Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“Wheaton and Gaines live within a mile of the university. Frank Smith lives at the edge of the French Quarter. Let’s get aerial photos of every square block of those areas, and throw in the Garden District. Then we’ll look for sheltered courtyards where the painter would have good natural light.”

“The leaves are still on the goddamn trees,” Baxter argues. “We could miss a hundred courtyards in the French Quarter alone.”

“Then get architectural plans!” John snaps. “We should have agents at the courthouse doing title searches on every building in those two areas. We may find some connection to one of the suspects.”

Baxter looks around the Operations Center, and two dozen shocked faces quickly turn back to their work.

“I guess that’s all we’ve got,” he says. “Other than Wheaton’s nocturnal visits to Frank Smith.”

“And we’re on that in the morning,” John says with a tone of finality.

I do believe the man wants to come back to the hotel with me. I just might forgive him his earlier fuzzy thinking about Thalia Laveau.

But Daniel Baxter has other ideas.

“John, you coordinate with the aerial surveillance unit. If you start making calls now, you can have the assets in the air at first light.”

This is obviously a job someone else could do, but John has no trouble reading Baxter’s intent. He nods wearily, then glances my way with a look of apology.

“What time are we talking to Smith and Wheaton?” I ask.

“Be here by eight a.m.,” Baxter replies. “Agent Travis will drive you over.”

The informality of “Wendy” has disappeared. Baxter obviously foresees potential conflicts developing out of the intimacy between John and me.

“Eight, then.”

I feel a strangely proprietary urge to give John a kiss on the cheek, but he’d probably faint from embarrassment, so I spare him.

“If you want those pictures to be worth the trouble,” I tell Baxter, “you should get your planes up tonight with thermal imaging cameras. Brick and stone will have enough temperature differential with trees and foliage to make plant cover irrelevant. You can shoot the same grids in the morning with infrared film for backup detail. By nine-twenty, you should have sunlight at thirty degrees on both horizons, but not much cloud cover. That’s the best time.”

While the three men stare in amazement, I say, “Good night, boys,” and walk to the door where Wendy awaits.

New Orleans steams in the morning after rain. Even with a nip of fall in the air, the humidity wilts starched collars almost on contact. On this wet morning, Dr. Lenz has decided that he wants me in on the second Wheaton interview after all. I’m not sure why, and I didn’t have time to question him about it. When I arrived at the field office, the building was besieged by camera crews. Sometime before the early news shows ran, the sheriff of Jefferson Parish announced to reporters that his office, working closely with the FBI, had developed strong suspects in the series of kidnappings that had plagued the city for over a year. Thalia Laveau’s disappearance has already started a new wave of panic across the city.

This morning’s interview will not happen at Tulane’s Woldenberg Art Center, where we last met Wheaton. Today we’re parked in front of the artist’s temporary residence on Audubon Place, a private street adjoining the Tulane campus. Audubon Place has a massive iron gate complete with stone guardhouse in the tradition of World War II blockhouses, and the massive homes that line it stand out even compared to those on St. Charles Avenue, which Audubon Place intersects. The one Roger Wheaton occupies is owned by a wealthy Tulane alumnus who’s been living abroad for two years. It’s a palatial house that, combined with the lot and its location, looks like about two million dollars of real estate. But that’s here. In San Francisco the place would cost nine million.

John, Lenz, and I approach the front door together. Before we reach it, Roger Wheaton walks onto his porch in blue pajama pants, a Tulane sweatshirt, his wire-rimmed bifocals, and his trademark white cotton gloves.

“I saw you through the window,” he says as we mount the steps to the front gallery. “I saw a report on television about an hour ago. Has Thalia really disappeared?”

“I’m afraid so,” says John. “May we come in?”

“Of course.”

Wheaton leads us through a foyer into a magnificently appointed drawing room. With his long frame, pajamas, and too-long hair, he looks incongruous in the luxurious chair into which he folds himself. Only his white gloves fit the room, giving him the appearance of a newly wakened reveler sober enough to have removed his tux after a Mardi Gras ball, but too drunk to have remembered to remove his gloves. But the gloves are no accoutrements of style; they are soft armor for hands that cannot function in the slightest cold. John and I sit together on a sofa opposite the artist, and Lenz takes a chair to our right.

“Hello, again,” Wheaton says as I sit, his long face conveying silent grief. “Are you taking more photographs today?”

“I wish I was. You’re a wonderful subject.”

“We just came from working another case,” says Lenz. “Agent Travis was with us, and we didn’t want to leave her in the car.”

Agent Travis? Why am I really here? Is Lenz testing Wheaton’s reaction to me yet again?

“Gentlemen,” says the artist, “do you believe Thalia was taken by the same person who took the others?”

“Yes,” says John. “We do.”

Wheaton sighs and closes his eyes. “I was very angry yesterday, because of the invasion of my privacy. The police caused me considerable inconvenience, and they weren’t even civil. All that seems a small thing now. What do you require of me?”

John looks at Lenz, who decides to lead with his chin.

“Mr. Wheaton, we’re told you’ve made several lengthy visits to the private residence of one of your students, Frank Smith.”

Wheaton’s face tightens. This was clearly the last thing he expected to hear.

“Did Frank tell you that?”

Lenz does not respond directly. “We’re also told that you argued vehemently with him on these occasions. We’d very much like to know the reason for these visits, and for the arguments.”

Wheaton shakes his head and looks away, his desire to help apparently gone, or at least tempered by disgust. “I can’t help you with that.”

John and Lenz look at each other.

“All I can do is assure you that those visits have nothing whatever to do with the crimes you’re investigating. You’ll have to trust me that far.”

I’m sure suspects must frequently refuse to answer FBI questions, but it’s hard to imagine them doing it with such sincerity and gentility. I’d feel almost embarrassed to insist at this point. But Lenz doesn’t.

“I’m afraid in these circumstances,” he says, “your word as a gentleman will not be enough.”

Wheaton gives Lenz a look hard enough to validate his history as a combat soldier. “I understand the urgency,” he says quietly. “But I can’t answer your question.”

John glances at me as though seeking help, but I don’t see any way to spur the artist into further revelations.

“Mr. Wheaton,” says Lenz, “I personally dislike having to bother a man of your stature with intrusive questions. However, the situation is grave. And I can assure you that all answers you give will be held in the strictest confidence.”

This, of course, is a bald-faced lie. Wheaton doesn’t respond.

“I am a psychiatrist,” Lenz says, with apparent faith that this assertion should win the day. “I also don’t believe what you’re hiding is anything to be ashamed of.”