The Painted Gun

by Bradley Spinelli

  “Do you have any idea why he might have been killed? Did he have any enemies, any—”

  “No. Really, I haven’t a clue. This whole thing has been like a roller-coaster ride. I’m trying to get his affairs in order, our parents are coming out for the service, and meanwhile I’m trying to keep his gallery from going under. That’s all he would have wanted.”

  I let that linger a bit, taking in the ambience of the fading lunchtime rush. She sipped her cappuccino and set it down with long, slender fingers. “Susan, what do you know about an artist named Ashley?”

  She gave me a wan, sympathetic grin. “I had forgotten about her until that awful man came in yesterday to pick up her painting. But Jeffrey mentioned her several times—she drove him crazy. All the artists drove him crazy, but Ashley especially. He thought she was incredibly talented, but she always painted the same subject, and he thought she would be difficult to sell. And she wouldn’t take any advice from him at all. He called her ‘the diva.’ I never met her, but I think he discovered her at a group show or something. She had a studio . . . somewhere. I forget.”

  “Listen, anything you could find out about her would be a fantastic help. I think—”

  “Wait a minute. It’s you, isn’t it? That painting at the gallery—it’s you.”

  “It did look a bit like me. But I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

  She leveled a steamy gaze at me and for a moment I imagined her Marin attire matted up on my bathroom floor. “Mm-hmm.”

  “I promise you,” I said in my most convincing voice, “I’ve never met her.”

  “So what is it? You think Ashley had something to do with Jeffrey’s death? I thought it must be that man Serena saw—”

  “I think it was. But yes, I think it has something to do with Ashley.”

  “Why?”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t want to tell you too much, Susan, and to be honest, I don’t know that much. But Ashley’s gone missing. I was hired to find her. I discovered that she had a piece at your brother’s gallery and went to talk to him. Half an hour later he was . . .”

  “Dead. I see.”

  “Susan, you don’t seem all that troubled—”

  “Jeffrey tested positive for HIV years ago. He went into full-blown AIDS about six months back. The cocktails weren’t really helping, his health was deteriorating slowly but steadily . . . I’ve had some time to deal with the possibility of his death. Perhaps it’s better this way.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re all sorry.”

  I thought about that. “Did Jeffrey keep files, or any kind of background information on his artists?”

  She shook her head. “He did, he was quite good about it, but they were all destroyed or went missing when . . .” She trailed off.

  “Right. I saw the office.”

  She said nothing. We were drifting away from each other like continents.

  I paid the check and gave her my card. “If anything turns up—anything—or if you think of anything . . .”

  “I will.” She laid that gaze on me again and I excused myself quickly.

  * * *

  When Susan called later that night I hoped it was social.

  “David? This may sound a little forward, but—”

  “I’m sorry, can I call you back in just a few minutes?” Don’t hang up, gorgeous, my phone is tapped. She didn’t speak at first and I didn’t breathe.

  “Um . . . sure.”

  She gave me her number and I ran down the street to the pay phone and called her back, almost panting.

  “Can you come over?”

  My heart did a double take but it clearly wasn’t a booty call. She lived in the Marina; I had to forgive her for that. Yuppies come in all shapes and sizes. I found a parking space on Chestnut and walked up Bay and found her little complex and rang the bell. She answered the door in a comfortable little sundress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination—or perhaps too much. Mine was running wild.

  “I’m so glad you came by. I found something, and it just made me so nervous that I—it sounds stupid, but I just didn’t want to tell you about it over the phone.” It didn’t sound stupid to me.

  “Show me.”

  She showed me a portable file cabinet, one of those plastic things you get at the Container Store. “I was at Jeffrey’s apartment. He had a small place in the Castro. I was just going through some things and I found this. It was weird—it was stuck in the back of the closet, kind of hidden.” She was getting herself all worked up into a cute frenzy. “I’m sorry—I’m terrible. Can I get you something?”

  I settled on a Sierra Nevada and she sat me down at an Ikea table. The apartment was small but tastefully decorated: rich, plush, off-white carpet, family photos, a television that wasn’t quite the center of attention. I figured the kitchen would have china that matched the curtains, and the sheets on her bed probably matched her underwear.

  Turns out Dalton was less of a gallery owner than an artist cultivator. He coached his artists and pushed them in directions he found appropriate, and kept intricate files on each of them.

  “This is the one I wanted you to see.”

  The file, a slim manila folder, was labeled simply, Ashley, and contained a number of neat, handwritten field notes, for lack of a better term. It was beautiful . . . Dalton, that wonderful, perfidious son of a bitch, had mapped out his brain for us. I skimmed over it for the highlights:

  Went to show at Project Artaud, 499 Alabama—bullshit Mission School ilk. Collaboration between Jason Masello and the mononymous “Ashley.” Calling it “collaboration” is a travesty; they’re each doing their own thing and apparently hating each other for it. Probably lovers hoping to find a common ground—and failing. Masello is an idiot. Ashley Fenn is a genius.

  I jumped. “Fenn? That’s her last name?”

  Susan nodded. “I think so. But look at this,” Susan said, flipping past a copy of the gallery guide with a couple photos, descriptions of the works, and another bizarre bio of our Ashley to direct me to another page of Dalton’s notes: Finally went to Ashley’s studio in Bayview.

  “Bayview? Pretty rough neighborhood for a young girl.”

  “Keep reading.”

  Finally went to Ashley’s studio in Bayview. Took a long time to convince her to let me come—she swore me to secrecy, to never tell anyone where it was. Strange—not convinced it WAS her studio—it looked like she brought finished works into an empty space. No sign of any work actually being done there. Regardless, can’t believe one so young has such command of brush, palette, and composition. Like she was born with it. She has a fine eye, is an obsessive observer. You can feel her watching you, it’s almost creepy. Wanted to offer her a solo show immediately, but every painting is a portrait of the same man. Some are complex enough to not be considered just portraits, but . . . no. Encouraged her to branch out; she was indignant. Conversation was strained and difficult. Asked her who the subject was and she said she didn’t know. “I see him in my dreams.” Bullshit. He has to be a lover or a crush. They’re too good, too consistent. She knows him from life—or a thousand photographs. I said, “These are paintings to die for,” and she laughed and said, “They really are. You have no idea.” Woman needs a shrink and a prescription.

  I looked up at Susan, who was hovering over me expectantly. I hoped she couldn’t see the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. She put a hand on the back of my chair. “Paintings to die for,” she said. “That gave me the creeps.”

  “Me too.” There was more but I couldn’t concentrate. “Susan, let me have this.”

  “David, I’d like to, but I think I should give it to the police. Look at the last page in the file.”

  I skipped ahead.

  Convinced Ashley to give me a piece for the 5x6 group show. You would think she didn’t want to sell anything. She insisted on absolute secrecy, still won’t tell me her last name—I didn’t divulge that Masello already leak
ed it. She said, “These paintings could get me killed.” I told her she was being overly dramatic. She grabbed me, very disconcerting, and made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone about her studio or her other work. “This is nitroglycerin. You can’t tell anyone about me. I’m a dangerous girl.” I’m sure it’s all in her mind but a promise is a promise. She’s unbalanced, and I worry she could easily become unhinged. I wonder if she was abused. Before I left she asked if I thought all our dreams came true in heaven. I told her I hoped so, and she said, “Bless you” and gave me a haunted look. What a nut job.

  “Susan,” I said, “just give me two days with this before you go to the police. All right? Let me make a copy. I want to talk to this Masello character before the cops get to him and spook him for real.”

  “All right,” she said, nodding. “Take it.”

  I finished my beer and was on my way out when something about the way she was fingering the strap on her dress made me pause.

  “What?” she asked, looking at me with radiance, her head slightly askew. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing.” I took her face in my hands and kissed her—a deep, soul-destroying kiss that lasted half an hour and took us into the bedroom. We made furtive, silent love for what seemed like a week. The sheets didn’t match her underwear; she wasn’t wearing any.

  9

  The cop at the door made me jump until I realized it was only Michael, a South City radio-car cop who grew up across the street and often comes by to visit his parents, a sweet couple, Chinese immigrants.

  “Hey, Michael, how are you?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Please.” I pushed open the screen.

  “Can we sit? This is business, David.”

  I sat him down in the kitchen and offered him the stale coffee that had been in the pot since the day before. He refused. I poured myself a cup—it was still early, I’d come in late from Susan’s, and I felt like I’d slept for about twenty minutes. The coffee was terrible but still coffee.

  “Listen, David, I’m here on about six favors, so I really need you to be straight up with me.”

  “What favors?” I was just waiting to hear the name Ashley.

  “I got a call from an SF inspector. Something tied in to South City, and they wanted me to pick up a possible perp/possible witness, and bring him in for questioning.”

  I sat down across from him, sipped my coffee, and waited. He gave me that cop look. I relented. “And?”

  “You know a woman named Susan Dalton?”

  My heart was in my throat and I didn’t want it to go back down. “Yes, I know her. Why?”

  “Neighbors thought they heard a gunshot in her building last night. Susan was in her bed with a bullet under the chin.”

  I stood up quickly. “Oh, fuck no.” I went to the sink and leaned over it. This was all my fault, somehow. That poor, wonderful, sweet girl.

  “Apparently it was pretty messy.”

  I glared at him. “Save me the details, will you?”

  “Sorry. How did you know her, exactly? See, they found your business card in her apartment. You’ll have to go downtown and make a statement.”

  I shook my head and stared at the errant Cheerios circling in the bottom of the drain. “I . . . I went to this art show south of Market. There was a big hubbub because . . . apparently the owner was shot. Susan’s brother. Anyway, I met her there, and . . . guess you could say I was seeing her.”

  “The guys said she was pretty hot.”

  “Yeah.” I wanted to hit him. “You could say that.”

  “You fuck her?”

  “With all due respect, officer, fuck you and your mother.”

  “Hey, David, I’m just trying to save you some trouble. It’s gonna come out. They did the preliminary autopsy this morning and they found semen in her.”

  Susan had these condoms that were like circus balloons. One broke, and after the initial freakout, when we confirmed that we were both clean and that she was on the pill, we giggled about it and the second time didn’t use anything at all.

  “Yeah,” I confessed, “that would be mine.”

  “Rawdoggin’ it, huh?”

  His smirk made me want to hurt him. He caught my look and I didn’t have to say anything.

  “Well, listen, I’m no inspector, but I’m guessing you were the last person—well, second-to-last—to see her alive. You gotta go down and make a statement. I don’t think you’re really a suspect or they would have come to get you already. Just be honest about what time you left and hope it clears you from the estimated time of death.”

  “Thanks so much for your concern and consideration.”

  He stood up then and came over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.” I liked him for that. “But David, tell me one thing.” I hated him all over again. “Were you working something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. I told you when you first started this business that you were going to turn into some kind of private dick. Were you working something?”

  “No.” I looked at him slow and steady, like I was trying to guess whether or not he had a flush to beat my full house. “Just having a good time with a sweet lady.”

  “All right. I won’t ask again.” He handed me a business card for an SF inspector at the Northern District Police Station, in the Western Addition. “You gotta go talk to these guys. If they have to come get you it’s gonna look bad. Take it easy, David.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I poured a drink and called the number on the card and told a secretary I was on my way. Guess I knew when this whole thing started that sooner or later I’d be sitting in a police station lying my ass off.

  * * *

  Inspector Berrera was a large, quiet man of obvious Hispanic decent. He seemed to eschew speaking for grunts, gestures, and other silent expressions that gave off the impression that he was wise—or at least pensive. Inspector Willits was smaller, in excellent shape, talked more, and was generally more animate. In the good-cop, bad-cop archetype, neither fell into either category comfortably, but I was willing to give myself the benefit of the doubt and consider them both bad cops.

  The lying took up most of the afternoon. I wish they’d give cops secretaries; I’ve never seen a slower one-finger typist. Willits paced and fidgeted with a coffee cup like an ex-smoker; Berrera hunted, pecked, and gave me Cro-Magnon stares.

  “How well did you know Susan Dalton?” Willits asked.

  “We just met, inspector.”

  “She was naked when they found her. That your juice in her?”

  Perverts. I never met a cop who wasn’t. “Yes. I’m happy to take a blood test.”

  “We’ll get to that. Did you know her brother was murdered just a few days ago?”

  “I did.”

  “What do you think about that?” Willits stopped fidgeting for a moment and Berrera swung his enormous head to face me.

  “Was that a question, inspector?”

  Berrera didn’t like that and grunted loudly. Willits flared his nostrils and nearly spat, “What do you think about Dalton and her brother both being murdered?”

  “I think it’s tragic, inspector. Especially Susan. The brother I didn’t know, but Susan I really liked.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  Willits was starting to piss me off, and I wondered if I’d have better luck with Berrera. We could just grunt at each other and I could be on my way. “Why was the brother killed?” I ventured.

  “Excuse me?” Willits didn’t seem to like having someone else ask questions.

  “I’m just curious. Do you think there’s a connection between the two murders?”

  “You seem pretty calm, Crane.”

  “I figure if I were a suspect I’d know it by now.”

  “How did you meet Mrs. Dalton?”

  “Miss.”

  “Excuse me?” So polite, that Willits. A little slow, but the polite part actually put him a cut
above most cops I’d had the displeasure of meeting.

  “Miss Dalton. She wasn’t married.”

  Berrera snapped his jaws. “Stop fucking around.”

  “I went to Dalton’s gallery—the brother’s—to see the current show. He had just been killed, there were cops everywhere. I happened to see Susan, I thought she was gorgeous. I called the gallery and expressed condolences and asked her to lunch. We had lunch. I got invited over to her place. Here I am.” It was mostly true. I had to admit to being at the scene after Dalton got it, in case I’d been seen, but I couldn’t think of a good reason to bring the Ashley element into this.

  Berrera chuckled, clacking the keys.

  “Regular ambulance chaser, huh?” said Willits. “Always get your dates at crime scenes?”

  I let that go. “So do you have any idea why either one of these people were killed?”

  “You seem awfully interested—”

  “Willits, I make love to a woman and six hours later she’s dead. Damn right I’m interested.”

  That rattled him a bit. “I understand, Crane. But we can’t discuss an investigation. I’m sure you understand.”

  “So why am I here?”

  The two cops exchanged a look. They had nothing on me, but they weren’t going to give me anything, either.

  Willits grabbed a clipboard and flipped a couple pages. He read it off: “Old lady on the ground floor heard you come in. Thought it was late for visitors, but ‘you know those young kids.’ Got a pretty good look at you, gave a fair description. She stayed up late watching Perry Mason, if you can believe it, and heard you leave. Almost immediately heard someone else buzz Ms. Dalton. Footsteps on the stairs, a little commotion, footsteps coming down. Thought it was strange that she didn’t hear Dalton’s door close. Peeked out and saw a guy leaving—didn’t get a good look, but knew it was a different guy.” He looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Went upstairs to check on Dalton—you know the rest.” He put the clipboard down and picked up his empty coffee cup. “You’re not a suspect.” Thank god for nosy neighbors. “But we’d like to know what you know. If there’s any reason you can think of why anyone would want Ms. Dalton dead.”