Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“Perhaps those seven are simply common models?” de Becque suggests. “Paid off long ago and forgotten. Have you thought of that?”

“We’d like that to be true, of course. But the abstract nature of the early paintings has made it impossible for us to match the faces to victims. We haven’t even matched them to the eleven known victims yet.”

“The early paintings aren’t abstract,” says de Becque. “They were done in the Impressionist or Postimpressionist style. This involves using small drops of primary colors in close proximity to produce certain hues, rather than blending colors. It produces an effect much closer to the way the human eye actually perceives light. He probably painted them very quickly, and merely meant to suggest their faces, rather than to clearly depict them.”

“Or he may have meant to conceal their faces,” says Kaiser.

“This also is possible.”

“If any of these women are still alive,” I ask, “where could they possibly be? Why wouldn’t they have come forward by now?”

“The world is very wide, cherie. And full of people with strange appetites. I’m more concerned with you. I think this is an unstable time for the man painting these pictures.” De Becque’s eyes burn into mine. “I also think your involvement with the FBI may bring you to his attention. I would not have anything happen to you.”

“She’ll be protected,” says Kaiser.

“Good intentions aren’t enough, Monsieur. She should consider staying here with me until this thing is over.”

“What?” I ask.

“You would be free to come and go, of course. But here I can protect you. I haven’t much confidence in the FBI, to be frank.”

“I appreciate your concern, Monsieur, but I want to remain part of the effort to stop this man.”

“Then take a word of advice. Be very careful. These paintings show an artist in search of himself. His early work is confused and derivative, important only for what it led to. The recent paintings give us a certain view of death. Where is this man going? No one knows. But I would not like to see you come up for auction anytime soon.”

“If I do, buy me. I’d rather hang here than in Hong Kong.”

A white smile cracks the Frenchman’s tanned face. “I would top any price, cherie. You have my word upon it.”

De Becque stands suddenly and looks through his great glass window at the bay. I have photographed several prominent prisoners in my life, and something in the Frenchman’s stance throws me back to those occasions. Here in his multimillion-dollar mansion, with a fortune in art hanging on his walls, this expatriate shares something with the poorest convict pacing out a cell in Angola or Parchman.

“I think it’s time to go,” I tell Kaiser.

I wait for de Becque to turn back to me, but he doesn’t. As I walk to the door, he says in a melancholy voice: “Despite what your friend says, Jordan, remember this. The French know the meaning of loyalty.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Li will show you out.”

“Merci.”

At last de Becque turns to me and raises a hand in farewell. In his eyes I see genuine affection, and I’m suddenly sure he knew my father far better than he claimed.

“Your numbers!” I call. “I never got them.”

“They’re waiting in your plane.”

Of course they are.

The Range Rover hums steadily toward the airport. Bright sunlight glints off the hood and the road signs, chasing a blue iguana beneath a green roadside bush. As the reptile vanishes, the Sleeping Women I saw in de Becque’s gallery flash through my mind, and a minor epiphany sends a chill along my skin.

“I just realized something important.” Before I can continue, Kaiser grips my thigh behind the knee and nearly cuts off the circulation to my lower leg. I remain silent until we reach the plane, where our escorts load the equipment cases for us, then vanish without a word.

“What is it?” asks Kaiser. “What did you think of?”

“The paintings. I know where they’re being done.”

“What?”

“Not exactly where, but how. I told you, I don’t know anything about art. But I do know about light.”

“Light?”

“Those women are being painted in natural light. It’s so obvious that I didn’t notice it in Hong Kong. Not even today, not at first. But a minute ago it registered.”

“Why? How can you tell?”

“Twenty-five years of experience. Light is very important to color. To the natural look of things. Photographic lights are color-balanced to mimic natural light. I’ll bet artists are even pickier about it. I don’t know how important that is to the case, but doesn’t it tell us something?”

“If you’re right, it could help a lot. Is light shining through a window natural light?”

“That depends on the glass.”

“If he’s painting the women outdoors, that would mean a really secluded place. There’s lots of woods and swamp, but getting there with a prisoner or body could be tough.”

“A courtyard,” I tell him. “New Orleans is full of walled gardens and courtyards. I think that’s what we’re looking for.”

Kaiser squeezes my upper arm. “You’d have done well at Quantico. Let’s get on board.”

I don’t move. “You know, you weren’t very helpful back there. What was all that crap about France?”

He shrugs. “You don’t learn anything about a man in a short time by having a polite conversation with him. You push buttons and see what pops out.”

“De Becque just wanted to stroll down memory lane.”

“No. It was more than that.”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s get on board first.”

He hustles me onto the Lear, then goes forward to confer with the pilots. After a moment, he walks back to my seat.

“I’ve got to call Baxter. It may take a while.”

“Tell me about de Becque first.”

“He was making some kind of decision about you.”

“What kind of decision?”

“I don’t know. He was trying to read you, to understand you.”

“He knows a lot about my father, I know that.”

“He knows a lot about more than that. He’s in this thing up to his neck. I can feel it.”

“Maybe the women really aren’t being killed. Maybe they’re being held somewhere in Asia.”

“Moved there on de Becque’s jet, you mean?”

“Maybe. Have you traced its movements over the past year?”

“We’re having some trouble with that. But Baxter will stay on it. He’s a bulldog with that kind of thing.”

Kaiser walks forward, takes the seat by the bulkhead, and in moments is holding a special scrambled phone to his ear. I can’t make out his exact words, but as the conversation progresses, I see a certain tension developing in his neck and arm. The jet begins to roll, and soon we’re hurtling north toward Cuba again. After about ten minutes, Kaiser hangs up and comes back to the seat facing me. There’s an excitement in his eyes that he can’t conceal.

“What’s happened? It’s something good, isn’t it?”

“We hit the jackpot. The D.C. lab traced those two brush hairs they took from the paintings. They’re unique, the best you can buy. They come from a rare type of Kolinsky sable, and the brushes are handmade in one small factory in Manchuria. There’s only one American importer, based in New York. He buys two lots a year, and they’re sold before he gets them. He has specific customers. Repeat customers. Most are in New York, but there are several sprinkled around the country.”

“Any in New Orleans?”

Kaiser smiles. “The biggest order outside New York went to New Orleans. The art department of Tulane University.”