Part 3 (1/2)

”She have any blood on her before she pulled out the knife?”

”Not that I noticed. Not on her back.”

The interview was interesting. Interview. Not an interrogation. Caleb was fairly certain he wasn't a suspect. Thinnes's new partner, Oster, didn't seem as cynical as his previous one. Caleb had met Oster before. The detective seemed decent and intelligent. He looked like salesman w.i.l.l.y Loman gone to fat.

”When did you last see him alive?” Thinnes asked. He looked tired.

”The time? I'm sorry, I have no idea. Anita might know.”

Thinnes asked Oster to get Anita, and Caleb was sure he'd been eliminated as a suspect.

Oster returned with her and offered her a seat. He resumed his place.

Thinnes asked her, ”You were with Dr. Caleb all evening?”

”Until David was murdered. We heard a scream, and Jack ran toward the sound. I followed him, but not fast enough to keep him in sight.”

She seemed very calm, and Caleb wondered if Thinnes would think that suspicious. But he must have seen every sort of response to murder in his career. He'd surely recognize the nuances of shock that were obvious to Caleb himself.

Thinnes gave no hint one way or another. He had her go over the evening for him, from their arrival at the museum to Oster's summons. Anita abbreviated. They'd checked their coats. They'd studied one or two of the pieces, observed the interchange between David and Wingate, then between David and Irene. They'd spoken with Ivan, the Kents, and several other people. They were talking to one of the museum members when they heard Mrs. Bisti scream.

”When was the last time you saw Mr. Bisti alive?”

”Just after security escorted Irene out,” Anita said. ”Someone came and dragged him off and we continued our tour of the show.” Thinnes waited. She added, ”We were looking at Progress when we heard Lauren Bisti scream.”

”Doctor?” Thinnes said.

”That's correct.”

Thinnes took them out to the lobby and pointed at the people waiting to be interviewed. ”Look around,” he said. Then he led them to the elevator and took them to the next floor, the one with the American Gothic installation. They followed him through that to the mezzanine gallery, where the rest of the witnesses were milling around. ”Notice anybody missing who was here earlier?”

They looked. ”Harrison Wingate,” Anita said, ”and the woman they threw out earlier. Irene.”

”And Ivan,” Caleb added.

Anita agreed.

Oster wrote in his notebook, waited, said, ”Last name?”

Caleb said, ”I don't know. I'm not sure he has one.”

”He an artist?” Oster asked.

”A critic,” Anita said. ”Sort of the Truman Capote of art criticism.”

”The guy who wrote In Cold Blood?” Thinnes asked. ”I'm not sure I follow.”

”Ivan's as much a celebrity as a critic,” Caleb explained. ”And his criticism often takes the form of sarcasm.”

Thinnes nodded. ”He have anything against Bisti?”

Caleb said, ”Not to my knowledge. If he did, he'd attack him with words.”

”Anybody else missing?”

”The museum's special-activities director.”

Ten.

Bendix took out matches and a cigar and lit up, carefully dropping the spent match in his pocket as he created a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. He stood just outside the yellow police barrier tape that Reilly and his partner had strung across the gallery to secure the scene, and watched his men photograph and diagram the room. Bendix was the head of one of the department's top mobile units. He was out of shape and balding, cynical enough to make your average street cop seem like an altar boy and as sensitive as a steel-belted radial. He and Thinnes went way back. They got along as well as your average dog and cat. But Bendix was good.

Thinnes didn't bother to point out that the cigar was violating Illinois's Clean Air Act. He said, ”How long are you going to be?”

”'Pends on how many of 'em you want me to print.” He hooked his thumb in the direction of the witnesses waiting to be interviewed.

Thinnes thought of the political ramifications of fingerprinting an alderman and a state senator. ”See if you get any latents, first.”

Bendix nodded. ” 'Bout an hour, then.”

”Let me know when you're done.”

”Yeah.”

Thinnes's only concession to politics was interviewing the alderman and the state senator first-after a pregnant woman and her husband. Neither the alderman nor the senator had anything useful to contribute, but both asked to be kept abreast of the investigation. Thinnes told them both the same thing: ”I'll do what I can, sir.” It was a useful, noncommittal answer that made him sound helpful and respectful. Never mind that what he could do was nothing at all.

”Hey, Thinnes.” Detective Viernes hailed him from the doorway across the lobby and waited until Thinnes came close enough so that only he would hear. ”We found Andrews.” Viernes was thirty-five, five ten, and as fit and sharp as any FBI agent Thinnes ever met. He pushed the door behind him open and stepped aside to let Thinnes enter the room first.

It was an office. The desk in it probably cost more than most cars, and there were original oil paintings on the walls and an oriental rug on the floor. Andrews, the man one of the art patrons had described as hard as diamond but smooth as graphite, was stretched out on his designer couch, so s.h.i.+t-faced he couldn't focus when he looked up at them.

”Nothing like this has ever happened,” he said, putting his words together carefully, the way people do when they don't want anyone to know how far gone they are. ”Ever! I'm ruined.”

He'd sober up at the station. Thinnes wished they could send him in a squad roll. He pitied the poor uniform who had to clean up the car if he puked.

Once Andrews was dispatched, Thinnes was free to use the office for his interviews. He started with the security guards and serving staff, then sent for Bisti's business manager. Later, he would interview the man in depth, probably at Area headquarters when he'd found out enough about him to judge his answers. Just now, he needed a picture-however biased-of the victim's life, an idea of what Bisti was like, a clue to what the questions ought to be.

”What do you do for a living, Mr. Kent?”

”I'm an attorney.”

”Tell me about David Bisti.”

”Someone will have to break the news to his mother.”

”You got her address?”