A Darkness More Than Night

by Michael Connelly

  “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Probably. Was there anything about books showing some of this stuff or the names of artists or writers who used the so-called ‘bird of darkness’ in their work?”

  McCaleb heard some pages turning over the phone and Doran was silent for a few moments.

  “I don’t have a lot here. No books but I can give you the name of some of the artists mentioned and you could probably get something over the Internet or maybe the library at UCLA.”

  “All right.”

  “I have to do this quickly. We’re about to go here.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “All right, I have an artist named Bruegel who painted a huge face as the gateway to hell. A brown owl was nesting in the nostril of the face.”

  She started laughing.

  “Don’t ask me,” she said. “I’m just giving you what I found.”

  “Fine,” McCaleb said, writing the description down. “Go on.”

  “Okay, two others noted for using the owl as the symbol of evil were Van Oostanen and Dürer. I don’t have specific paintings.”

  He heard more pages turning. He asked for spellings of the artists’ names and wrote them down.

  “Okay, here it is. This last guy’s work is supposedly replete with owls all over the place. I can’t pronounce his first name. It’s spelled H-I-E-R-O-N-Y-M-U-S. He was Netherlandish, part of the northern Renaissance. I guess owls were big up there.”

  McCaleb looked at the paper in front of him. The name she had just spelled seemed familiar to him.

  “You forgot his last name. What’s his last name?”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s Bosch. Like the spark plugs.”

  McCaleb sat frozen. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe. He stared at the name on the page, unable to write the last part that Doran had just given him. Finally, he turned his head and looked out of the picnic area to the spot on the sidewalk where he had last seen Harry Bosch walking away.

  “Terry, you there?”

  He came out of it.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s really all I have. And I have to go. We’re starting here.”

  “Anything else on Bosch?”

  “Not really. And I’m out of time.”

  “Okay, Brass. Listen, thanks a lot. I owe you one for this.”

  “And I’ll collect one day. Let me know how it all comes out, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  “And send me a photo of that little girl.”

  “I will.”

  She hung up and McCaleb slowly closed his phone. He wrote a note at the bottom of the page reminding him to send Brass a photo of his daughter. It was just an exercise in avoiding the name of the painter he had written down.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  He sat with his thoughts for a long time. The coincidence of receiving the eerie information just minutes after eating with Harry Bosch was unsettling. He studied his notes for a few more moments but knew they did not contain the immediate information he needed. He finally reopened the phone and called 213 information. A minute later he called the personnel office of the Los Angeles Police Department. A woman answered after nine rings.

  “Yes, I’m calling on behalf of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department and I need to contact a particular LAPD officer. Only I don’t know where he works. I only have his name.”

  He hoped the woman wouldn’t ask what he meant by on behalf of. There was what seemed to be a long silence and then he heard the sound of typing on a keyboard.

  “Last name?”

  “Uh, it’s Bosch.”

  He spelled it and then looked down at his notes, ready to spell the first name.

  “And the first na — never mind, there’s only one. Higher — ronny — mus. Is that it? I can’t pronounce it, I don’t think.”

  “Hieronymus. Yes, that’s it.”

  He spelled the name and asked if it was a match. It was.

  “Well, he’s a detective third grade and he works in Hollywood Division. Do you need that number?”

  McCaleb didn’t answer.

  “Sir, do you need —”

  “No, I have it. Thank you very much.”

  He closed the phone, looked at his watch, and then reopened the phone. He called Jaye Winston’s direct number and she picked up right away. He asked if she had gotten anything back from the lab on the examination of the plastic owl.

  “Not yet. It’s only been a couple hours and one of them was lunch. I’m going to give it until tomorrow before I start knocking on their door.”

  “Do you have time to make a few calls and do me a favor?”

  “What calls?”

  He told her about the icon search Brass Doran had conducted but left out any mention of Hieronymus Bosch. He said that he wanted to talk with an expert on Northern Renaissance painting but thought the arrangements could be made more quickly and cooperation would be more forthcoming if the request came from an official homicide detective.

  “I’ll do it,” Winston said. “Where should I start?”

  “I’d try the Getty. I’m in Van Nuys now. If somebody will see me I could be there in a half hour.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. You talk to Harry Bosch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Not really.”

  “I didn’t think so. Hang tight. I’ll call you back.”

  McCaleb dumped what was left of his lunch into one of the trash barrels and headed back toward the courthouse, where he had left the Cherokee parked on a side street by the state parole offices. As he walked he thought about how he had lied by omission to Winston. He knew he should have told her about the Bosch connection or coincidence, whichever it was. He tried to understand what it was that made him hold it back. He found no answer.

  His phone chirped just as he got to the Cherokee. It was Winston.

  “You have an appointment at the Getty at two. Ask for Leigh Alasdair Scott. He’s an associate curator of paintings.”

  McCaleb got out his notes and wrote the name down, using the front hood of the Cherokee, after asking Winston to spell it.

  “That was quick, Jaye. Thanks.”

  “We aim to please. I spoke directly to Scott and he said if he couldn’t help you he would find someone who could.”

  “You mention the owl?”

  “No, it’s your interview.”

  “Right.”

  McCaleb knew he had another chance to tell her about Hieronymus Bosch. But again he let it pass.

  “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “See ya.”

  He closed the phone and unlocked the car. He looked over the roof at the parole offices and saw a large white banner with blue lettering hanging across the facade above the building’s entrance.

  WELCOME BACK THELMA!

  He got into the car wondering whether the Thelma being welcomed back was a convict or an employee. He drove off in the direction of Victory Boulevard

  . He’d take it to the 405 and then head south.

  11

  As the freeway rose to cross the Santa Monica Mountains in the Sepulveda Pass, McCaleb saw the Getty rise in front of him on the hilltop. The structure of the museum itself was as impressive as any of the great artworks housed within. It looked like a castle sitting atop a medieval hill. He saw one of the double trams slowly working its way up the side of the hill, delivering another group to the altar of history and art.

  By the time he parked at the bottom of the hill and caught his own tram ride up, McCaleb was fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Leigh Alasdair Scott. After getting directions from a museum guard, McCaleb hurried across the travertine stone plaza to a security entrance. Having checked in at the counter he waited on a bench until Scott came for him.

  Scott was in his early fifties and spoke with an accent McCaleb placed as originating in either Australia or New Zealand. He was friendly and happy to oblige
the L.A. County sheriff’s office.

  “We have had occasion to offer our help and expertise to detectives in the past. Usually in regard to authenticating artwork or offering historical background to specific pieces,” he said as they walked down a long hallway to his office. “Detective Winston indicated this would be different. You need some general information on the Northern Renaissance?”

  He opened a door and ushered McCaleb into a suite of offices. They stepped into the first office past the security counter. It was a small office with a view through a large window across the Sepulveda Pass to the hillside homes of Bel-Air. The office felt crowded because of the bookshelves lining two walls and the cluttered worktable. There was just room for two chairs. Scott pointed McCaleb to one while he took the other.

  “Actually, things have changed a bit since Detective Winston spoke to you,” McCaleb said. “I can be more specific about what I need now. I’ve been able to narrow down my questions to a specific painter of that period. If you can tell me about him and maybe show me some of his work, that would be a big help.”

  “And what is his name?”

  “I’ll show it to you.”

  McCaleb took out his folded notes and showed him. Scott read the name aloud with obvious familiarity. He pronounced the first name Her-ron-i-mus.

  “I thought that was how you said it.”

  “Rhymes with anonymous. His work is actually quite well known. You are not familiar with it?”

  “No. I never did much studying of art. Does the museum have any of his paintings?”

  “None of his works are in the Getty collection but there is a descendant piece in the conservation studio. It is undergoing heavy restoration. Most of his verified works are in Europe, the most significant representations in the Prado. Others scattered about. I am not the one you should be talking to, however.”

  McCaleb raised his eyebrows in way of a question.

  “Since you have narrowed your query to Bosch specifically, there is someone here you would be better advised to talk to. She is a curatorial assistant. She also happens to be working on a catalogue raisonné on Bosch — a rather long-term project for her. A labor of love, perhaps.”

  “Is she here? Can I speak to her?”

  Scott reached for his phone and pushed the speaker button. He then consulted an extensions list taped to the table next to it and punched in three digits. A woman answered after three rings.

  “Lola Walter, can I help you?”

  “Lola, it’s Mr. Scott. Is Penelope available?”

  “She’s working on Hell this morning.”

  “Oh, I see. We’ll go to her there.”

  Scott hit the speaker button, disconnecting the call, and headed toward the door.

  “You’re in luck,” he said.

  “Hell?” McCaleb asked.

  “It’s the descendant painting. If you’ll come with me please.”

  Scott led the way to an elevator and they went down one floor. Along the way Scott explained that the museum had one of the finest conservation studios in the world. Consequently, works of art from other museums and private collections were often shipped to the Getty for repair and restoration. At the moment a painting believed to have come from a student of Bosch’s or a painter from his studio was being restored for a private collector. The painting was called Hell.

  The conservation studio was a huge room partitioned into two main sections. One section was a workshop where frames were restored. The other section was dedicated to the restoration of paintings and was broken into a series of work bays that ran along a glass wall with the same views Scott had in his office.

  McCaleb was led to the second bay, where there was a woman standing behind a man seated before a painting attached to a large easel. The man wore an apron over a dress shirt and tie and a pair of what looked like jeweler’s magnifying glasses. He was leaning toward the painting and using a paintbrush with a tiny brush head to apply what looked like silver paint to the surface.

  Neither the man nor the woman looked at McCaleb and Scott. Scott held his hands up in a Hold here gesture while the seated man completed his paint stroke. McCaleb looked at the painting. It was about four feet high and six feet wide. It was a dark landscape depicting a village being burned to the ground in the night while its inhabitants were being tortured and executed by a variety of otherworldly creatures. The upper panels of the painting, primarily depicting the swirling night sky, were spotted with small patches of damage and missing paint. McCaleb’s eyes caught on one segment of the painting below this which depicted a nude and blindfolded man being forced up a ladder to a gallows by a group of birdlike creatures with spears.

  The man with the brush completed his work and placed the brush on the glass top of the worktable to his left. He then leaned back toward the painting to study his work. Scott cleared his throat. Only the woman turned around.

  “Penelope Fitzgerald, this is Detective McCaleb. He is involved in an investigation and needs to ask about Hieronymus Bosch.”

  He gestured toward the painting.

  “I told him you would be the most appropriate member of staff to speak with.”

  McCaleb watched her eyes register surprise and concern, a normal response to a sudden introduction to the police. The seated man did not even turn around. This was not a normal response. Instead he picked up his brush and went back to work on the painting. McCaleb held his hand out to the woman.

  “Actually, I’m not officially a detective. I’ve been asked by the sheriff’s department to help out with an investigation.”

  They shook hands.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Has a Bosch painting been stolen?”

  “No, nothing like that. This is a Bosch?”

  He gestured toward the painting.

  “Not quite. It may be a copy of one of his pieces. If so, then the original is lost and this is all we have. The style and design are his. But it’s generally agreed to be the work of a student from his workshop. It was probably painted after Bosch was dead.”

  As she spoke her eyes never left the painting. They were sharp and friendly eyes that easily betrayed her passion for Bosch. He guessed that she was about sixty and had probably dedicated her life to the study and love of art. She had surprised him. Scott’s brief description of her as an assistant working on a catalog of Bosch’s work had made McCaleb think she would be a young art student. He silently chastised himself for making the assumption.

  The seated man put his brush down again and picked up a clean white cloth off the worktable to wipe his hands. He swiveled in his chair and looked up when he noticed McCaleb and Scott. It was then that McCaleb knew he had made a second error of assumption. The man had not been ignoring them. He just hadn’t heard them.

  The man flipped the magnifiers up to the top of his head while reaching beneath the apron to his chest and adjusted a hearing aid control.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know we had visitors.”

  He spoke with a hard German accent.

  “Dr. Derek Vosskuhler, this is Mr. McCaleb,” Scott said. “He’s an investigator and he needs to steal Mrs. Fitzgerald away from you for a short while.”

  “I understand. This is fine.”

  “Dr. Vosskuhler is one of our restoration experts,” Scott volunteered.

  Vosskuhler nodded and looked up at McCaleb and studied him in the way he might study a painting. He made no move to extend his hand.

  “An investigation? In regard to Hieronymus Bosch, is it?”

  “In a peripheral way. I just want to learn what I can about him. I’m told Mrs. Fitzgerald is the expert.”

  McCaleb smiled.

  “No one is an expert on Bosch,” Vosskuhler said without a smile. “Tortured soul, tormented genius . . . how will we ever know what is truly in a man’s heart?”

  McCaleb just nodded. Vosskuhler turned and appraised the painting.

  “What do you see, Mr. McCaleb?”

  McCaleb loo
ked at the painting and didn’t answer for a long moment.

  “A lot of pain.”

  Vosskuhler nodded approvingly. Then he stood and looked closely at the painting, flipping the glasses down and leaning close to the upper quarter panel, his lenses just inches from the night sky above the burning village.

  “Bosch knew all of the demons,” he said without turning from the painting. “The darkness . . .”