Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

She could count on ten minutes clear, she thought, and with luck it would take no more than half that.

Justine, bless her heart, had left a small lamp on in her office. Great! No fumbling around in the dark .

Haile scanned the office, her fingers itching with acquisitiveness, trying to decide where to start. Her eyes fixed on Justine’s desk. As good a place as any . She walked over noiselessly and carefully opened one of the side drawers. There had to be something here, something she could use to get what she wanted from Justine.

Away from the hubbub of conversation, the silence in this room felt intense, and the strong, sterile smell of polish was intense too. Haile’s nerves were popping and she had a faint throbbing, like a pulse, in her ears; she was nervous as hell. But she was here, ready.

Then she heard voices approaching. She froze. It sounded as though they were just opposite the door to the office.

Jesus, who was it?

She held her breath.

She tried to calm herself. It was probably just a couple of guests who had slipped away from the reception in the observation room of the tower, giving themselves a tour. They must have been staring at a painting that she’d seen and thought it might have been hung upside down. She caught a snatch of their conversation.

“It’s revisionist postmodernist,” one of them said. “Definite juxtaposition of Klimt and Chagall, you know what I’m saying, with a surrealist-or is it closer to Dada?-overlay. You wouldn’t perceive that in any visual context, but to me it’s there like a kind of metaphorical palimpsest.”

That old museum curator, Alex something-or-other . Haile remembered how much Christopher had resented him.

She waited until their voices drifted farther down the hallway, then took a deep breath and tried to focus on what she was doing, but her nerves were shot to hell, her eyes leaping erratically around the room. It was spare and minimalist, glass table, white furniture and blinds, bare wooden flooring. She looked at the prints and paintings hung on the walls, then the small, precious-looking objets d’art that sat on the flat surfaces. She looked down at the desk.

It had to be in here somewhere .

But where?

She noticed a tiny bronze statuette near the desk lamp and slipped it into her handbag-shit, this whole world could have been hers, a thought that kept recurring as she stood at Justine Olegard’s desk.

A small vase of flowers sat on it, a framed photograph of Justine, ten years or so back when she looked a little like Whitney Houston, but she’d put on weight since then and her pretty face had filled out. It made Haile glad.

A neat leather blotter was on the desk, and a silver letter opener and an old, tired-looking computer terminal that was out of keeping with the rest of the modern décor. Again she pulled open each of the drawers in the desk, hastily rummaging through them before closing them again and turning her head back at the door every few seconds. That damn curator was out there again , pontificating over the painting. She remembered the way Christopher used to talk about the world of art to her, explaining images and themes and schools in paintings. Renaissance; Dutch; fête galante; impressionist; cubist; surrealist; Native American; the symbolists and precisionists such as Georgia O’Keeffe and Charles Sheeler, whom Christopher had particularly liked. He used to make her feel so good, made her feel intelligent, despite her lack of education, made her feel there might be a whole new, rich dimension to her life.

Then it was snatched away from her, and she went straight back to who she had always been, Haile Patchett, trailer trash from Brooksville, Florida- Home of the Tangerine! Only now she was a decade older, on a downward spiral, making money as an escort, pickpocketing her clients-her tricks -when she could, funding a constant and ever more expensive battle to keep her looks. How long would she be able to maintain the image before the cracks became too large to conceal?

She continued fishing through the desk’s middle drawer. It was full of papers. For a successful woman, Justine was pretty disorganized. But underneath all that was a file. Haile pulled it out, placed it on top of the desk, and opened it.

Then she heard the creak of the door and a furious voice behind her. “Just what the hell do you think you are doing?”

Justine Olegard.

Shit!

Haile grabbed the file and held it to her chest.

“I asked you a question.” Justine glared at her. “What are you doing in my office?”

“Nothing.” Haile shrugged.

“Nothing? What’s that in your hand?” Justine stepped forward and put out her hand. Haile held on to the file, refusing to let go. She couldn’t let Justine have it. Not now, not after all she’d done.

Justine lurched forward, trying to grab it out of Haile’s hand. “Give me that!”

Haile quickly moved back and stumbled, dropping the folder and its contents. She managed to avoid falling by grabbing the edge of the modernist coffee table, knocking over books and a small ceramic sculpture of a tall, thin, elongated man, which skidded to the floor and shattered.

Justine stood still for a moment, then said quietly “That was a Giacometti study. It’s priceless.”

She dropped to her knees and started picking up the broken shards, practically in tears. “Just get the hell out of here,” she said, shaking her head.

Too many peoplehere. Too much stuff. Too many memories banging around in her head and none of them good. Belle had been trying her best, but she didn’t really do crowds; big gatherings made her nervous. She preferred the peace and quiet of her studio, the isolated life of an artist. She looked around: faces, so many of them familiar, but all of them were in little groups talking, and right now she didn’t have the energy or the courage to interrupt them.

Belle drained her wine, put down the glass, and scanned the crowd for the one man she was looking for. Tony Olsen. She walked directly over to him and said, “Mr. Olsen, I need you to do something for me.”

Olsen smiled. “Of course, Belle. Anything.”

“I need you to open the case housing my painting… Rosemary’s wishes.”

“Why would you want me to do that ?”

“Please, Mr. Olsen. I promise you’ll understand as soon as you open the display case.” He stood a moment as if considering what to do, then Belle watched as he located Alex Hultgren and walked out of the room with him. A few minutes later both men reappeared and together with Belle went to the small oval room where Waves 27 hung.

Olsen unlocked the display case and opened the glass door.

“Please take the painting down, Mr. Olsen.”

“But I promised Rosemary it would never come down. Would you mind telling me what this is about, Belle?”

“Please. I also made a promise to Rosemary. Please do as I ask.”

Olsen carefully unhooked the painting from the wall. Belle pulled out a small Swiss Army knife, took hold of the painting, and before Olsen could object, sliced open the thick fabric backing of the frame. A Moleskine notebook fell from the interior.

“What is it?” Olsen asked.

Belle didn’t answer. She handed him the painting and opened the notebook to the first page, her hands shaking so much she could barely hold it. Then she turned pages, staring at the handwriting of her friend Rosemary Thomas, crushing away tears with her lashes.

She wasn’t even aware that Olsen had moved beside her watching as she flicked through the pages to the last entry. August 22, 2000 . Ten years ago. The entry had been written the day before Belle had stood in the viewing room and had seen her friend laid out to die.