A Perfect Eye

by Stephanie Kane

  “Where were you?” Gina’s fury had found a voice and a target bigger than a lamb.

  She’d stopped to feed Jack after leaving Nick’s. “In my office,” she told Amy. “Now.”

  “Stay right where you are,” Gina ordered.

  “Tell me what happened,” Lily said.

  “I came in over the weekend. I wanted to surprise you…”

  You certainly did.

  “…so I put it in the spray bath.”

  Lily struggled to stay calm. The canvas was especially thirsty after being cleaned, and the new varnish had sunk into the paint. The color was permanently changed. “We talked about spot-varnishing, Amy, and time to cure.” Amy quickly glanced at Gina. “What varnish did you use?”

  Now Amy looked her straight in the eye. “Matte, of course.”

  Bullshit. “You loaded the spray yourself?”

  “Well, I—” she couldn’t risk another glance at Gina— “I checked the code. Matte, not shiny.”

  “You tested it before you sprayed?” But it didn’t matter. For the ballerina it was too late.

  Gina quivered with triumph. Amy hung her head. She was young, she’d survive…. This was crazy. No conservator—no artist—would deliberately destroy a masterpiece.

  “It’s my responsibility,” Lily said.

  Gina smiled. “Sadly, I agree. I’ve spoken to Michel. He wants your resignation.”

  Even Amy looked shocked. Lily’s colleagues stared at their feet. Budgets were being cut and Gina had Michel’s ear.

  I’m not taking this lying down. “The painting can be salvaged.”

  “Not by you,” Gina replied. “Don’t look so surprised—you’ve been on thin ice…”

  This wasn’t just about the Degas. It was because of Paul. Michel knew she was looking into the case, that she suspected Seven was connected to Kurtz. But the sheer wantonness of the ballerina’s destruction felt strangely familiar. Like rendering a man into a landscape, a grotesque mockery of art.

  It’s what the killer did to Kurtz.

  “Michel wants your resignation on his desk on Friday,” Gina said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Ritz-Carleton lobby buzzed with women in chic frocks and men in blazers and designer loafers. The wall art was upscale hotel moderne but the floral arrangements were spectacular. Trying not to feel outclassed in her sneakers and jeans, Lily approached the reservation desk. The clerk’s name tag said Sherri. She was as young and fresh as Amy. Would Amy get a promotion, an offer to join Gina’s staff?

  Lily pasted on a smile. “You have a guest named Paul Riley. Is he in his room?”

  Sherri showed her teeth. “It’s not our policy to divulge—”

  Damn—another Amy. Lily made her smile as disarming as she could. “Of course not, Sherri, that would be unprofessional.” She shrugged helplessly. “But you know guys. I forgot what time I’m meeting Paul, and he’ll kill me if I’m late. Can you ring his room?”

  Sherri winked and punched his number. “I’m afraid he’s out. Want me to try the spa?”

  “No thanks, Sherri. I’ll wait.”

  Lily stationed herself on a banquette with a view of the door. She’d left two messages for Paul on his cell. When he didn’t return them she gambled he was in town. It seemed crazy to link the Degas to Kurtz, but the ballerina’s destruction felt like a second murder. She pictured Kurtz’s claw-like hands, the sightless eyes in his brilliantined head. He and the dancer had been transformed into zombies. The walking dead of art.

  A private van pulled up to the valet stand. Guests with champagne flutes and Rockies caps tumbled out. With tonight’s double-header and a stretch of home games scheduled, die-hard fans were celebrating early. She rose and paced the lobby. What did she expect from Paul, that he’d believe her because he’d once loved her? She had no Plan B.

  She went to the concierge’s desk. This girl’s name was Tammy.

  “I’m meeting Paul Riley for dinner, Tammy, but I forgot what time.”

  Lucky you, said Tammy’s look. He’d impressed both clerks. By his generous tips, or that killer physique? Tammy looked over at Sherri, who nodded. She tapped at her machine. “You’re way early. Elway’s at 7:30 for two.”

  “Thanks, Tammy. I’ll wait.”

  It was 5:10, but she knew Paul. He was as fastidious about grooming as Jack. He’d go to his room to shower. For a hot date with Gina he might even warm up with a few laps in that damn pool….

  “Lily?”

  She looked up. Paul’s suit made her even more conscious of her sneakers and jeans.

  “You never got back to me on my leads,” she said.

  “Your friend Rosie was cleared.”

  “No dinner at a swank steakhouse for me.” He pulled out his cell and scanned messages. Was he truly busy? Tammy and Sherri watched from their desks. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “My room?” Paul said. It must’ve sounded cold even to him, because he relented and sat. “I heard you got canned.”

  Gina told him. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “If there was anything I could do—”

  “Find who killed Kurtz.”

  He shook his head in exasperation. “Gustave Caillebotte himself, or your forger?”

  “You believe me!”

  He smiled grimly. “You’re still seeing Nick Lang?”

  “Jesus, Paul! He’s got nothing to do with this.”

  He stood. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

  Their time together unspooled in her head. From that first moment in the senior partner’s office when they were introduced, to the night in the conference room with the Schiele, to every hour they’d spent in the sack. Their epic arguments, from legal theory to the meaning of contemporary art, to what takeout place had the best Thai. He’d backed her up on the Schiele and gotten Elena’s indictment dismissed. When did he turn into this stranger in a well-cut suit?

  She reached for his hand.

  “I know you, Paul. You’re not afraid of the truth, and you don’t walk away from a fight.” He drew back and his eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t you care who killed Kurtz?” He shook her off and turned to leave. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “What gets us all, Lily. We grow up. As for what I’m really doing here,” he said briskly, “tonight I have a dinner date. Tomorrow I’m wrapping up this case. Then I’ll fly home to D.C.”

  “You’ll let a killer walk.”

  He shrugged. “For your own good, Lily, let it go.”

  “Not till you do.”

  “I already have.”

  With those three words, her last hope died.

  “Go home, lick your wounds, get drunk,” he said. Nothing was worse than his pity. “You’ll find another job. But stay away from Nick.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lily ordered another Snake Spit. Its name and the Rock Bottom Brewery said it all.

  “At least wash that down with some wings,” Margo said.

  “You’re the one who suggested this joint.”

  “I didn’t know the Rockies—” A deafening cheer drowned her out. The pub was within sight of Coors Field and was packed with purple ball caps. “Be glad we scored a booth.”

  Tonight she would’ve met Margo in Timbuktu. As she was leaving the Ritz, Margo called and said she had something about the FBI. The good thing about drinking with her was she always had to go back to the office or home to her kids. But for once, neither of them was in a rush.

  “How’s the love of your life?” Margo asked.

  “Gone.”

  “He quit docent training?”

  “What?” She means Nick. “No, we’re still hanging out.”

  “How was Saturday night?”

  “He held his own against a mailman and a chemist.”

  “That doesn’t sound sexy,” Margo said.

  “You should see him with a knife.”

  Margo squinted. “What’s wrong, Lily?”
r />   “Tell you later.” I’ll have nothing but time.

  “Don’t want to spoil the high?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m stone sober.”

  A Rockies fan passed their booth with a pitcher of beer. Someone jostled his elbow, and beer sloshed all over Lily’s hair.

  You stinking putz!

  “Sorry!” Grinning helplessly, he gave her his sweat-soaked ball cap. Before she could say anything, he disappeared into the crowd.

  “And they say chivalry’s dead,” Margo said.

  Lily jammed the cap on her head and surveyed the bar. The Rockies had won the first game. Rowdier fans were taking the place of the half-tanked ones leaving for the stadium. Why did Margo suggest meeting here?

  “Why the cloak-and-dagger?” Lily said.

  “This is the last time we’ll talk.”

  Fuck Paul and the beer. She flagged a waiter. “You make a Manhattan?”

  “Yeah. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Stranahan’s. Make it a double and bring two.”

  Margo laughed. “I’m fine, Lily. I meant about Kurtz. I know why the FBI was called in.”

  The waiter brought their Manhattans and a platter of hot wings with blue cheese and buffalo sauce. Did Margo order them? The sauce was a neon orange slick. It gleamed like the ballerina’s new hair.

  “…worried about you, Lily. I’ve never seen you drink like this.”

  Only when I lose my job and am within a million miles of Paul.

  “What about the FBI?” Lily said.

  Margo leaned in closer. For the first time, she looked nervous. “Does Susan Grace ring a bell?”

  “Sounds like a prostitute.”

  “A high class one. Senator Grace heads the Senate Committee on the Judiciary and the subcommittee on Crime and Terrorism.”

  “And?”

  “She works with the FBI and oversees federal sentencing reform.”

  “So?”

  “Kurtz needed her to eliminate penalties for environmental crimes. You did not hear this from me.”

  “So Kurtz was indicted...”

  “He ran smack into an endangered species habitat. Who knew a Preble’s meadow jumping mouse could shut down a major pipeline? Point is, she’s up for reelection and can’t afford a scandal over campaign contributions and a derailed indictment.”

  Is that what Paul meant by growing up?

  Margo rummaged in her purse and came up with a small spray bottle. She spritzed it in her mouth before offering it to Lily. “Phil thinks I’m working late… Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached in her purse again and pulled out a manila envelope.

  “What’s that?”

  Margo hesitated, then gave it to her. “That lawsuit over the company Kurtz bought.”

  She looked at Margo blankly.

  “The battery that’ll bring the oil and gas industry to its knees,” Margo reminded her. “Very hush-hush. The last motion was to seal the case.” She zipped her purse and rose. “I mean it, Lily. If this gets out, I’m in deep shit.” She bent to kiss her cheek. “Mmn. Beer and buffalo sauce and whisky. Want a lift?”

  “Mr. Prius is parked out front. And he uses almost no gas.”

  Margo looked concerned. “I’ll call you a cab.”

  Lily shook her head.

  “You’ll go straight home?” Margo insisted.

  “Yeah.”

  ―

  Rockies double-headers brought the cops out in force, and the last thing she needed was a drunk driving arrest. She tossed Margo’s unopened envelope in the Prius’ backseat and closed her eyes. Paul and the Senator.

  Slowly she counted to ten. Then she pulled out her cell and began googling.

  Susan Grace. Lots of hits of a cougar in a power suit.

  Senate Committee on the Judiciary. Susan Grace shaking hands with Kurtz on the U.S. Capitol steps, the same photo in the slide show at his memorial. Closer—but not what she was looking for. Rockies fans were streaming like lemmings from Coors Field to the bars downtown. A man banged on her window. He made a rude gesture possibly intended to persuade her to relinquish her parking space. Piece of shit Prius, he mouthed. She ignored him.

  Subcommittee on Crime and Terrorism + Paul Riley. Bingo. A shot of Susan Grace and her fair-haired boy. Was he her bag man, too?

  Lily pulled from the curb and drove to the Ritz.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rockies cap pulled low, Lily hunched over Elway’s bar. In the mirror she watched Gina and Paul. An attractive couple: he broad and fit in his fancy suit, she in a slinky black sheath with lace-capped shoulders. Their conversation looked spirited.

  “Club soda, Miss?”

  Lily nursed her whisky. They were finishing their steaks. No wine on the table.

  “Perhaps some food?” the bartender said. “We don’t usually serve at the counter, but the kitchen’s open…”

  “I won’t be here that long.”

  Gina shook her head vehemently. Lover’s spat? Paul signaled for the check, and without waiting rose and pulled out her chair. Gina took her time bending to retrieve her purse, displaying a skinny shank and a thigh pale as marble. He took her arm impatiently—almost a bum’s rush. Now they were at the door to the lobby. Lily threw some cash on the bar, grabbed her backpack and intercepted them smoothly.

  “Having fun your last night in town?” she asked Paul. Gina reared back. “We need to talk.”

  He gave Gina some money. “Take a cab. I’ll call you later.” Wide-eyed, Sherri watched from the reception desk. She reached for a phone—to call Tammy?

  “Are you afraid of me?” Lily said.

  “No. You’re making a fool of yourself.” He took her whisky glass and set it down. Locking her in a one-armed embrace, he dragged her to the elevator. “We’re going to my room.” He said it under his breath, but he was seething. “And you’re going to keep your mouth shut until we get there.”

  He smiled at a well-dressed couple getting off the elevator. They looked at her and their faces froze. He used a key card for access to the eighteenth floor. She was silent until they entered his suite. He went into the bedroom.

  “You lied to me,” she called after Paul. “You’re not here to solve Kurtz’s murder. You’re here to bury it.”

  He returned with a bathrobe. He threw it at her—hard. “Get in the shower.”

  “That some kinky shit you do with Gina—or Susan Grace?”

  “We’re not talking till you’re sober.” He pulled the Rockies cap from her head. With it came the stench of sweat and beer. “Jesus, Lily, is that buffalo sauce on your face?” He went into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast.

  “I don’t want a shower.” It came out like a child arguing with a parent.

  “Of course not. You want to embarrass us both because you can’t get what you really want.”

  “I want the truth.” She sounded petulant, and her legs felt wobbly. Her nausea over the Degas returned. Don’t you dare puke now. She sank onto the couch.

  “You and your perfect eye,” he said. “The only reality is what you see.”

  She struggled to focus. “You came here to dump the case.”

  “Missed your calling, Lily. You’re one helluva prosecutor, jury and judge.” He bent to untie her sneakers.

  “Kurtz gave her money.”

  “The Senator has nothing to do with this.”

  “It wasn’t a burglar.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He stripped off her socks. “It was an art forger.”

  “He wants us to admire him, to recognize his genius.” Sjostrom said it so much better! “And he destroyed the Degas.”

  “Why would Kurtz’s murderer destroy a Degas?”Paul said.

  “To get me fired.”

  He laughed. “There are easier ways to do that. You know how crazy you sound?”

  Now the whole thing seemed preposterous. Had she succumbed to the worst kind of tunnel vision, fallen into the most elementary trap? Paul shook his head. “You’re
a lawyer, Lily. You think an art forger murdered Kurtz? Prove it.”

  “But—”

  “Get in that shower or I’ll throw you in.”

  “I don’t want a shower,” she repeated. “I want—”

  “The truth?” He’d never sounded so furious. “What truth is that, Lily? Who killed Kurtz, or how you can love someone who’s too selfish and rotten to love you back? Go ask your lying father.”

  “My dad?”

  Paul dragged her to the bathroom and pushed her into the shower stall. He turned on the water all the way. Icy pellets hit her face like a shotgun blast. Her throat closed. Her chest seized and she couldn’t breathe. She was trapped in a frozen lake, back on that camping trip with her dad and Walt after her mom died.

  They’d told her to wait while they cut a hole in the ice to fish, but she followed them onto the lake. When she stepped off the bank, the shimmery glaze at the edge shattered like spun glass—pop, pop, crack! Before she could scream she was dragged under by an iron grip. It hauled her to the thicker ice at the middle of the lake. Everything went milky like bone. She looked up. Through the translucent crust she saw diamonds and stars. Then they dimmed and it was so cold…. Suddenly another hand, Walt’s big warm one, crashed through and yanked her free.

  You’re okay.

  Coughing and sputtering, she jerked back from the showerhead and leaned against the wall. When she could breathe again, she turned off the cold water and turned on the steam. She stripped off her top and jeans and dropped them by the drain. Sinking to the floor in her wet panties and bra, she began to cry. The ballerina, Amy, getting fired—Paul.

  Her hair was gritty and stank of beer. In the steam she smelled sweat. Not even her own. It came from the Rockies cap. She scrubbed at the stickiness on her cheek, but the foreignness clung. I hate chicken wings. Slowly she got to her feet. She wriggled out of her panties and bra and turned her face up. Like a big warm hand, the steam enveloped her.