Part 8 (2/2)

The entry hall had a standard, eight-foot ceiling, sandstone walls, and a blue slate floor. The sunset landscape on the wall facing the door was realistic enough to seem like a window into Arizona. Thinnes stared at it a full three seconds before he realized there was a couch below it and other furniture in the room. The painting had Bisti's signature in the lower right-hand corner. Thinnes wondered why it hadn't been in the show.

There were doors to the right of the entry that opened on an office and a john. A door to the right of the painting opened into the studio itself. Oster led the way.

The room was the size of a basketball court, with a sixteen-foot ceiling interrupted by skylights alternating with can lights for night work. The walls were brick with ten-foot windows facing pricey views of the near North Side, the river, and the Loop. The floor was blue slate. And tree-filled planters divided the s.p.a.ce into a work area-with painting and welding supplies, and works in progress; and a conversation area-with expensive-looking furniture, well-stocked refrigerator and bar, and a pond swimming with tiny silver fish. Oster walked around the entire place without saying a word, just shaking his head. Thinnes followed, taking enough notes so he could describe the place in detail in case he ever had to testify about it in court.

Oster climbed a circular staircase in the southeast corner to a small loft built over the entrance hall.

”Thinnes, check this out.”

A king-size water bed was the central feature of the loft. Unmade. Satin sheets. The ceiling above it was a giant mirror. The north side of the loft overlooked the studio through a wrought-iron safety rail made of figures resembling those in Bisti's sand paintings. Full-length mirrors-including one hiding a closet door-hung on the other walls. Oster headed over to look at an easel facing into a corner while Thinnes crossed to check out the adjoining bath.

It was as upscale as the rest of the place-whirlpool tub, custom vanity, and fancy toilet. The towels on the bars were clean but not neat-used once or twice. Most of the things in the linen and medicine cabinets were brands you had to go to Fields or Neiman's for-except the aspirin, razor blades, and toothpaste, and the box of condoms. Large box. Half-gone. The wastebasket was empty.

Thinnes went back into the bedroom.

There was nothing of interest in the dresser, closet, or nightstand, not even dust under the bed. There was a wrapper and a used condom in the wastebasket. Thinnes put on one of the latex gloves he habitually carried these days and transferred the wrapper to a plastic evidence bag. He put the condom in a paper envelope and creased its sides so it would stay open for ventilation. He put both containers on the floor near the stair, where he wouldn't forget them, against the wall so they wouldn't be stepped on. He made a mental note to have someone check the room for prints before they took the key back.

”What's wrong with this picture, Thinnes?” Oster said. He was sitting on the corner of the bed frame, still breathing hard from the exertion of climbing the stair. He'd turned the easel around and was studying the nude portrait-in-progress resting on it.

Female Cauc. Young. Slim. Brunette. Knock-'em-dead gorgeous. She was lying on a couch in a pose he'd seen in an art book somewhere-a Spanish artist. This picture was as real as a photo. And unsigned. Mrs. Kent.

”It's not Bisti's missus,” Thinnes said.

Oster said, ”Yeah, and modeling isn't what she told us she does for a living. Maybe we oughtta go ask her about it.”

”Maybe we should.”

Twenty-Three.

They located Amanda Kent at Water Tower Place, where she managed a boutique owned by Lauren Bisti.

”You haven't caught the son of a b.i.t.c.h yet, have you?” she demanded, when Thinnes handed her his card. She was a tall brunette with a model's figure and a Cover Girl face that would've been beautiful if her p.i.s.sed-off mood hadn't been showing.

If something seems too good to be true...Wasn't it Caleb's impression of her that surface was all there was?

Thinnes said, ”We'd like you to come in with us and make a formal statement.”

They usually didn't bother with statements from nonwitnesses-and by all accounts, Amanda Kent was that. But the painting in Bisti's studio changed things. It suggested some beautiful motives. If she'd pose nude for the artist, what else would she do for him? How would the wife react? And the mysterious Irene? Thinnes had seen murder done for lesser reasons.

Amanda Kent said, ”Oh, brother! David's killed, Lauren has a breakdown, and you want me to drop everything to help you do your job. Why should I?”

b.i.t.c.h!

”You do want to catch Mr. Bisti's killer?”

She got her coat-a full-length mink-from the back and told her sales girl she'd be gone an hour.

They didn't talk to her on the way to headquarters. She sat in the back seat, clutching her purse on her mink-covered lap, and looked out at the Drive, then at Belmont. When they got to Western and Belmont, Thinnes pulled up by the north door, and Oster got out to open her door for her. She took his courtesy completely for granted, without acknowledging it. She looked bored as she stopped in front of the building door and waited for Oster to catch up and open it, too. Thinnes parked the car.

Oster had her in an interview room, upstairs, by the time Thinnes rejoined them. Impatience was beginning to replace her boredom-she fidgeted, took a cigarette out of her purse, and tapped it on the package. She let her irritation show when they said she couldn't smoke in the building. Oster excused himself and went out to take his notes on the other side of the two-way mirror.

In the interrogation room, Amanda Kent gave Thinnes one-syllable answers to his questions about David Bisti, and told him, ”None of your d.a.m.n business,” when he asked how she got on with Kent. Lauren Bisti, she said, was her best friend as well as her employer.

To get a sense of her honesty, he asked her a number of questions for which he already knew the answers. Who? What? When? Where? Why? How long did you know Mr. Bisti? Where did you meet him? What time did you get to the museum?

Then he said, ”Would you say Mr. Bisti was attractive to women?”

”Yeah, sure.”

”And were women attractive to him?”

She smirked. ”You know how men are.” When he didn't answer, she added, ”I heard painting wasn't his only talent.”

”He fooled around?”

”I didn't say it.”

”Did you ever sleep with him?”

”That's a h.e.l.l of a question! No!” Her eyes tracked sideways, and Thinnes knew she was lying. And that she could tell he knew. She added, ”I swear!”

He wanted to laugh. ”You have any idea who might've killed Mr. Bisti?”

”Don't you think I would've told you?”

”That's not a yes or no.”

”No!” This time, she didn't swear and she was much more convincing.

”Did Mrs. Bisti know you posed in the nude for her husband?”

That got her. ”Who told you that?”

”I saw the painting.”

”I never did,” she said. Thinnes couldn't tell if she was lying. ”David's little joke. He painted that same picture-the same pose anyway-half a dozen times. I don't know if anyone actually modeled for him-maybe the woman he went with before Lauren. But I'll bet he did one of those Naked Maja rip-offs of every woman he tried to seduce. Some of them even fell for it. Lauren did.”

”Are you saying he painted your head on someone else's body?” Thinnes demanded. It was hard to swallow.

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