Angel With a Bullet (7 page)

Nine

Frank drops me at
the block-long Ghirardelli sign with its white neon letters dancing above the open-air plaza. Ghirardelli Square is your typical tourist trap with a gorgeous view of San Francisco Bay. But unlike some others, the bright boutiques, galleries, strolling minstrels, and fresh-seafood restaurants add a touch of class to the clutter of tacky T-shirt and postcard booths.

With a few minutes to spare until my two o'clock “appointment,” I drop into the landmark chocolate factory to buy a small square of Ghirardelli peppermint dark. It's the closest thing they have to a breath mint and tastes deliciously decadent, even if it can't quite disguise my garlicky Greek lunch.

The entrance to Stellar Gallery is all stainless steel and clean glass with Adamsky originals on display behind virtually every pane. The plaza's unobtrusive coral stone pathways and bleached sand walls heighten the art's whimsical abstract designs and iridescent colors.

I dig out the Polaroid that Frank had given me and hold it up to the paintings in the window. It's tough to tell from the small image, but the one Diego hid under his mattress seems more brooding, with thicker brush strokes and darker tones than the ones on display.

I've discovered from numerous interviews over the years that a lot of creative people dance around the edges of mental illness. Periods of mania when they produce some of their brightest and most colorful work are often followed by tortured bouts of dark depression. The most famous artists, writers, poets, and musicians also tend to be the ones who, often at their peak, slip off the edge and plummet into the bottomless depths of the illness.

I wonder if that is what Diego was trying to hide under his mattress, something only another artist might notice: Adamsky's encroaching dark side. But if so, why? What's his connection to the reclusive Portuguese artist?

I return the snapshot to my pocket and push through the over-sized glass doors to the gallery. Inside, the showroom is alive with art. The explosion of color, shape, and form combine with an icy blast of conditioned air to make me feel disconnected from my body for a second. That third glass of wine doesn't help either. I usually know to limit myself to two at lunch, but visiting Diego's shook me up more than I care to admit.

I find myself suddenly afraid to make a sound as I glide across the gallery's polished marble floor like a cat burglar. The eclectic collection surrounding me is both remarkable and completely unaffordable.

For all I know, automatic sensors have scanned my wallet and are already doing a credit check. If that's the case, it shouldn't take long before two burly linebackers burst through a hidden doorway to toss my impoverished ass out on the street.

I decide to look around before that happens.

In one small room to my left a Sixties Warhol stares through silk-screened eyes in seeming disdain at a lone Mark Kostabi on the far wall. Dominating another wall is a disturbing, and almost life size, tar-and-oil scene by Attila Richard Lukacs showing naked skinheads in a Berlin slaughterhouse. Countering that it is a stunning seascape by Frederick J. Waugh, plus a tranquil nude by Eric Fischl.

Another room, defined only by a transparent barrier, contains a well-chosen collection of modern stone sculpture. I recognize the clean lines and elemental shapes of Kazutaka Uchida but find myself immediately drawn to a collection of exquisite jade carvings by Canada's Deborah Wilson.

I reach out to stroke the smooth, feminine green stone of a naked torso. Immediately, a thin figure scurries forward, a lemon-yellow scarf wound around his throat like an overly affectionate ferret. He makes clicking noises with his tongue.

“We meet again, Casper,” I say, before turning around to lock on to his beady eyes.

He is surprised that I know his name, but it doesn't stop his advance.

“Please don't touch,” he sniffs, his feeble mustache clinging desperately to his sweaty upper lip.

I grin cruelly at flesh-colored pimple cream on the end of his nose.

“Isn't that what sculpture is for?” I challenge. “To please one's sense of touch as well as sight?”

“I—I wouldn't—I just—we do not like our nudes fondled.” He puckers his lips into a crinkled Cheerio and attempts to unlock my stare by concentrating on the bridge of my nose.

“You really should try it.” I allow my fingers to slide gently down the curve of sculpted back, slowing above viridescent buttocks before continuing around their smooth curve.

Casper glares at me, and I can tell it is pointless to continue annoying him. The poor man is in dire need of a personality transplant.

“Is there anything in particular you are interested in?” His voice has an irritating squeak that burrows beneath my skin like an invading army of ticks. If I were forced to work alongside such an annoying person, I would need to see if a few squirts of WD-40 could loosen him up.

The gleeful vision of Casper choking on a mouthful of oil makes me wonder if I might not be in the pre-alarm stages of PMS.

“Diego's suicide note. What did it say exactly?” I ask.

Casper's pale face turns even whiter.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss that,” he says. “The police have a full transcript. Ask them if you're so curious.”

“I will. I just hoped you could summarize it for me. Diego must have trusted that you would follow his wishes.”

Casper stands a little straighter. “We had a good relationship.”

“Hmmm,” I muse. “And how much will you get for his blood painting?”

He gulps. “I beg your pardon?”

“It's a simple question. What's your cut?”

Casper's shoulders stiffen and I watch as several blood vessels form blue ridges in his forehead. “I'm afraid I can't talk about that either.”

I stare at him for a few seconds, allowing the silence to grow awkward, before shrugging. “In that case, could you tell Mr. Stellar that Dixie Flynn is here to see him?”

Casper's sunken cheeks flush a muddy red as he scurries across the marble with a staccato click, click, click to a glass-fronted office in the far corner.

I am studying a wall of watercolors when Declan Stellar walks out from behind a large transparent glass desk and frames himself in the doorway to his office. The atrium casts a diffusion of soft white light across porcelain features and makes mid-ear-length, plum-black hair shimmer. I am instantly drawn to stormy almond eyes perfectly centered above a strong nose and kissable lips.

My heart does a little dance as I scan the rest of him: black collarless shirt tucked into cashmere pants, expertly finished with a tasteful leather belt, silver buckle, and stylish John Fluevog lace-up shoes. As he moves, the shirt tightens to hint at a muscled chest and firm stomach.

Dixie's Tips #5:
Before meeting a hunky man, discreetly check there isn't a nasty booger dangling from one of your nostrils. Otherwise, that's all you'll be thinking
.

I quickly spin around to catch my reflection in a mirrored surface. All clear.

“Ms. Flynn? Hello. Would you care to join me in my office?” invites Declan with a smile that reflects the light as though his teeth are dusted in diamonds.

“Yeah, sure.” I wince upon hearing my voice, fearing I sound like a weak-kneed tweener being asked to dance at the Junior Valentine's Ball.

Declan returns to his office and I follow. Focusing on the way he walks, a silly smile creeps onto my face, and I recall the sculpted nude I had been admiring earlier. The smile would have stayed with me all the way into the office if Casper hadn't tossed a haughty harrumph in my path as he scurried out of the way.

Inside, I sit stiffly on a steel contraption that I mistake for a chair. It's as comfortable as an ice-cube tray, but a quick scan of the office doesn't reveal any alternatives.

Under the harsher lighting of the office, Declan doesn't look quite as flawless. He's still handsome, but the illusion of pampered softness has faded to reveal deeper furrows on his brow and crinkled recesses spreading around his eyes like spiderwebs.

I wonder if he has trouble sleeping in that big, empty bed of his.

“You don't look like an art critic, Ms. Flynn.” Declan crosses his legs and fixes a slumped sock to purposely distract my attention while he ravishes me with his eyes.

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

I try an innocent smile, but it likely comes across too much like a leer. At least I'm obeying
Dixie's Tips #6
:
Don't drool over men. Cheesecake, I understand, but never men
.

“But you
are
a journalist,” he says.

“Who told you that?”

“My secretary, Mr. Blymouth. He says you're definitely not a client, but you might be a critic. He has a good eye for this sort of thing.”

“Ever run a background check on him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

I lean across the desk (which is a great move if, unlike myself, you have been blessed with a bosom) and whisper, “I caught him fondling the nudes.”

Declan tries to stifle a laugh, fails, and allows it to trickle forth. Instantly, he becomes less stiff with eyes relaxing into warm pools and one hand tugging absently on a nibble-worthy earlobe.

“He is a touch odd, I admit,” he says. “But he's been with me since I opened and is a perfect companion for some of our more eccentric clients.”

“So you're loyal?”

“Always.”

I smile. Normally I avoid the drop-dead gorgeous creatures who haunt our mundane lives, but that's because they tend to avoid me too. In this case, however, Declan has laughed at one of my jokes, and everyone knows that handsome men love funny women. Of course, once again, that could be that third glass of wine talking.

“So how can I help you?” Declan asks.

Back to business.

Pity.

I slide the Polaroid across the table. “Can you tell me anything about this?”

Declan picks up the photo with slim, long-fingered hands and studies it carefully. His brow furrows as he reaches into a drawer to produce an antique, brass-handled magnifying glass. He studies the photo more intently.

“It appears to be an Adamsky,” he says finally. “But I have no recollection of this particular piece.”

“Wouldn't you normally see all Adamsky's work before it's parceled out?”

He shakes his head. “Not always, although I definitely try to.”

“So you wouldn't know which gallery displayed or sold this one?”

“It could be any one of the ten who sell locally or one of the galleries in Canada or Mexico that also handle his work.” He hands the Polaroid back. “Who's the owner?”

I notice he doesn't even consider it may be mine.

“The police have it now,” I answer. “But it was in the possession of a local artist, Diego Chino.”

“The one who killed himself last night?”

I nod.

“Why do the police have his painting?” He leans forward, caressing my eyes with his own in an obvious attempt to seduce.

The office is getting warm.

“Good question,” I admit. “Since it doesn't look likely that there is going to be an investigation into his death, I suppose they'll return it to his next of kin.”

Declan leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes in puzzlement.

“His death doesn't have anything to do with this painting, does it?”

“That's something I'm trying to find out.”

“I knew you weren't an art critic.”

“I still take that as a compliment.”

I smile again.

This time, he smiles back.

“What can you tell me about Adamsky?” I ask.

“There isn't a lot to tell, really. He's a talented artist who didn't pick up a brush until he was in his seventies. He lives in Portugal and is simply trying to translate all the images of his mind onto canvas while he can.”

“Does he ever pop over for a visit?”

“We're planning a small tour for later this summer actually.”

“Is there a number where I can reach him?”

“Do you speak Portuguese?” He laughs, but when I don't join him, he continues. “Actually, Adamsky is quite impossible to reach. He is somewhat of a recluse.”

“How do
you
get in touch?” I feel myself slipping into hard-nosed reporter mode.

“I'm contacted when he is ready to ship over more paintings.”

“You speak Portuguese?”

The comeback catches him off guard.

“N—no … it's Adamsky's agent who gets in touch.”

“I thought you were his agent?”

“I'm his North American distributor and also the largest seller of his work.”

“And his agent …”

“Roger King—” The name leaves his lips before he can stop it and his eyes widen, exposing both shock and a flash of anger.

“Roger Kingston,” I complete. “A man of many interests.”

“Please don't disturb Sir Roger,” Declan says anxiously. “He is a very important business associate and a man who places a high value on privacy. I had no right to mention his name.”

He's making me feel bad, which I hate. Here I am, all pleased that I pulled some juicy information out of him, and he ruins it by reminding me why I don't get many dates. But since I've already blown it, I carry on.

“Why is such a powerful man acting as an artist's agent?”

“I couldn't say.”

“Because you don't know, or—”

“Because it's not my place to comment on Sir Roger's relationships.”

“He has a relationship with the artist?”

“A business relationship!” he snaps.

Let it go, Dixie. He's getting pissed.

“Of course.” I use my softer voice. “How often does Adamsky ship paintings over?”

“Whenever he has enough. There are no set dates.” Declan attempts to rebuild his composure by brushing invisible lint off his shirt.