A Perfect Eye

by Stephanie Kane

  The coverage of Kurtz’s murder two days earlier had been surprisingly scant. In the sixty-second clip of the press conference on the evening news, the chief of police called it “an unfortunate death” but assured the public the perpetrator posed no threat. The Denver Post attributed to an unnamed source speculation that Kurtz surprised a burglar. There was no mention of FBI involvement. She skimmed the hastily assembled program that volunteers were distributing at the door. The cover featured the same glowering studio portrait of Kurtz. The only indication he was dead were the dates: 1938-2018.

  Gina entered with Museum Director Michel Roland. Michel waved and smiled at trustees and patrons, stopping to awkwardly squeeze the shoulder of an overweight woman in dark glasses in the front row. Who was she? Gina sat next to her, and he bounded up to the stage.

  Everything about Michel suggested approachability: his snub nose and toothy grin, made more dazzling by enamel a touch too bright, the small eyes that disappeared into cracks of merriment when he laughed, even the slope-shouldered European tailoring of his suits. Hiring him from the Louvre had been a coup after his tiff with a critic who questioned a Da Vinci’s authenticity. Insisting the eye is king and refusing to subject the Old Master to scientific tests had won Michel admirers, and he was the engine behind the museum’s highly successful Christian Dior exhibit. But beneath his brio and bonhomie lay an iron fist and a Gallic contempt for Americans. Begging for sponsorships and gifts was so…un-French.

  The lights dimmed. Michel delicately cleared his throat and lowered the mic. “We are here to honor the life of our beloved patron, George Kurtz.”

  The scowling face on screen was replaced by a sullen boy on horseback.

  “George grew up on a Colorado ranch. His father, George Sr., was a titan of the oil fields who broadened his empire to cattle and mining. Some might call young George’s childhood privileged, even glamorous…”

  Cue a stony-faced teen in jodhpurs, holding a polo mallet.

  “…but at age fifteen he left the comforts of the ranch for the untamed wilds of the East.” Michel chuckled at his little joke. The polo player was replaced by a phalanx of boys in grey uniforms in front of a brick building with an American flag.

  “George, Jr. excelled at boarding school, then earned a petroleum engineering degree…Oh, what’s this?”

  Kurtz kneeling with a rifle and a bloodhound.

  “His daughter Angela—” Michel waved impishly at the dumpy woman in the front row—“must have slipped this in.” He glanced at his notes. The photo montage was hastily assembled, but he himself never improvised. “Who’s that, Angela? Your dad’s favorite hunting dog, Gus?”

  Angela nodded, and Gina patted her on the back. Angela pulled away.

  Michel returned to his script. “George, Jr. transformed his father’s company into the largest privately held oil and gas operation in the world. He believed fiercely in the free market, but at heart he was a philanthropist, never more generous than he was to the museum.”

  No need to remind donors how vital they were to a museum with no endowment; the plush red seats they sat in were marked by row and number so the auditorium could be rented out for events. Nor did Michel need to mention how Kurtz died, or even that he was dead. He stuck to his Talking Points.

  Highlights of Kurtz’s public life paraded across the screen, shot after shot of him at museum functions, holding a wine glass and hobnobbing with Michel and Gina. A quick one of him with daughter Angela that was out of focus and out of place. His retreats in Aspen and Palm Springs, presiding at a symposium in Jackson Hole… The montage was fit for a Hollywood movie. Was Michel in denial over Kurtz’s gruesome death? Or a magician, flattering his patrons by reminding them of their exclusivity while he distracted them from why they were there? Attention wandering, Lily glanced around the auditorium.

  Paul was standing next to Nick. Didn’t the FBI have local agents? Kurtz was getting the VIP treatment, and though Paul had asked her for scuttlebutt, he’d be going back to D.C. as soon as this dog-and-pony show was over. Back to whatever was missing… He’d pooh-poohed the killer being an artist, but what if the museum was involved? If she were looking for Kurtz’s murderer, she’d start right here.

  The first rule is assume nothing.

  Cats knew one wrong assumption could be their last. Jack had a protocol for assessing strangers: he appraised size, shape, and how the person moved before slowly approaching to sniff out identity and intent. He knew appearances were deceiving—if only she’d been so smart about Paul! He was looking at the front row, where Gina coyly adjusted the neckline of her dress. Did she know he was watching her? Of course. A guy like him would probably—

  Avoid subjectivity.

  Nick. Wavy auburn hair, intense blue eyes, good-looking in a nerdy way. More than just a little attractive; a couple of times he’d looked like he wanted to ask her out. Now he stared at the screen with the jittery fascination of someone watching his own life unfold.

  Stick to what you can see.

  Nick had tapered fingers and no wedding ring. He also had an eye for art. During lectures he took notes and asked good questions about materials and technique. He’d bailed her out the other day on the sewage field in Seven, and it was sharp of him to notice that the man in the painting wasn’t carrying threshing tools. She’d looked up his address. He lived two blocks from her, in a house near Cheesman Park. If he had a wife, at least he didn’t hide her halfway across the country.

  Quantify intangibles.

  Angela Kurtz appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Unless she was blind, the Jackie Onassis shades were way too dark for an auditorium and too small for her heavy face. Her black crepe dress was more than Lily could afford, but a size too large. Was she losing weight? She’d shifted in her seat to be as far as possible from Gina.

  Lily looked over her shoulder again at Paul. She still had his hanky. She had to launder it and give it back—

  Focus, dammit.

  Angela fiddled with the clip in her somewhat disheveled hair. Like her shades, the clip was too small for the job; unlike her dress, it looked like it came from a drugstore. The nails on the fingers fiddling with the clasp were polished but bitten to the quick, the cuticles ragged. Her watch hung loosely on her wrist. Granted, she was mourning her murdered father. But did the weight loss and schizoid grooming suggest a transition that began before he died?

  “Kurtz, Sr. was chairman of the state Republican Party,” Michel was saying. “Son George eschewed politics, embracing bipartisan and social causes. He endowed a chair in Law and Economics at the University of Colorado School of Law…”

  A law school publicity shot with the dean.

  “… and championed the rights of our least fortunate with grants to the ACLU and National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers in support of federal sentencing reform.”

  Kurtz shaking the hand of a woman in a power suit on the steps of the U.S. Capitol while a bespectacled and bemused head of the NACDL looked on. The photo lingered on the screen, as if to engrave the memory of Kurtz’s beneficence in the minds of his fellow patrons forever.

  “We close with thanks to our beloved benefactor, and our promise to assist his cherished Angela in continuing his good works.”

  The lights came up and mourners began filing out. Gina murmured something to Angela, who ignored her. Blushing, Gina turned away. She reached for her purse and Lily came face to face with her. Gina blinked rapidly, then smoothly regained her poise.

  “Who’s that man?” She was looking at Paul.

  “Who?”

  “The one standing over there.”

  “Nick?”

  “Nice try, Lily. He was in your lab yesterday.” She had spies everywhere. “You left together and didn’t return.”

  “Oh! You mean Paul.”

  “Paul?”

  “Riley.” He was leaning on the wall like a cat in the sun. “An FBI agent looking into Kurtz’s case.”

  “Is he married?”


  Lily smiled like Jack when she opened a can of tuna. “How would I know?”

  “Stay away from him,” Gina ordered. “And Angela Kurtz too.”

  “Why?”

  “Crime is not in the museum’s best interests.”

  “How reassuring.”

  “Take it as a friendly warning, Lily.” She gestured to the podium, where Michel was accepting congratulations and condolences. “Straight from the top.”

  Chapter Six

  Sun flooded in from the skylight of the Brown Palace Hotel. Shaded lamps welcomed aging eyes, and a harp softly played. Conservatively dressed in her trademark oversized red-framed glasses, off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater, and shantung silk trousers, Elena Brandt helped herself to a scone. An armload of vintage black Bakelite bangles completed her fashion statement. Their monthly high tea was the only occasion for which Lily dressed up, wearing her knee-skimming pencil skirt, retro-chic sweater set, and ballet flats in deference to the proprietress of Brandt Gallery of Fine Arts. Elena would have said the debt ran the other way.

  “Tea, dear?” she said.

  As if summoned by the tug of an invisible cord, a black-vested waiter silently appeared with a silver pot of jasmine tea. Elena did it by sheer force of presence; now in her eighties, she’d lived a lifetime of dealing with servants and flunkies and had suffered a few knocks along the way. The art world was no place for amateurs or fools. They waited as the server poured their tea into bone china cups before gliding away.

  “You’re looking a bit peaked.” Elena knew her too well.

  “Things have been a little hectic.” Lily took a sip. “How’s business?”

  “The auctions were disappointing, but I have my sources.” By sources Elena meant the private collectors whose identities would accompany her to her grave. A painting might have belonged to “an English private collection” or “a Russian noble family.” The dealer knew better than to ask. Even prices were recorded on the books in code.

  Bangles clinking softly, Elena broke off a corner of her scone and daintily placed it in her mouth. Her face was a nest of wrinkles and her white hair short enough for the Marines, but her smile was as guileless and fresh as a girl’s. Now her sharp eyes appraised Lily. “What’s new at the museum? I hope you’re not regretting your decision.”

  Elena had encouraged her to return to school for a degree in art conservation. It took three scholarships, her entire savings, and eight years to get where she was. Night courses in undergraduate chemistry, technical drawing at the Art Students League, two years for the Masters in Painting Conservation at NYU, an internship at the Smithsonian’s Hirschhorn Museum in D.C. and a Mellon Fellowship at the National Gallery, then four more years at the DeYoung in San Francisco. When the position finally opened in Denver, she booked the first flight home. Her dad was overjoyed to have her for more than holidays and the occasional weekend, and she was glad she’d sublet the condo she’d bought while she was at the law firm. She never could have afforded it now.

  “No regrets,” she said. “Conservation is a noble profession.”

  Elena laughed. Both knew that meant it didn’t pay much. “Then what’s wrong, dear?”

  “George Kurtz was murdered.”

  Elena took a sip of tea, and grimaced because it was too hot. “So I heard.”

  “You don’t sound too broken up.”

  “If you’d known George, you wouldn’t be either…”

  Lily took a finger sandwich from the middle tray. Egg salad, which she didn’t particularly like, but this way Elena would continue.

  “He didn’t use my gallery. He bought only though his agent, Morley Sullivan. Sully got tips.”

  The art world ran on speed, secrecy, and greed. Every collector wanted to beat the competition, and an agent who could sniff out masterpieces like truffles was priceless. But ego and pride blinded collectors, and in a world where perception was more important than truth, even experts could be deceived. Did Elena’s antipathy for Kurtz go deeper than being snubbed?

  “Why didn’t you like him?” Lily asked.

  “George was cruel. His father was a macho ass; he and his wife toured Europe and sent him to a military academy. After he took over the business, George treated his employees miserably and his wives even worse.”

  “Yet he was a philanthropist…”

  “Philanthropy is about power, Lily. The question is how you wield it.”

  “He was certainly generous to the museum.”

  “You think George loved art?” Elena laughed scornfully. “Nobody questions a benefactor.”

  As the harpist strummed on, Lily slowly chewed. She wasn’t buying it. For one thing, there was the sheer scale of Kurtz’s donations. And what about his contributions to the NACDL and the ACLU?

  “Do you know his daughter?”

  “Angela?” Elena scoffed. “Now there’s a suspect.”

  “She seemed upset at his memorial.”

  “The way George pitted her against her brother, she should be relieved.” Elena lowered her voice confidentially. “The boy committed suicide, you know.” She helped herself to a round topped with smoked salmon mousse and capers. “Angela packed on the pounds after that. But inheriting all that money was probably worth it.”

  Kurtz’s daughter dancing on his grave? Grieving or not, there’d been something touching about her the other day. But Elena was being uncharacteristically cagy.

  “Who hated him most?” Lily said.

  “Besides his exes and mistresses, one of whom you know?”

  Lily leaned forward. “Who?”

  “Your esteemed Curator of Paintings.”

  “Gina Wheelock?”

  “How do you think the museum got that Caillebotte?”

  She remembered Kurtz’s clammy touch at the gala, his fingernails buffed and sharp. Those same hands clutching the armchair in his library, the tendons contracting to claws. If Elena’s gossip was true, she pitied Gina. But could she really be a suspect? That seemed as absurd as Elena’s portrait of Angela. She tried again.

  “Who was Kurtz’s worst enemy?”

  “The Department of Justice. He was facing a dozen indictments.”

  “The DOJ doesn’t prosecute executives.”

  Elena shrugged. “I told you, dear. I have sources.”

  Lily set down her sandwich. “Do you think the killer could be an artist?”

  “An artist?” Elena laughed. “The ones I know take out their aggressions on a canvas, with a paintbrush or palette knife. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  The waiter brought fresh plates. Elena selected a chocolate truffle. “Delicious… Not hungry?” Her shrewd eyes missed nothing. “You haven’t said what’s really going on.”

  “An FBI agent came to my office.”

  “Aha! The one you slept with on the gallery case? Paul something...”

  Lily sighed. “Ancient history.”

  “I thought that was a mistake.”

  “Yeah, it was. Married men—”

  “Not your affair. Breaking up.” Elena took another chocolate. “I saw the two of you fight over that Schiele. You set the room on fire.”

  Seated Nude was a watercolor gouache of a red-haired girl outlined in black crayon on tinted paper. The model was Schiele’s sister, Gerti. Gerti sprawled in the chair with her legs spread and her right hand cupping her ear. An awkward pose, but that arm created tension, a taut energy that ran to Gerti’s nipples. The left arm’s line broke above the elbow, softened with the curve of Gerti’s hip, and ended at the hand resting on her scarlet vulva. Look away, she taunted Lily, if you dare.

  The Nazis banned Schiele’s work as degenerate art. Seated Nude passed from his nephew to a Jewish dealer in Vienna, then disappeared until it resurfaced eighty years later in an attic in Zagreb. How it got there was a mystery, but a century after Schiele died, he was hot. When Elena acquired the watercolor from a New York gallery to great fanfare, the dealer’s heirs hired a looted a
rt expert and sued for its return in federal court. With her gallery, her reputation, and all she owned on the line, she hired Lily’s firm.

  The FBI sent Paul to Denver. His brashness back then was real, and because they were adversaries, whatever he discovered Lily made it her business to disprove. Days hunched over files spilled to debates about art over drinks. With the clock ticking down, they flew together to Vienna and Zagreb to interview witnesses, search archives, and visit museums. He was trained in art history through his work, but this was the first time she’d truly grasped paintings. It cracked open her universe. Look for the randomness, Lily, the imperfection that lets the painting breathe…. The eroticism of Schiele’s portraits, and his touches of ultramarine and cobalt and rose madder, left her breathless—alive. But back home, she was forced to accept the truth: Seated Nude belonged to the dealer’s heirs. The night before the trial, she and Paul sat across from each other in her firm’s glassed-in conference room. The table was littered with yellow pads and art books. From the center Gerti stared up, issuing her dare.

  “It’s here, Paul. I know it is.”

  He folded his arms and leaned back. Across the street skyscrapers were lighting up; outside the conference room, elevators pinged as lawyers and paralegals left for the night. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  “Schiele liked emaciated models. See the hint of fleshiness in her thigh?”

  “That again?”

  For the hundredth time, she pored through Schiele’s catalogue raisonné, the compendium of his known works. And suddenly she had it. She reached for a pencil.

  He yawned. “Are we waiting for the cleaning crew?”

  “He used broken contours, Paul. He started at her neck and drew without looking at his paper. He lifted his pencil when he wanted to capture the light.”

  “I’ll spring for Thai—”