Читать книгу The Painted Gun - Bradley Spinelli - Страница 12

6

I woke with my head pounding and venom in my veins. I was pissed. I was hired for an impossible job, I was making a damn good effort regardless, and yet I was being subjected to dead bodies and getting battered around and no one was telling me why. I wanted some answers, one way or another, even if I did decide to make the smart move and keep the twenty-five grand and get off the case.

I considered cracking open every phone in the house to see if they really were tapped, but the line could be tapped at another junction. Anyway, if someone wanted to hear what I was saying, it made more sense to simply not be worth hearing. How long before someone else banged on my door in the middle of the night? Better to play it cool. Whether or not that hinky letter was really from Ashley, I needed to be careful.

I hopped in the shower, careful not to catch my reflection in the mirror. The hot water stung my face and I held a cloth to my eye and bathed with one hand. I got out and went to the kitchen for ice and held it to my brow while I called my bank.

McCaffrey’s check had cleared.

I was so ecstatic I called the Starbucks at the truck stop and offered the pimply faced kid a twenty to deliver me a Venti Vanilla Latte and spent the next two hours working the phone, Ashley or no Ashley, banal call after banal call. I called Pac Bell, the electric company, the gas company, and the water company, and paid all my overdue balances. Then I called my maxed-out credit card companies and paid them all off too. I was in the black and it felt pretty good.

But I was still pissed, so I went down to the range.

Charlie was a little surprised to see me. “Back again so soon?”

“I told you, it’s been a weird week.”

She darted a look at my shiner. “What’s catching your eye today?” She grinned.

“Cute. Lemme try that nine mil again.”

“Thought you said it was too much like a toy.”

“Yeah, but it’s starting to grow on me.”

I popped off a few and my breathing leveled out. By the time I walked out and started Delores, I had made up my mind.

* * *

I went back to the Dalton Gallery; I had to take a look.

There were a couple of cop cars parked outside, and the gallery had a sign out front saying that the show had ended early. Some cops were on their way out, but artists and buyers were milling in and out unmolested. I slipped in. Dalton’s office was roped off with bright yellow crime scene tape but his body was nowhere to be seen. Not that I would have seen it anyway. Dalton’s previously immaculate office was torn to pieces—the file cabinets were emptied and overturned, the desk was on its side, even the framed and glassed-in prints hanging on the wall were smashed. It looked like a hurricane had hit the tiny isolated spot, wreaked its havoc, and escaped out the window. Someone had come back; nothing had been askew when I found Dalton’s body other than the chair he’d been sitting in.

I heard a familiar slimy voice down the hall and took a couple steps into the gallery. The lean lizard son of a bitch from the night before was smoothly arguing with a pale blond woman as he bent down over a canvas, slitting it off the stretcher bar with a penknife.

“You can’t—you can’t!” she protested, and he answered her, as calm as can be, “I bought it, didn’t I? It’s mine. I can do what I want.” It was Ashley’s portrait of me. I ducked out before he caught sight of me.

I was almost out the door when I saw something I’d missed before—a gallery guide of the current exhibition. I slipped it into my pocket.

Serena was sitting on the curb, half a block away, crying her eyes out. I sat down next to her and she didn’t complain.

“Serena,” I said cautiously, “how are you holding up?”

She looked up at me with barren, tear-streaked, beautiful green eyes. “How did you—oh.” She recognized me. I was almost hoping she wouldn’t. “You were here yesterday.”

“That’s right.” I let her soak that in for a minute. She seemed to be composing herself a bit. “What happened?”

“They killed him!” This came out like projectile vomiting and preceded another torrent of tears and sobs. I put an arm across her shoulder and she melted into me, quaking and quivering.

As she collected herself I tried another approach. “Serena, I know this is hard, but I need you to tell me what happened yesterday.”

“Are you a cop?” Again, those brilliantly sheened green eyes. “I told the cops already.”

“I’m not a cop. Just a friend of Mr. Dalton’s.”

“I . . . my boyfriend was in town from Fresno, and I wanted to see him, just for five minutes, coz I haven’t seen him in a month and he just drove in and I wasn’t off work yet, so Mr. Dalton let me go.”

“Right, I remember.”

“But when I came back, this guy was locking the front door. He said Mr. Dalton had to leave, and he was locking up for him—he said he was a business associate. I—I didn’t think . . . I was just so happy to leave and see my boyfriend.”

“What did this guy look like? Medium height, dark, sharkskin suit?”

“Yeah. You saw him?”

“Only for a minute. What else?”

“That’s all. I just . . . It’s all my fault!” More waterworks, more holding the shivering bird.

“It’s not your fault, Serena. You couldn’t have done anything. If you had stayed, you’d probably be dead too. It’s okay.” I held her a minute more and she seemed to calm down for good. “Is your boyfriend still in town?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go see him. You’ll be fine. Want me to call you a cab?”

“No . . . it’s close.”

Something came to me. “You still have a job, right?”

“Mr. Dalton’s sister is taking over. She said we’ll reopen in a week or so.”

“That blond woman inside?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thank you, Serena.” I handed her my card. “Listen, if you think of anything else, anything at all, please call me. Call me before you call the cops.”

“Why?”

“Because the cops won’t find the killer.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they don’t know why he killed him.”

“Do you?” Those green eyes hit me like an interrogation spotlight.

“No. But I’m going to find out.”

I figured Dalton’s sister would be easy to find and would manage to stay alive for a while. I didn’t want to wear out my welcome and risk running into Mr. Salami Eater. Just seeing that lizard slice my portrait off its frame made me angry all over again. I could have simply turned him in to the cops—he’d been in my house, he had to know something. But getting him picked up wouldn’t get me anywhere.

* * *

I had to find Ashley. Maybe McCaffrey had hired me to do his dirty laundry, but this was quickly becoming something else. I had to know why Ashley was painting me. I had to know who she was.

I had to find Al.

I walked over to Powell and Market, by the cable car stop, and hit a pay phone in the midst of swarming tourists to call my old friend Shelley at the San Mateo DMV.

“David?” I could hear the smile creeping up the sides of her pouty lips. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Shelley.”

“So when are we going out?”

I’d been baiting Shelley ever since I first started asking her for favors. I think she knew it was never going to happen, but I had to keep up the charade. It was the silently agreed-upon game. “Next week. For sure. I’ll give you a call.”

“I bet you will. Where you been? I haven’t heard from you in aaaages.” She dragged that last bit out. Someone sometime must have told her it was cute.

“Oh, you know, here, there.”

“Uh-huh. Hold on a minute.” She cupped a hand over the receiver and her voice came through a little muffled. “I am talking to a customer. Just a minute.” She cleared up again. “I’m back. What can I do for you, Mr. Crane?”

I gave her Al’s license plate number and asked her to get me everything she could.

“I’ll need a couple hours. Give me your cell phone number, I’ll call you back when I get it.”

“Shelley, I don’t have a cell phone.”

She sucked a little air through her teeth. “You just don’t want to give me the number.” She was cute, you had to hand it to her.

“No, sweety, I really don’t have a cell, and I won’t be home until long after you get off work. I’ll call you back by the end of the day.”

I grabbed a slice at Blondie’s, walked back to Delores, drove her home, and went upstairs to try to take a nap, but sleep wouldn’t come. I remembered the gallery guide and dug it out, spreading it across my knees and reading it in bed like an invalid.

The exhibition was a group show of Bay Area 2D artists, and the only other common element was that all submissions had to be six feet by five feet. I hadn’t noticed at the gallery, hadn’t looked closely at any work but Ashley’s—a rookie move. Most were oils, some were ink, some acrylic, but they were all on canvas, six by five. The gallery wanted to explore the possibilities of artists unafraid to work on a large scale, blah blah blah . . . bios of the artists. Ashley’s read like a ransom note from another dimension:

Ashley is not: an acronym or an anagram. Ashley does not: work with acrylic, steel, or clay. Ashley will not: sell out or fade away. Ashley was born, is living, and will someday die. Ashley admits to being fixated on one particular subject matter. It’s a phase. Enjoy.

It made me shiver, it made me understand all the more why she drove Dalton crazy. I reached down and absently stuck the guide under my mattress, and tried again to fade away to dreamland. No dice.

But I knew what was bothering me. It was staring me in the face and I couldn’t look away. That was why I couldn’t drop the case. It had nothing to do with McCaffrey’s twenty-five Gs, it had nothing to do with two thugs sticking a gun in my face.

It was Ashley.

Why the hell was this girl painting portraits of me? How did she know what I looked like? How the devil did she know where I was on New Year’s Day? How did Al and Lizard and Sharkskin seem to know more about this than me? Fixated on one particular subject matter—how many more of these paintings were there?

I’d lived in San Francisco long enough to get my fill of new age theologies, crackpot philosophies, and cockamamie mystical ideas about the universe. I’d heard about astral projection, tantra, the Kabbalah, ESP—it was all a load of hooey. But this . . . this was too weird. What could explain it? Was I next on The X-Files? Was this young girl somehow tapped into my mind? Could she see me from a distance? Did she dream about me, and paint her dreams like Dali?

I remembered an article I’d read about remote viewing, a paranormal, ESP method of seeing something hidden from view, or something happening very far away. The phenomenon was explored at the Stanford Research Institute in the seventies and later funded by the CIA. The government’s twenty-million-dollar research program—with the unlikely name of the Stargate Project—was shut down, and documents were declassified a couple of years back. The scientific debate was predictable: proponents swore it worked and that valuable information could be gained; detractors called it pseudoscience and either said that more research was required or that it was a straight-up hoax. The truly spooky part is that proponents imply that RV is a technique that can be taught and learned by anyone, psychic or not. It doesn’t take an extraordinary amount of paranoia to wonder if the CIA is still fooling around with mind tricks, but my own paranoia begs the question: why would a young girl, even a CIA operative, be spying on me? Everything about it sent a creeping skeletal hand up the back of my spine.

Somehow it would be easier to accept if she lived in Wisconsin and had no idea that the paintings she was cranking out depicted reality, but that note . . . if it really did come from Ashley, my Ashley, then she knew who I was and how to find me. She lived in California, somewhere—or did until recently. She hadn’t disappeared; she was hiding from someone.

I convinced myself that if I could fall asleep I would have a dream about Ashley, and we would trade secrets and make love and take the extra twenty-five grand and rent a house in Belize and grow old together, dreaming each other’s dreams. . .