A Perfect Eye

by Stephanie Kane

“Picture her at the end of this table, lit from behind.”

  “Or a nice bloody steak.”

  Staring at Gerti at the end of the table, and with pencil poised in the air above Seated Nude, she traced Schiele’s line from the neck down. The right arm was fine. On the left she came to a halt.

  “What now?” he said. But he rose and came to her side.

  She looked down at Seated Nude. In the watercolor, the left arm’s line broke near the elbow, like she remembered. Now visualizing the light coming from the side, she retraced that line in the air again. Something was wrong; instead of breaking at the elbow, the watercolor’s line should have broken on the shoulder. She did it a third time. Whatever direction the light came from, breaking at the elbow made no sense. Paul had talked about imperfection, the space for a painting to breathe, but— The scent of clove caressed her cheek. She turned. “Do you see—”

  He closed his hand over hers and traced. He did it twice more.

  “Shit,” he said softly. “The wrong imperfection.” Then he turned and kissed her. She didn’t remember who shut the blinds or swept away the books and pads, but she remembered everything else. Their first time was on that conference room table. Every detail was emblazoned in her head…. I want that again.

  “He wouldn’t have anything to do with your interest in Kurtz?” Elena said now.

  “What? No, it’s the museum—”

  “George Kurtz isn’t a watercolor. You think solving his murder will win Paul back?”

  “Of course not!”

  “You’ve had no other relationships in ten years, dear. Why do you think that is?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t let him go again, Lily.”

  She stared into her teacup. “He lied to me.”

  “Did he really, dear?”

  The dealer’s heirs had dropped their suit, and Elena sold Seated Nude as a fake to a Los Angeles media mogul who called it one of the best Schieles he’d ever seen. But Lily remembered Paul jetting back and forth to D.C. as the case wrapped up, those nights at her condo, the calls and texts he went to the bathroom to answer. He never said they were FBI business and she never asked. When she finally confronted him, he didn’t pretend his marriage was on the rocks. She blamed herself; it was right in front of her, and she didn’t see it. The Brandt case made her the toast of her firm, but every time she walked past that conference room she wanted to scream or hurl a brick through the glass. The day before she was to make partner, she resigned.

  “You think you’re the only girl to love a married man?” Elena said.

  She looked up. Her mentor never discussed her past.

  “I did it twice,” Elena continued. “Broke up three marriages, including my own. One was an artist, the other—What does it matter? Let’s just say I was bored and stupid.”

  “I’m not that girl anymore.”

  Elena shook her head. “If you love that FBI agent, don’t be a fool.”

  ―

  Office towers twinkled in an indigo sky. Waiting at Elway’s bar, Lily checked her lipstick in her compact. Pomegranate—the soft overhead light gave the red an undertone of pink, as if she’d bitten into ripe seeds. The woman in the mirror stared enigmatically back. Paul had suggested meeting at the swank steakhouse because it was near his hotel, but he didn’t say they shared a lobby. And since when did the Feds spring for the Ritz-Carlton?

  “Such a tiny mirror.” He’d come up behind her.

  The compact was small and slim, with a swirling galaxy embossed in gold on the lid and tiny crystal stars. “It was my mother’s.” She snapped it shut and returned it to her makeup bag. “You must be on a hell of an expense account.”

  “This case is a priority.”

  “I’ll try to make your time worth it.”

  The maître d’ seated them, and the waiter came over.

  “Gin martini up, super cold, just wave the bottle of vermouth over it,” Paul ordered without asking. “Two olives.”

  What else does he remember?

  “Do you keep Pappy?” Paul said. “The 25?”

  It used to be Jim Beam.

  “Yes, sir. Neat?”

  Who does he drink 25-year-old bourbon with now?

  The waiter left, and Paul turned to business. “What did you find out?”

  “Kurtz had enemies,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The DOJ and lots of women.”

  He smiled indulgently. “Anyone I know?”

  “That depends.”

  “Gina Wheelock doesn’t have the strength to cut off a man at the knees—”

  “Unlike me?”

  “—and Angela Kurtz is too out of shape.”

  The waiter brought their drinks.

  “Your turn,” she said. “Any leads on the weapon?”

  “There were two. One metal, the other wood with a sharp point. They found splinters in the wounds.”

  She sipped her martini. “What else?”

  “You were right, Kurtz’s killer disabled him first. The preliminary report says he used methane gas.”

  Meeting him here was a mistake. Her martini was hitting fast and his eyes were devouring her. In two minutes they could be in his room.

  “The Post called it a burglary,” she said.

  He shrugged. “A sophisticated ring’s been working the Country Club area. They’ve kept it quiet, but the cops think there’s an inside guy at an alarm company.”

  Back to business. This was more like it. The urge to kiss him had passed, but what happened to the rest of her martini? “Since when does a burglar subdue a homeowner with gas, Paul? Look into Kurtz’s finances.”

  “Finances?” He waved dismissively. His hands were strong and square, the nails trimmed, not buffed—no trace of that farm boy now. The Rolex on his wrist confirmed he was climbing the FBI’s ranks. “They think the killer knew someone on Kurtz’s staff.”

  “Maybe he stiffed the wrong guy.” It came out a little slurred. He’d ordered a second round. This one tasted stronger. “What else did the autopsy say?”

  He tapped at papers inside his suitcoat; unlike Michel, he didn’t need notes. “I’ll send you the report.” Was he amused?

  “Tell me now.”

  “The wounds contained fibers from Kurtz’s shirt, and traces of formaldehyde, hydroquinone and phthalates.” His diction was clipped, the syllables precise.

  “How well do you know Gina?” she said.

  He set down his bourbon. “Maybe we should order.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I can see that.”

  Her cheeks burned. “You did this to me.”

  “What?” He looked startled.

  Opened my eyes, and I can’t go back.

  “What do you need me for, Paul?”

  He stared at her, his expression unreadable.

  This is crazy, he probably has kids!

  “I’m driving you home,” he said.

  She shook her head and carefully rose. As steadily as she could, she left the restaurant. In the Prius, she checked her lipstick again and pulled out her cell. There was only one way to exorcise him. She scrolled down the museum directory and paused just a second before dialing.

  “Nick?”

  Chapter Seven

  “What’s that?” Amy said.

  Lily hunched over her computer. How many drinks did she have with Nick? And that was before his athletic performance. She reached in her desk for three Advil and swallowed them dry.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  “Lily?” Amy said.

  She looked back at the screen. Paul had e-mailed the autopsy report and crime scene photos. Except for the body, nothing in Kurtz’s library was in disarray. The hat and coat were on the divan, as if their owner had just tossed them there. Temples throbbing, she zoomed in on the chair.

  “Are those—legs?” Amy said.

  “Don’t look, child!” Dave stepped between Amy and the computer.

  Lily didn
’t mind Dave traipsing in and out of the lab. She enjoyed his sly wit, he’d been around long enough to speak his mind, and tour groups requested him by name. Plus, he doted on Amy. He’d brought her a carrot juice and her favorite salad from Mad Greens across the plaza: craisins, pecans, and pears. He did that at least once a week.

  Peering at the monitor, he whistled between his teeth. “Nice job.”

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  “It’s… experimental.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  She clicked to a photo of intestines on the wall.

  “That’s genius,” he said. “Impasto Bolognese, anyone?”

  “Dave!” Amy said.

  “Sorry, Amy,” he murmured.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Amy. “The killer knocked him out with gas.”

  But she couldn’t stop seeing Kurtz in that chair. Geometric slashes and pointillist pricks, intestines dabbed on a green silk wall patterned with leaves. What did they remind her of? She shook her head. There was something she’d been meaning to talk to Dave about.

  “I saw your letter to the editor in The Cherry Creek Chronicle,” she said. After a hedge fund acquired the Post, the monthly freebie was the only rag that really covered local news.

  “The one about developers in bed with the City Council?” he said.

  “Those mooch hacks should be recalled.”

  He shrugged modestly. “It’s the proper thing to do.”

  “You play penny poker?”

  He grinned. “My favorite sport!”

  “There’s somebody I want you to meet—”

  A loud clearing of the throat interrupted them. Someone with a sinus infection? Gina Wheelock stood in the doorway.

  “Gina, what a surprise!” The museum’s administrative offices were in a separate building, and it was a relief not to have her and Michel breathing down her neck. Lily gestured discreetly to Amy to leave and take Dave with her. “I’ve been meaning—”

  “What’s on your computer?” Gina demanded.

  She quickly exited the screen. “Nothing.”

  “I warned you to stay away from that FBI agent.”

  She has spies at Elway’s?

  “You mean Paul Riley?”

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  “There’s nothing between us, Gina. But I’d like to talk about something.” A matter of professional distance. “The other day I noticed you standing a little close to Seven.”

  “The rule is twelve inches,” Gina said frostily.

  Used to be eighteen, but we both know what a difference the right six inches make.

  “I know, Gina, but trainees are awfully impressionable.”

  Gina smirked. “You’ve certainly impressed one of them.”

  She knows about Nick?

  “Michel expects you to focus on your work,” Gina continued. “He has nothing but the greatest respect for your eye….”

  So long as it didn’t challenge his. Shortly after he hired Lily, he’d made that clear. She was cleaning a portrait for a trustee when she noticed what appeared to be ink in the craquelure, the lines that developed when paint shrank with age. She took her suspicions to Michel. Impossible, he insisted, the provenance is impeccable! The portrait’s, or the trustee’s? He’d smiled coldly. I hired you despite the Schiele, not because of it.

  “…what you do best,” Gina was saying. “But I’m not here to lecture you. I want to borrow Amy later.”

  “Like a library book, or a chit to trade to the Louvre?” Her headache was back, and she couldn’t resist the jibe. Since Kurtz donated Seven, Gina had been on more than just the curatorial prowl. Was she trying to poach Amy?

  “She’s expressed an interest in an exhibition I want to mount.”

  Don’t think of her on top of Paul.

  “How exciting! What sort of exhibit might that be?”

  “Now, now…” Gina wagged her finger.

  Amy did seem itchy lately. A day or two away from the lab would be good for her.

  “She’s yours.”

  ―

  “Kids,” Margo Hennessy muttered that evening as she texted on her phone at the Cherry Creek bistro. “Who’s the new guy, Lily?”

  She and Margo had started at the Seventeenth Street firm on the same day. As its genteel white-shoe veneer rapidly dissolved into sink-or-swim, they’d kept each other afloat. They toasted victories, cried on each other’s shoulders, and traded tips on partners to avoid. Margo made partner, married the guy she’d dated since college, and had two kids. Now her CPA-husband kept house and her wardrobe cost more than Lily earned in a year. But their friendship had endured, and once a month they caught up over dinner.

  “What makes you think I had sex?”

  “One: You’re hung over, and you never drink alone. Two: You’re forking that linguine like a lumberjack. Three: You look like a cat who swallowed a canary.”

  Lily winced at the memory of last night. “He’s a docent trainee.”

  “You’re too young to be a cougar, and aren’t docents old?”

  “He’s thirty-two.” And a lot more experienced than he looked.

  “Jailbait!” Margo cried.

  “All he’s got in his refrigerator is beer. We’re taking it slow.” Not on the strength of last night, but at least she wasn’t thinking about Paul every frigging minute. And this dinner had another agenda. “What can you tell me about George Kurtz?”

  Margo’s cell buzzed. She rolled her eyes. “I said give them macaroni,” she hissed into the phone. “Of course they’ll eat it. It’s the only thing they eat!”

  Lily smiled sympathetically, but her own biological clock was ticking. Thirty-six and what did she have to show for it? Margo had a partnership, a husband, and two angelic kids she seldom saw. Elena had a gallery and independence. She had a condo and a cat and zero job security. The Met in New York had a $3 billion endowment, and it was laying off staff. Her long-running war with Gina didn’t help—as Amy liked to remind her.

  Margo ended her call. “Mr. Wonderful is back on the hunt. You broke his heart.”

  Lily set down her fork. She didn’t need to be reminded of what a mess she’d been after Paul. Her fling with the head of Litigation was worse: not just one married man, but two. “Can we get to Kurtz?”

  Margo winked. “Off the record, right?”

  “Always.”

  “We’re representing his estate.” Kurtz was a long-time client of the firm’s. “It’s a total rat-fuck with daughter Angela.”

  “How so?”

  “A humongous trust and a daisy-chain of 501(c)s.”

  501(c)s were tax-exempt charitable foundations whose donors’ identities were known only to the IRS. For deductions and anonymity, each year they were required to give five percent of their assets to nonprofits and refrain from lobbying and electoral politics. But rules kept law firms like theirs in business; with smart lawyers and an agency only too willing to look the other way, a 501(c)(3) educational organization could make a grant to a (c)(6) trade association, and by the time the money made its way to a think tank or a senator’s war chest, it was untraceable.

  “Any reason for the FBI to get involved?” Lily said.

  “Why?” Margo asked suspiciously.

  Lily shook her head. If she told her Paul was back on the scene, she could only imagine what her friend would say. “Where does Angela come in?”

  Margo leaned forward. The restaurant was noisy, but this was privileged. “A fight over control of the trust. We warned Kurtz to be more specific in the documents, but masters of the universe never think they’ll die. Between his daughter and his exes, it’s a mess.”

  “Was he facing an indictment?”

  Margo threw up her hands in mock innocence. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “What was he indicted for?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know.” Margo peered into her wine glass. “You know the Feds. They’d slap Kurtz on the wrist even if they had him dead to
rights, and he’s no Jean Valjean.” They ordered chocolate lava cake and two spoons.

  “Any other dirt?” Lily said.

  “Kurtz was being sued over a company he bought. It’s gone scorched earth and Mr. Wonderful’s in charge.” Margo looked at her mischievously. “I’m sure he’d let you pump him for details.”

  “Nothing’s worth that.”

  They split the lava cake and the check.

  ―

  Driving home, she thought about what Margo said. Was Kurtz’s generosity to the museum a cover, to burnish his reputation while he funneled assets to less savory beneficiaries?

  Elena, too had hinted at the 501(c) angle, and Angela Kurtz intrigued her. Less than a week had passed since her father’s murder. Too late to drop her a note?

  Resisting the temptation to swing past Nick’s, she pulled into the underground parking garage at her condo. The fifteen-story concrete high-rise wasn’t much from the outside, but it was close to downtown and the views were priceless. She’d begun renting when she was a young law firm associate and bought when the building went condo.

  Overlooking Cheesman Park, the condo was surprisingly quiet and secure. Her two-bedroom on the tenth floor towered over majestic spruces, and the wraparound balcony had an unobstructed view of the Botanic Gardens. She’d have morning coffee there, and gaze down on the Japanese garden’s freshly raked contours in the sand. In the evening she often grilled fish on the hibachi as she watched the shadows of mugo pines blacken in the lake. The balcony was Jack’s favorite spot, too. She left the sliding door open a crack so he could slip in and out, sunning himself on the cement and finding secret places among her potted roses and tomato plants. Even after he killed the bird, she didn’t have the heart to shut him in.

  As soon as she turned her key in the lock, she knew something was wrong.

  “Jack?” He always waited at the door.

  She stood completely still, listening in the darkness. When she was sure she was alone, she flicked on the light. Nothing looked out of place, but she left the front door open.

  Prioritize.

  “Jack?” she called again.

  No answer. The sliding door to her balcony was closed. She went to her bedroom and peered under the bed. No Jack.

  What’s different from before?