A Perfect Eye

by Stephanie Kane

  Not much headroom. His flashlight panned to a drop ceiling. He pushed up on one of the panels. A whole bunch of filters.

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  He needed to recharge. He gassed up and took I-25 north. He rolled down his window to let in the breeze. He hated air conditioning, was at home with the smell of plowed fields and manure. The city lights became flickers in his rearview mirror. He began to relax. He knew every twist and turn of this road, every rough patch of asphalt. He drove northeast on I-76 past Keenesburg and Wiggins. At Fort Morgan he turned onto a rural road. Another mile and he was there. He parked and gazed at where it all began.

  Moonlight glinted off the towering silos and elevated ramps of the Western Sugar Cooperative, last of the great beet-processing plants on the Eastern Plains. A vast ghostly field stretched before him. The ramshackle house and tin shed were gone, but the stench of ripe sugar beets filled his head. Sweeter and more putrid than rotting flesh, it clung to his clothes and permeated his skin.

  With it came the image of his old man in filthy overalls and sweat-stained hat, rubber boots smeared with sticky pulp, hickory-handled beet topper at his side. How many times did he threaten him with that machete? He remembered the day he brought home his sketch of Junie. Now he thought of Brendan, that gap-toothed, skinny little shit in junior high. Brendan was the teacher’s pet; he’d labored for months over his pencil drawing of a John Deere tractor. The art teacher sent it and Junie’s portrait to the county fair, but the tractor drew the oohs and aahs. How could a damn tractor compare to Junie? The night before the judging, he snuck into the tent and spilled ink on Brendan’s drawing. They both knew what happened, but Brendan had the sense to keep his mouth shut and Junie took the prize. Brendan stopped drawing after that, and a year later his family lost their farm and moved away. What became of him?

  But the image of his old man was seared in his brain. When he showed him Junie’s portrait, blue ribbon and all, he squinted drunkenly and laughed. Think a girl like that’s interested in a sissy like you? Why, you’re no more a man than… He stomped on the portrait, shredding it with his stained boots. Like the man with the top hat on Caillebotte’s bridge, at that moment it was decided.

  He was good at being patient, and it took four years to bait and set the trap. By then, Junie had dropped out of school but he’d kept her alive in his old man’s head. Each time he brought home porn, every night while he was drunk. Think she’s as pretty as Junie, Pop? She still lives in Kersey, give her a call. The day he graduated high school, he sprung the trap. Guess who’s in the shed, Pop. Wanna watch? His old man beat him to it. He kicked open the door and stepped right into the steel jaws of the leghold trap. He left him locked in that shed, howling like an animal, blood dripping through the teeth sunk clear through his rubber boot.

  Who’s the expert now, Pop?

  In the tin shed’s searing heat, without water or food, it took three days for gangrene to set in. The rotting leg smelled like beet pulp but dying was too good. When it was time, he threw him in the bed of the pickup and drove him to Fort Morgan. The fear in his old man’s eyes said he’d never tell. They took off his leg below the knee, and when he left the hospital he had nowhere to go. The house and shed were burned to the ground and his son was off to college. He’d kept the leg trap, and the thrill of standing at the precipice: knowing his father’s fate was in his hands and he determined when, where and how.

  It was past midnight. Speeding down the dark highway, he savored what led up to his showdown with Kurtz. After Kurtz insulted him, he’d studied Caillebotte’s sketchbook and the six Gennevilliers Plain landscapes until he could reproduce them in his sleep. Those fields reeked of sewage from the Seine, not Fort Morgan beet pulp, but that was a private joke between him and the Master. Adding the man with the brimmed hat was the obvious answer to Caillebotte’s frustration with his landscapes. He knew him so well by then that he was sure that it was what Caillebotte himself would have painted. Why, he even lined the canvas to make it look old!

  When he was done, he fed Sully an anonymous tip. A lost Caillebotte’s coming on the market from a private source, and a competing collector’s hot to acquire it. Playing straw man and communicating in writing raised the stakes and the reward. Just as he’d planned, in his grandiosity Kurtz fantasized the man with the hat was Caillebotte, beckoning him to join him in the trees. When Kurtz bought Seven and donated it to the museum, he was overjoyed. He didn’t just fool Kurtz. His masterpiece had come home.

  At first it was a thrill to see Seven hanging in the European & American gallery. And all those mousepads and coffee mugs! But then a new yearning set in. What good was it to paint a masterpiece if no one knew you were the artist? And Kurtz’s cock-of-the-walk talk, his bragging about rescuing Seven from obscurity, began to grate. You’d have thought he painted Seven himself. But forging a painting was a gift that kept giving, and it was time to take Kurtz down another peg. A homebrew was his entrée.

  “I have something to tell you, George.”

  Kurtz sat in his armchair, in that library with the gold-leafed silk walls, drinking greedily from the tallboy. Jay was right. He wasn’t just a hypocrite, he was a pig.

  “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “Your Caillebotte’s a fake.”

  Kurtz’s lips gleamed wetly. “You think I was fooled? Or give a shit?”

  “I painted it!”

  “Of course you did!” Kurtz laughed with real pleasure. “I gave it to the museum because it’s inferior.” He fixed his beady eyes on him and dug his claws into the arms of the upholstered chair. “That painting means nothing to me, and you’re no more an artist than…”

  But he and Caillebotte would have the last word.

  Now he careened down I-25, nails digging into his steering wheel. The bright lights said he was approaching Denver. On impulse, he continued past his exit to the next one south. Dimming his headlights, he turned down Harry Sparks’s block. He pulled to the curb at the red-roofed bungalow and let his engine idle. Through the front window he saw a light go on in the back of the house, the kitchen. Backlit, a small figure crept to the dining room and sat at the table, like his old man in the middle of the night with a bottle of booze. Harry rose, and something flickered at the window. Was he looking at the street, did he see him? Harry limped back to the kitchen and a moment later the light went out. He imagined that heavy tread, left leg dragging ever so slightly, as Harry made his way down the hall and sank into bed.

  But this was no time for pity. He was just like his old man and Kurtz.

  And Lily was the real threat.

  Destroying the Degas hadn’t stopped her. Forcing his hand, was she? He was more than up for what came next—primed, you might say. If all else failed, the end game was in place. Now he was ready. Tomorrow was the big day. Like the little man with the hat, he knew what bright and shiny bauble would draw her to her fate.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Here’s your affidavit.” Paul flung it on Johnson’s desk. It was Friday morning and he still hadn’t slept.

  “For what?”

  “To search Nick Lang’s house and garage.”

  Johnson picked up the affidavit and started skimming. “There’s an awful lot of ‘on information and belief,’ Paul. On whose information and belief might that be?”

  “Confidential sources.”

  “Xacto knives, beer cans, brewing equipment … How’s that connected to Kurtz’s murder?”

  “Lang gassed him with a beer can filled with shit.” He’d left the condoms and porn out of the affidavit. “Keep reading.”

  Johnson snorted. “Laminar flow bench—what the fuck is that?”

  “It has rubber sleeves and a hood. It filters air and blows it towards the user. You’ll need a hazmat team.”

  “Towards the user—they teach that crap at Quantico?” He read on. “Metal canisters, suspected chemicals... A safe sunk in concrete?”

  “He didn’t
want anyone walking off with it.”

  “These items are awfully specific, Paul.”

  “Affidavits require specificity.”

  “Sounds like your informant was inside Mr. Lang’s house and garage. Is he a burglar, or just a friend?”

  “If I told you that, he wouldn’t be confidential.”

  Johnson poured himself another cup of coffee. Probably still trying to wrap his head around a filtration system that blew contaminants at the user. Not that Paul blamed him.

  “Another rough night?” Johnson said.

  When I was young, I was just like you. Full of piss and vinegar, ready to kick down doors and pay later, especially if there was a dame…

  “This isn’t the time to discuss my sex life.”

  “Or lack thereof,” Johnson said. “Son, you know what happens to cops who present false affidavits?”

  If the Denver dicks had been doing their job he wouldn’t have to. “I’m aware of my professional responsibilities.”

  “And the penalties for perjury?”

  “Those too.”

  Johnson sighed. “What exactly do you expect me to do with this?”

  “Get it to a judge ASAP so he can issue a warrant.”

  “It’s Friday, Paul. I don’t know who I can find.”

  He hung onto his temper. “Do Denver judges take three-day weekends?”

  “No, and they’re no stupider than the ones in D.C.” Johnson waited, apparently for it to sink in. “Take a couple days and think this through. If it really is Nick Lang—”

  “We need to get in fast.”

  Johnson reread the affidavit. “I’ll make a few calls. But if we get a judge to sign off—”

  “I’m going in with you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Late that afternoon the warrant was issued. Johnson ignored the advice about the hazmat team but cordoned off Nick’s block. With a shower and a fresh suit, Paul felt in command of himself for the first time in days. He’d even bullied Johnson into letting him serve the warrant. Straightening his tie, he walked up to Nick’s door with two uniformed cops and rang the bell.

  Nick answered barefoot, in jeans. His eyes widened in a show of surprise. “I know you. You’re Lily’s ex.”

  Paul handed him the warrant.

  Nick ignored it. “Looking for her?”

  “Read the warrant.”

  “Because if it’s Lily you want, you’re ten years too late.”

  Paul smiled tightly. “You can wait outside if you like.”

  Nick opened the door wide. “At your service, officers.”

  Johnson and his men followed them in. With Nick hovering, they systematically searched his house. In the master bedroom, Nick drew Paul aside. “Did you find the others?”

  “What others?”

  “That wasn’t even the best sex we had,” Nick said. Johnson was watching. Paul stepped between him and Nick to block his view. “The thumb drive’s not in the warrant. I could file to get it back.”

  “You’re good at filing lawsuits, aren’t you? I read your screed against Kurtz.”

  “Those photos are private. They belong to Lily and me—”

  Paul grabbed him by the throat. “You sick fuck. Go near her again, and I’ll show them to her.”

  Nick laughed. “Think she minded?”

  A meaty hand gripped Paul’s shoulder. “You’re needed out front,” Johnson said, his expression leaving no room for argument. “We’ll come get you when we search the garage.”

  ―

  Johnson’s men pried open the garage doors. There was no sign of the busted padlock.

  “I’ll help if you tell me what you’re looking for,” Nick said as one cop opened a cabinet and another photographed the whiteboard. Nobody wanted to touch the laminar flow bench. “Because frankly, this is a waste of time. George Kurtz meant nothing to me.”

  “Check the drain and trap,” Paul told the cop poking around the sink, “and use gloves.” The cop gave him a sour look but pulled on his gloves.

  “I didn’t kill Kurtz.” Nick sounded nervous. “Much as he deserved it.”

  A detective finally approached the bench. Gingerly he parted the plastic curtain.

  “Don’t touch that!” Nick cried.

  “What the hell is it?” Johnson said.

  “A prototype for a long-life battery.” He was proud of it, arrogant. “Unlike Tesla’s or Samsung’s, mine won’t catch fire or explode.”

  Paul snorted. “You’ll do anything to protect your inventions, won’t you?”

  “I just want what’s mine.”

  So do I. “Enough to kill Kurtz?”

  “Just destroy his industry. But I’ll give you one thing: you really turn her on. After she saw you at the Samurai exhibit, it was the best sex I ever had. Next time I’ll add audio….”

  Don’t do it.

  “…the way she moaned, I’d say it was the best sex she—”

  He hit Nick as hard as he could in the face. Something broke.

  “What the—” Johnson grabbed his arm.

  Eye socket, nose? Too much blood to tell.

  Through the red, Nick grinned. “This isn’t over.”

  ―

  “I can’t believe you thought a lithium ion battery was a bomb,” Johnson said.

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  They were in a cop dive drinking whisky and chasers. Paul no longer had to worry about Susan Grace. The last time he looked at his cell, there was a message from the FBI Director.

  “Nick ain’t our guy, Paul.”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s an engineer and a home-brewer, not a fucking maniac.”

  “If you don’t give a shit about your own career, you could’ve at least given a moment’s thought to the reputation of the Denver Police Department.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  But Johnson was more amused than pissed. “A wise man knows the difference between what he wants and what he needs, Paul….”

  What difference does it make? I’ve lost both.

  “…lucky if Lang doesn’t sue you for everything you’ve got.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I have something of his.”

  Johnson knew better than to ask. “My boys will keep their mouths shut, but you’re damn lucky he isn’t the killer.”

  “I know.”

  “Cheer up.” Johnson threw him a friendly punch. “Maybe she’ll be impressed.”

  “With what?”

  “You’ve got quite a left hook. Some gals like that.”

  “She’s not the type.” At least she was safe. Nick wouldn’t go near her now, and if he wasn’t the killer, it wasn’t anyone else in her orbit.

  “I have yet to meet a woman—” Johnson began.

  “Spare me.”

  Johnson ordered another round. “Have you considered talking to her?”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Why you’ve been making such an ass of yourself for the past two months? I’m sure it hasn’t escaped her attention.”

  Paul tossed back his drink. “Too late for that.”

  And where would I even start?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  When Lily badged in before the museum opened on Friday, Ops had already rehung Seven. She phoned Paul again and got no answer. She called Michel. His executive assistant said he was out until Monday.

  “This is urgent, Joan.” The centerpiece of his collection is a fake. “Can he be reached?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Joan’s voice softened. “If it’s about your resignation, we all feel just terrible—”

  “It’s about a painting.”

  “Michel said only if it’s a family emergency.”

  “It is.” Aren’t we all just one big happy—

  Joan’s professionalism was firmly in place. “He told me to expect your resignation today. Can Gina help?”

  Lily gritted her teeth. Until she reached Paul, the least she coul
d do was get the goddamned painting taken down. With her colleagues starting to trickle in, she dialed Gina.

  “We have to take Seven down, Gina. It’s a fake.”

  Gina laughed. “I’m not surprised. Leave it to you to try to depart this institution by claiming a masterpiece was forged. Could you possibly go any lower?”

  Payback for the other night with Paul? “This has nothing to do with my job. I have proof—”

  “You only get one Schiele.”

  “At least tell Paul!”

  Gina hung up.

  Until he surfaced, there was nothing she could do. Lily angrily typed a one-line resignation and cleaned out her desk. The Objects Conservator and her assistant were at a symposium in Cleveland. Amy stayed in her cubicle. To Lily’s relief, at mid-morning Amy and the rest of the staff left for a Conservation Committee meeting.

  When her desk was clear, she started on her bookshelves. Binders of memoranda, tomes on painting technique, a chemistry treatise from grad school. She agonized over what to do with her snake plant. Its sword-like leaves thrived on neglect. She left it on Amy’s desk.

  What will I do for a job?

  She called Sean, but he, too was gone for the weekend.

  As the clock ticked down on Lily’s final day at the museum, her anger and frustration grew. She was no closer to identifying Kurtz’s killer. What would Sean do? Go for the chemistry, the trace elements on Kurtz’s body. Did the killer wipe him down before he stabbed him? She pulled up the autopsy report on her computer.

  Kurtz was clothed when he was killed. The blade penetrated his shirt and left fibers and chemicals in the wounds. That meant the chemicals were on the knife. She scrolled through the crime scene photos. What’s hiding in plain sight? She tried forwarding them to her home computer, but they were encrypted. Until Paul surfaced, she was at the end of the road. She deleted the files and turned to her final status reports. At 6:05 p.m. she checked her e-mail one last time. There was an urgent plea from the Objects Conservator, with a photo of an ornate melon-shaped samurai helmet attached. Boys loved armor and weapons; apparently one young visitor couldn’t resist touching it. Docents and gallery hosts were required to report those events, and a conservator had to ensure the lacquer was intact.