Dead Sleep (31 page)

“You're looking at the back,” I tell him. “Most of these houses face inward. Some onto courtyards, others onto fantastic gardens of tropical plants.”

“John told me about your natural light theory. This house does have a courtyard. Smith's the only suspect who has one. Wheaton has an outdoor garden, but no walls. Hey, look at this.”

I put my cheek to his, and my eyes to the darkened porthole.

Frank Smith stands waiting for Kaiser and Lenz on his porch. He's sleek and handsome, his dark tan set off by white tropical clothing, linen or silk. He has large vivid eyes and an ironic smile on his lips.

“Look at this guy,” says Kaiser over the monitor speaker. “A smart-ass, I can tell already.”

“I'll be primary,” Lenz says.

Through the speakers, Frank Smith's voice has the festive tone of a man greeting party guests. “Hello! Are you the gentlemen from the FBI? When do the storm troopers arrive?”

“Jesus,” mutters Kaiser. “There aren't any storm troopers, Mr. Smith. Because of certain evidence, you've become a suspect in some very serious crimes. There's no way to sugarcoat that. We're here to ask you some questions.”

“You're not here for a blood sample? Urine perhaps?”

“No. We're here to talk.”

“Well, I don't have an alibi for the night the woman was taken from Dorignac's. I was here, alone, listening to music.” Through the window, I see Smith hold out his hands as if for handcuffs. “Let's get it over with.”

“We're just here to talk,” Kaiser insists.

“Foreplay for the police?” Smith asks in a taunting voice.

“We don't control the police in this town.”

“I thought after all the corruption scandals here, you did.”

Beside me, Baxter says, “He's pretty well-informed for a recent transplant.”

Not many years ago, police corruption and the city's homicide rate were at an all-time high. Two police officers actually committed murder in the execution of a robbery, and the chaos that followed almost resulted in the Justice Department federalizing the New Orleans police force.

“We can talk here, in a civil manner,” says Kaiser, “or the police can haul you downtown.”

Smith laughs. “My God, it's Humphrey Bogart in elevator shoes. Why don't we go into the salon? I'll have coffee brought in.”

Footsteps and a closing door echo in the van, then more footsteps.

“Please, sit,” Smith says.

There's a groan of springs compressing under Dr. Lenz's weight.

“Juan? Three coffees, please.”

“The guy has a servant,” says Baxter. “Shit. My student days were a little different.”

“Mr. Smith,” Lenz begins, “I'm Arthur Lenz, a forensic psychiatrist. This is Special Agent John Kaiser. He's a psychological profiler for the Bureau.”

“Two Von Helsings in my salon. Should I be flattered or insulted?”

“What's he talking about?” asks Baxter.

“Von Helsing was the professor who hunted Drac ula,” I tell him.

“This is going to be fun, I can tell.”

“Put the tray there, Juan. Thank you.” There's a pause, then Smith half-whispers, “I'm still training him. He has a long way to go, but he's worth it. How do you take your coffee, Doctor?”

“Black, please.”

“Same for me,” says Kaiser.

There's a tinkle of china, more groaning of springs.

“I'm not sure where to begin,” Lenz says. “We—”

“Let me save you both some time,” Smith interrupts. “You're here because of the women who've been vanishing. You've discovered that the series of paintings known as The Sleeping Women depicts these women. Some bit of evidence has led you to Roger Wheaton's program at Tulane. You're now questioning Wheaton and the rest of us before turning the police loose on us and ripping our lives apart. Roger is very upset, and that upsets me. I'd very much like to hear the details of this supposed evidence.”

“You sound as if you were already aware of the Sleeping Women,” says Kaiser.

“I was.”

“How did you learn about them?”

“From a friend in Asia.”

“You have a lot of Asian friends?”

“I have friends all over the world. Friends, colleagues, clients, lovers. About three months ago I heard that paintings from a new series were topping a million in private sales. Then I heard some were to be exhibited in Hong Kong. I've been thinking of going to view them.”

“You were aware of the subject matter?” asks Lenz.

“Nude women sleeping was what I understood in the beginning. I only recently heard the rumors about the death theory.”

“How did you feel about the prospect that women might be dying to produce those paintings?”

A long pause. “I haven't seen the paintings, so that's difficult to answer.”

Lenz sips from his coffee cup; we can hear it over the mike. “Do you mean the quality of the paintings would determine your view of the morality of women dying to produce them?”

“To paraphrase Wilde, Doctor, there's no such thing as a moral or immoral painting. A painting is either well-done or badly done. If the paintings are beautiful, if they are indeed great art, then they justify their own existence. Any other circumstances involved in their creation are irrelevant.”

“That sounds familiar,” says Kaiser.

“How so?” asks Smith.

“Do you know a man named Marcel de Becque?”

“No.”

“He's a French expatriate who lives in the Cayman Islands.”

“I don't know him. But there's a certain irony in the name.”

“What's that?” asks Lenz.

“Emile de Becque was the French expatriate in
South Pacific.
”

“Son of a bitch,”
hisses Baxter.

I can feel Lenz's embarrassment through the ether. “You're right,” he says. “I'd forgotten.”

“Perhaps this man took the surname as an alias?”

“De Becque's father went to Southeast Asia in the 1930s,” says Lenz. “Maybe Michener heard the name and gave it to one of his island characters.”

“I'll tell you someone I did know,” says Smith. “This should get you hot and bothered. Christopher Wingate.”

This time the silence is longer. “Why would you bring up Christopher Wingate?” asks Lenz.

“Let's not play games, Doctor. I heard about Wingate's death. I knew he was the dealer for the Sleeping Women. I thought nothing of it at the time. But now that the paintings are connected with possible murders, I see his death in a different light.”

“How did you know Wingate?” asks Kaiser.

“A mutual friend introduced us at a party in New York. I was considering switching from my present dealer to him.”

“Why?”

“Because he was, in a word, hot.”

“I'm going to ask you a sensitive question,” says Lenz. “Please don't take offense. This is very important.”

“I'm on pins and needles.”

Lenz is probably furious at being mocked, but he soldiers on. “Is Roger Wheaton gay?”

Smith barks a little laugh that's hard to read. “Did you ask Roger that?”

“No. I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to offend him.”

“I'm offended for him. Not because of anything to do with being gay, but because of the invasion of his privacy.”

“When people are dying, private matters often must become public. If you won't answer the question, I will have to ask Wheaton. Is that what you want me to do?”

“No.”

“Very well.”

After a thoughtful pause, Smith says, “I wouldn't say Roger is gay.”

“What would you say?”

“He's a complex man. I've only known him personally for two years, and all that time he's been seriously ill.

I think his illness has caused him to concentrate on non-sexual areas of his life.”

“Have you ever seen him out with a woman?” Lenz asks. “Or with a woman at his home?”

“Roger doesn't ‘go out.' He's either home or at the university. And yes, he has female guests.”

“Overnight?”

“I don't think so.”

“Does he have particular male friends?”

“I flatter myself that I'm his friend.”

“Have you been his lover?”

“No.”

“Would you like to be?” asks Kaiser.

“Yes, I would.”

“Listen to this guy,” says Baxter. “Cool as they come.”

“Would you have any problem giving us your whereabouts on a particular set of dates?” asks Kaiser.

“I wouldn't think so. But let me be frank about something, gentlemen. I'll cooperate with this investigation up to a point. But if the police upset my life to an inordinate degree, without direct evidence against me, I'll institute legal action against both the police and the FBI. I have the resources to vigorously pursue such an action, and with the recent history of the NOPD in this town, I'd say my chances were good. So be forewarned.”

There's a silence I can only interpret as shock. I doubt that representatives of the FBI are accustomed to being talked to in this way by serial-murder suspects.

“Psychology happens to be a particular interest of mine, Doctor,” Smith goes on. “I happen to know that the incidence of homosexual serial killers is zero. So I think you'd have some difficulty persuading a jury that I'm a good candidate for harassment in this case.”

“We don't necessarily believe the painter is the killer in this case,” Lenz says. “But we're not focusing on you as a suspect. You're simply one of four people with access to particular brush hairs taken from Sleeping Women canvases.”

“Tell me about these hairs.”

Kaiser quickly summarizes the link between the factory in Manchuria, the New York importer, and Wheaton's special orders. When he finishes, Smith says, “So many questions behind your eyes, Agent Kaiser. Like little worms turning. You want to know everything. How exactly does it work? Does Frank really take it up the bum? Is he promiscuous? You have images of the old bathhouse scene in your mind? I was there for it, all right, the tail end of it. I was only seventeen. I sucked till the muscles in my face cramped. Does that make me a killer?”

“
Listen
to this guy,” says Baxter.

“Why do you live in the French Quarter rather than close to Tulane?” asks Kaiser.

“The lower Quarter is a haven for gays. Didn't you know? There may be more of us here than there are of you. You should come back on Gay Pride Day and see me with my entourage. I'm quite a celebrity down here.”

“Tell us about your fellow students,” says Lenz. “What do you think of Leon Gaines?”

“Pond scum. Roger gave him a matched pair of abstracts as a gift, small but very fine. Leon sold one of them two weeks later—for heroin, I'm sure. I didn't have the heart to tell Roger.”

“And Gaines's work?”

“His
work
?” Another laugh. “The violence has a certain authenticity. But I think of Leon as a graffiti artist. A boy painting dirty words and symbols on a wall. He wants desperately to shock, but he has no real insight, so the ultimate effect is flat.”

“What about Thalia Laveau?”

“Thalia's a lovely creature. Lovely and sad.”

“Why sad?”

“Have you talked to her yet?”

“No.”

“She suffered terribly as a child, I think. She carries a great deal of pain around.”

“What about her paintings?”

“They're charming. A sort of tribute to the nobility of the lower classes—a myth to which I don't happen to subscribe, but one she somehow manages to bring to life on canvas.”

“Have you seen any of her nude work?”

“I didn't know she did any.”

“What do you think of her skill as an artist?”

“Thalia has a gift. She works very fast, probably because she sees to the heart of things so quickly. She'll do well, if she sticks with it.”

“Why wouldn't she?”

“As I said . . . she has a certain fragility. Fragility at the center of toughness. Like a nautilus hidden within a shell.”

“What about Roger Wheaton's work?” asks Kaiser.

“Roger's a genius.” Smith's tone is matter-of-fact, as though he'd said, “The sky is blue.” “One of a handful I've met in my life.”

“Why is he a genius?” asks Kaiser.

“Have you seen his work?”

“Some of it.”

“You don't think he's a genius?”

“I'm not qualified to make that judgment.”

“Well, I am. Roger isn't like the rest of us. He paints from within. Utterly and completely. I try to do it, and I like to think I occasionally succeed. But the external is an important part of the process for me. I plan, I use models, rigorous technique. I strive to capture beauty, to freeze and yet animate it. Roger doesn't use models or photographs or anything else. When he paints, the divine simply flows out through his brush. Every time I look at his canvases, I see something different. Particularly the abstract ones.”

“Do you know anything about the clearing he supposedly paints? Is it a real place?”

“I assume it is, or was, but I really have no idea. I don't think it matters. It's just a point of departure for him, the way a cliff might be the point of departure for an eagle.”

“It may well matter in relation to these crimes,” says Lenz.