-fighting efforts?”

Kaiser turns and starts toward the elevators, and I follow. “Homicides don’t fall under our jurisdiction,” he says.

“Except very special ones.”

“Right.”

“I don’t guess you’re available to guard me this afternoon?”

He chuckles. “No. I’ve got someone good in mind, though.”

“Is he tough?”

“Why do you assume it’s a man?”

“Okay, is she tough?”

“Her hobby’s competitive pistol shooting. She’s a member of our SWAT team.”

“Is she going to make a pass at me?”

Kaiser frowns, but his eyes are smiling. “If you were in the Bureau, you’d be disciplined for that remark.”

“But I’m not.”

“Are you suggesting that aggressive career women are sometimes gay?”

“I’ve run across it in my time.”

He pauses in the corridor and looks me up and down. “You fit that category pretty well yourself, Ms. Glass.”

“I do, don’t I?”

Now he’s looking at my left hand. It takes men longer to wonder about the marriage state. Seeing no ring, he raises his eyebrows. I can’t help but smile. “Don’t worry, Agent Kaiser. I like my bread buttered on the traditional side. Now introduce me to my bodyguard.”