Styx (24 page)

“Almost forgot,” Delacroix said, “I brought you a phone.” He couldn't resist straightening the knot in Styx's tie. “It's a new one—your old one's evidence, so they're holding on to it. If something comes up, call me. If you find anything else online, call me. If you need a fresh suit—”

“I get it,” said Styx. “I'll call you.”

Delacroix turned once again to go, but Styx wasn't ready to be left alone. “Hang on, there
is
something else.”

“You want a spare shirt?”

Styx ignored him. “Did you drop off my note?”

“You only gave it to me yesterday.”

“I know. It's just, if you decide you don't want to do it, you can tell me, okay?”

Delacroix glanced down at his shoe. “I figured I'd get it over with, so I
did
drop by, early this morning. I told her I'd forgotten to give her my contact number. It was around eight, just before we got the call-out on the new murder. I didn't stay long.”

“But you hid the note somewhere in the house?”

After all Delacroix had heard about Raphael Styx it would have been easy to think that he'd gotten exactly what was coming to him. But the more time he spent with him now, the more human he appeared. Death seemed to have changed Styx for the better.

“Yes,” he said, “I did.”

The dead man's eyes sparked with something suggesting life.

“I wonder when she'll find it.”

“When the time's right,” said Delacroix, but he was thinking
Don't count on it.

“How did she look? How's she dealing with it?”

“How do you think?” said Delacroix, returning the serve. He didn't want to say any more. In fact, Isabelle had been on her way out the door when he'd gotten there. She'd decided not to take compassionate leave and was on her way to work.

She'd looked ravishing in her white uniform, her short black hair pulled back in a Roman style that emphasized her long slender neck and gave her a profile that would inspire any painter.

“I guess it'll take awhile to get over it,” said Styx.

“I guess,” Delacroix nodded.

Dammit, the lie was for Styx's own good.

Earlier that morning, Isabelle Gerard
was running about ten minutes behind schedule. She was at the front door, waiting for Victor, who had his English final today.

The previous evening she'd told him that, under the circumstances,
they could arrange for him to take the rest of his exams late. The school would surely understand. But he'd refused.

Was he trying to be strong? Or proving how estranged he'd grown from his father? Isabelle tried to talk him around, but the boy stuck to his guns. He seemed to have no reaction at all to the news of Styx's death. Either he was in shock, or he'd consciously decided to put off his mourning until he was done with his finals.

In any case, when the doorbell rang, he was still in his room, studying for today's test.

Isabelle opened the door and found Joachim Delacroix in full regalia on the stoop.

“Good morning, ma'am. I'm sorry to bother you again so early, but I was in the neighborhood.”

“It's not a problem,” she said. “I'm on my way out.”

She looked up the staircase, and Delacroix mirrored the movement of her head.

“How's he taking it?” he asked.

“The school said he could have the week off and do his exams in September, but he said no. I think he needs something to focus on so he doesn't fall apart.”

“I forgot to leave you my phone number,” said Delacroix.

Isabelle hoped she didn't look completely punch-drunk from the sleeping pills she'd taken the night before. She'd never felt the slightest attraction to dandified men with their ascots and pocket squares and bells and whistles. But behind Delacroix's colorful façade she saw a young man with a passion for living, a man who wanted the world to know that he was seizing not just the day in general but every single second of it in particular.

How different from Rafe, her dead husband, who had lived only for his work, who'd buried any suggestion of emotion. And who'd thought nothing of wearing the same black shirt and jeans three days in a row.
Ick
.

“You didn't have to make a special trip,” she said. “You've got our home phone number, don't you?”

“I had to be in the area, anyway. Like I said.”

“You
did
say, didn't you?” She felt a little light-headed, maybe from the pills.

“I hope you got some sleep.”

“Some,” said Isabelle.

They found themselves in a conversational twilight zone and, for a long moment, let the silence speak for them.

Then Isabelle seemed to shake herself awake. She turned back to the staircase and found Victor on the second step.

“There you are,” she smiled. “This is Inspector Delacroix.”

“Joachim Delacroix,” the sapeur introduced himself.

The boy nodded politely but left it at that. He'd apparently smeared his face with some sort of lotion which had left his skin shining. He squeezed past the policeman and climbed into the car.

Delacroix fished in his pocket. “I should give you this,” he said.

She watched him pull out an old-fashioned yellow envelope with a scalloped flap. His fingers were long and slender and almost jet black. There was a silver ring on his index finger and another on his pinkie.

He shifted the envelope clumsily to his other hand and dug back in his pocket, at last producing a card.

“My number,” he said.

“In case I need you,” said Isabelle.

“Just in case.”

She watched him return the envelope to his pocket. Whatever it was, it was none of her business.

“Thanks,” she said. “You might be hearing from me.”

“If there's anything I can do. Anything at all.”

“You're very kind.”

“It's no trouble,” he said.

There was more he wanted to say, but he held it back.

The car horn sounded. Victor, for once telling
her
to get a move on.

“This'll sound weird,” Isabelle said, stepping outside and locking the door behind her. “But do you think you might like to have dinner with us sometime? Nothing special, just spaghetti or something. I'm not really much of a cook.”

“That's very nice of you,” said Delacroix slowly, “but I'm not sure it's such a good idea.”

“I understand.”

“It might not be—”

“I know. I just thought . . . maybe you could talk to us about Rafe. His last days. I don't know if that would get Victor to open up, but I thought—”

As if by fate or prior arrangement, his phone rang.

“The squad,” he smiled, but didn't answer it.

“Well, it was just an idea,” Isabelle said. “You know what? I'll call you, now I have your number. I know how you guys eat: sandwiches, pizza, fries. Remember, I lived with a cop for years.”

“I appreciate the offer,” said Delacroix.

“I'm always at the service of the Ostend police,” she said gaily, and got into the car.

When the door slammed shut, Victor asked, “Who's that?”

“A detective,” she said. “Didn't you hear me? I introduced you.”

“I wasn't awake.”

Isabelle took her son's hand and held it to her breast. “I'm sorry, sweetie.”

“It's not a big deal, Ma.”

But she was apologizing for more than he knew.

Rafe was gone, but he was
usually
gone. The only real difference was that now she knew he wouldn't suddenly reappear drunk in the middle of the night.

Paul Delvaux—the art lover and retired banker, not the painter—was your clichéd early retiree. He'd let his gray hair grow out of its businessman's crew cut, traded in his button-down shirt and tie for an open collar and a gold chain around his neck and his three-piece suit and dress shoes for casual linen slacks and sandals.

When he admitted Joachim Delacroix to his penthouse apartment in the Leopold III-laan his only concession to the formality of the occasion was a wrinkled blazer.

Delacroix wasn't interested in the man's wardrobe. He was interested in alibis.

“And how might I be able to help you, Inspector?” asked Delvaux politely.

“As you may know, sir, we're investigating a series of murders that may be connected to Surrealist art.”

“Really? That's a particular interest of mine.”

“Yes, sir,” said Delacroix, “that's our understanding. I wonder if you'd be willing to answer a few questions.”

“Certainly, if I can.”

“Well, it seems that the perpetrator, the serial killer, has been inspired by certain iconic images painted by the Surrealists.”

“Seriously? I haven't seen anything about that in the papers.”

“No, sir, we've been withholding it. But it's one possible lead we're exploring.”

Delvaux took a contemplative sip of champagne and laid a manicured hand on a metal sculpture, the only artwork on his spacious terrace. It was a rectangular steel plate with the silhouette of a man cut out of its center, like something out of a Magritte painting.

“And how do you think I might be able to help?”

“I'm pretty much a layman when it comes to Surrealism,” said Delacroix.

“There are many art books you could consult.”

“Of course. But it's been suggested to me that you've devoted your life to the study of the Surrealist movement in Ostend. You even took your wife's last name to emphasize your interest, isn't that right?”

Delvaux frowned. “That's just a triviality,” he said. “But it's true that I'm considered
the
expert on the subject—both locally and, I'd like to think, farther afield. I'm not an artist myself, and I've had no academic training, but during my career in bank management I began buying original artworks and reproductions for our offices around the country.”

“Why?”

“Why? Look around you, Inspector. Look down there. Walk straight up the Kapellestraat and in ten minutes you'll come to James Ensor's mother's old shop. You can almost see it from here. Ensor was
one of Ostend's most important artists, and that shop now serves as a museum to his memory and his art, but do you think the average Ostender has ever been there? Do you think he even knows it exists?”

“You're not satisfied with the current level of interest in Surrealism?”

“To say the least. It's an outrage, Inspector, I'm sure you agree. How many masters has this city contributed to the world of fine art? Ensor, Spilliaert, the list goes on.
We
were the wellspring of Belgian Surrealism, not Brussels. And I'll tell you why: it's because Ostend is on the coast, on the sea, and the sea itself is surreal, as impossible to capture as a dream. It's an infinite mystery that Man can never unravel.”

“And you want to fight that?” asked Delacroix carefully.

“Fight it? Fight what? There's nothing to fight.”

“Then what
do
you want?”

“I want to stand up for the rights of the masters, since they can no longer stand up for themselves. They're all dead, you know. Dead and forgotten. Even Henri Storck, whose first documentaries were shot right here and who lived almost to the dawn of the new millennium. Do you think the city preserved those wonderful films of the twenties and thirties? No, they're all lost. It's completely scandalous!”

“With all respect, sir, was there really anything the city could have done about that?”

But the dam had broken, and the flood was on the rise. Paul Delvaux's champagne was gone, and he was working himself into a fury. He patted down his thin gray hair, but the wind on the terrace had other ideas. He crossed from the steel sculpture to lean his back against the railing.

“We'll never know, Inspector, will we, since they didn't even bother to try. But I tell you this: Ostend is sound asleep, it's been sleeping for a hundred years. Look at all the beautiful buildings left empty and decaying, all the monuments in need of loving repair, the once-famous hotels now crumbling into ruin. I swear, if it were up to me, I . . . I—”

Delacroix waited, but the end of the sentence blew away in the wind. Delvaux turned his back on the inspector and looked out across the city.

“You're here to ask about Surrealism, yes? This isn't an interrogation?”

“No, sir, not at all. Please go on.”

“Every age has its norms, Inspector, its customs and mores and laws. And every city has its attractions. But Ostend—what does Ostend have to offer but a few decadent discos and a nude beach? Who do
we
attract, beyond a smattering of young immigrant riffraff?”

Delacroix waited for the banker to assure him that he didn't mean to sound like a racist, but no such explanation came.