Angel With a Bullet (13 page)

Nineteen

Northern Station has seen
better days.

A recent attack of skinhead graffiti greets me with racist slurs and obscene gestures. A painter, his white overalls splattered in a rainbow of color, works busily with a giant roller and a bucket of industrial steel-gray. He is whistling, happy for the work, and nods to me as I walk by.

The morning mist has burned away and the first prickle of perspiration salts my wounds during the short walk from bus stop to station. Once inside, I take off my coat, drape it over my arm to hide the worst parts, and approach the desk sergeant.

The weary officer ignores me as I study the front of his desk. The wood panels are splintered as though a steel-toed boot has recently smashed through. The hole is patched from the inside with cardboard from a case of Budweiser.

I flash a cheerful smile. “Rough night?”

The name on his badge reads
Sgt. Robert Woods
.

Woods glances at me grimly before returning his attention to the computer on top of his desk. Its pale blue glow makes him look sickly.

“I'm looking for information,” I try.

Woods grunts without looking up.

“Perhaps you can help?”

He sighs.

Woods is around fifty, maybe older, going bald from the crown down—like a monk, but without the serenity. He has a cheese sandwich look to him: plain, unassuming, and soft in the middle.

I hold out my laminated press card that, in truth, looks about as professional as anything an eight-year-old can create on his home computer.

“I need to find out about a painting that was claimed from evidence yesterday.”

“Uh-huh.” He glances up, skims the ID, tries to peek at my bosom, appears disappointed, and turns back to his computer.

My teeth grind together noisily. “Look, sergeant. Detective Sergeant Frank Fury tells me you're an upstanding guy and that you wouldn't mind helping me out.”

That's a lie, but what the hell.

Woods's eyes flicker back to me. They are small and the whites have turned a pale yellow streaked with tiny rivers of red: the sign of a nicotine junkie who washes each cigarette down with a swig from a flask.

“You know Fury?”

I nod.

“Tell him he still owes me ten bucks.”

He turns back to the computer before I can reach over the desk and strangle him.

I take a moment to compose myself, then fish into my pocket and pull out a twenty. My jaws ache as I hand it over.

It vanishes into Woods's puffy hand with barely a crinkle. He flashes me an ugly grin.

“What do you want again?” he asks.

“Somebody picked up a painting that originally belonged to a dead man named Diego Chino. I want to know who.”

Woods punches a few keys and moves his lips silently. Finally, he says, “The chief OK'd it.”

“OK'd it for whom?”

“Doesn't say.”

“Give me a break. You're not going to release evidence to an unknown.”

Woods shrugs. “The chief OK'd it. Who am I to argue?”

“Can I see the chief?”

Woods laughs and white spittle sprays from the side of his mouth as though laughter is something he doesn't have much experience with. He wipes the spit on his sleeve.

“You sure you want to do that?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“The chief is a busy man,” he warns.

“Could you at least try?” My anger is barely contained.

Woods picks up the phone and jabs at the buttons. He chit-chats with someone on the other end who I assume is a secretary, and judging by the fresh drool pocketing the corner of his mouth, she's an attractive one at that.

Suddenly, his face goes pale.

“Yes, chief,” he sputters. “Straight away.” He practically salutes the phone before hanging up. “The chief will see you. Second floor.”

“Thanks.” I turn to head up the stairs and then swivel back. “By the way,” I ask, “can I get change for my twenty?”

He snorts. “Dream on.”

_____

On the second
floor, I step around a bottom-heavy cleaning lady and knock on the gold-plated plaque that adorns Chief Caleb McInty's outer office. A youthful brunette with the ripe body of a centerfold opens the door and invites me in.

She swishes back to her desk, a light spring dress dancing above the dimples on the back of her knees. The dress clings to her in all the right places and flows over the rest. I wonder how she manages to work in a testosterone-laced environment like this without wrapping herself in bulky pullovers and sweats. Cops aren't known for subtlety.

I sit on a hard chair, my eyes wandering from the sexy secretary to the closed door of the inner office. She's typing something without looking at the keyboard, which tells me she isn't just for decoration.

After five minutes, a tall, wide-shouldered man opens the inner door and grins at me with perfect teeth. His silver hair, like the portrait on the wall that bears his name, is neatly styled, while an Italian made-to-measure suit carefully disguises any flaws in his trim frame.

“Welcome, Ms. Flynn.”

Chief McInty extends his hand as I haul myself up from the chair without grimacing. His fingernails have been smoothly manicured and his handshake is cool and dry.

Placing a hand lightly on my shoulder, he guides me into his office like we're fishing buddies and releases me in the direction of a leather armchair.

After I sit, I find myself having to look up at the chief's perch behind a polished cherry-wood desk. I glance down and notice his desk and chair sit on a subtly disguised four-inch platform. It reminds me of a piece of advice delivered on the silver screen from an old Errol Flynn swashbuckling movie: Never fight a man of equal strength on equal ground.

Behind the desk and through a large picture window, an American flag sags in the still morning air.

The chief beams at me from his perch like a saint getting ready to read aloud one's list of sins. I'm not impressed. I've dealt with enough egomaniacs in my time to find their power games more foolish than effective.

“I've heard good things about you, Ms. Flynn,” McInty booms, his voice showing all the oratory skill of political grooming.

I give him a polite smile.

“I've even heard several of my men commenting on your columns. They have a degree of respect for you.”

“I do my best.”

“Good, good, we all must.”

I wonder if he is going to toss me a doggie treat.

“Now, what can I do for you?” he asks.

I tell him about the painting.

“Ah, yes. The suicide.”

I nod.

“I'm afraid there isn't a scoop for you here, Ms. Flynn,” he beams, pleased with himself for using what he considers to be journalistic vernacular. “The rightful owner of the painting presented us with a receipt for the work and we turned it over.”

“Who is the rightful owner?” I ask.

“We were asked not to make that information public.”

“Why not?”

“It isn't relevant.”

“It might be to me.”

He pauses in order to make sure he can keep control of the conversation.

“I wish I could help you,” he says, patronizing. “But I can't go against the wishes of a private citizen who hasn't committed any crime.”

“Can you tell me why Mr. Chino had the painting?” I press.

McInty frowns slightly. “It appears the painting was stolen.”

“Stolen? Who from?”

“From—” He stops and his voice turns to ice. “I believe you have brought our conversation to an end.”

I see no reason to argue. This guy isn't going to have much of a political future if he can't handle a simple one-on-one with a tired, bruised, and—according to the reaction of the desk sergeant—cleavage-deprived journalist. I slide out of the chair. There is a noticeable drop in the quality of carpet at the doorway.

The secretary looks up through large hazelnut eyes. There is no warmth in them.

I leave the station and hail a cab, my mind muddled.

Theft of the painting gives a slim motive for murder, but it opens a whole new arena of questions. Diego obviously made a decent wage from his own art, so why steal a rival's painting? And if he did steal the Adamsky, what did he plan to do with it? Fencing stolen art is a tricky business. You can't exactly stick it on eBay.

I give the cabby the address for the Gimcrack Gallery. Since the owner is the only person still carrying Diego's work, maybe he can fill in some of the blanks.

Twenty

The Gimcrack would have
been “Cool, Man” back in the days of free love and hairy armpits, but Union Street—for better or worse—has updated its style in the last forty years. Now surrounded by architectural glass and sandblasted brick, the rustic gallery exudes all the retro appeal of a flophouse or crack den.

I climb a rickety staircase that leads to a sun-bleached porch. The state of the runners makes me nervous, and I hold tight to a gnarled, wrist-thick branch that serves as a handrail.

On the landing, a thousand cobwebs of fractured light twist off a shattered window. Someone has tried to repair it with lead piping to make it resemble stained glass absent of color.

The more I study it, the more I like it.

Directly to the left of the window is a single slab of redwood. A solid frame has been custom made to fit the door's odd shape. It opens on well-oiled hinges and if not for the large brass bell pealing my entrance, no one would have heard me enter.

The inside of the gallery is a different story. Though it retains a homely character, modern track lighting has been added to wooden rafters, each mini-spotlight focused on a painting or piece of sculpture. As I look around, I find the owner has taken great care to find the perfect frame for each work of art. Some are carved white pine, while others are stark metal, tie-dyed canvas, or painted papier-mâché. I even spot one constructed from strips of red licorice sealed in clear resin.

Bare wooden floors creak and moan as I walk from room to room. I'm fascinated by the amount of art in each space. Finally, I spot Diego's name stenciled on a piece of bleached driftwood over the entrance to a tiny alcove.

The art hanging inside the cramped space is nothing like I expect and I'm suddenly ashamed of my earlier judgment. It's apparent that Diego had grown dramatically as an artist over the last year.

Instead of the ungrounded abstracts that made his name, this collection showcases stark and stunning images of New Mexico's cliff dwellings. Brown faces peer from dark holes in impossibly high cliffs; sunlight streaks from the sky in thick, blinding strokes that possess incredible weight and power; proud ghosts of the past watch over a destitute present to reveal an intermingling of both hope and despair.

Each piece draws me further in and my imagination swirls with a force that can only be described as rebirth. Oil paints mix with red clay and ocher, crushed stone blends with ragged patches of animal fur, and tiny pieces of bone sparkle with haunting fragility. In one canvas, a rake-thin dog lies in the middle of a deserted road, and I see that Diego's suicide note may not be the first time he added real blood to his palette.

My story has a new and more powerful face, and I feel regret at the loss.

“Who were you?” I ask.

“A talented man,” answers a strong baritone behind me.

I turn to stare into the face of Willie Nelson's twin: red bandanna wrapped around a taut, wrinkled face; close-cropped ashen beard; salt-and-pepper hair pulled into an impressive ponytail. He wears a tie-dyed shirt and denim vest above faded and patched jeans. He's missing the cowboy hat, and where cowboy boots should be, he sports open-toed sandals.

I also notice this face doesn't wear the strain of years battling booze. Instead, the eyes are electric, the body lean and fit. Strong teeth shine from a tanned face.

The man studies me as closely as I study him, all the while slicing into an apple with a well-honed pocketknife.

“Slice?” he asks, indicating the apple.

“No, thanks. Are you the owner?”

“That I be,” he says proudly. “The name's Cahn.” He holds out his hand and I shake it. His grip is firm but also sticky from the apple.

I introduce myself.

“I read your stuff,” he says. “Not bad. A touch on the depressing side at times. It must drain you to dwell that deep in the dark side of human nature.”

“Sometimes,” I agree. “But then I get drunk and go slam-dancing to Flogging Molly or the Dropkick Murphys and everything's OK again.”

He laughs. “So what can an old hippie do for you today, Ms. Flynn?”

“I'm writing about Diego Chino and was hoping you could fill me in on some background.”

Cahn stops eating, places his knife and the browning core on a shelf, then sticks his juice-covered fingers into his mouth one by one before wiping them dry on his pant legs.

“He's off to a better place at least,” he says finally. “A friend phoned me the news while I was in Carmel. A real shock.” He pauses to look at Diego's work. “You can see for yourself that he had a vision. He finally escaped his chains and was discovering a truer path. It's a pity he never got the chance to show the world what he had inside.”

“Was he suicidal?” I ask.

Cahn stares through me for a moment before shrugging.

“Who isn't nowadays? Poor people, rich people, businessmen, and whores. We're all moving so fast and in so many directions that the thought of a long nap has a creepy way of crawling into our heads. So, yeah, it's possible; but Diego struck me as too angry to go so quietly, you know?”

“Angry?”

“Yeah. He was pissed that no one wanted to buy these.” He indicates the dozen paintings on the walls. “There was a lot of pressure on him to go back to the stuff that sold. I encouraged him to hang in there. That eventually the public would take off its blinders and see what a talent he was.”

“You were friends?”

“I like to think so.”

I pull out my notepad. “Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”

Cahn smiles. “Sure, but I better make some tea first. Talking is mighty thirsty work.”

He turns and heads deeper into the bowels of the gallery. I follow to a cozy nook in the rear that contains a circular table, an odd assortment of chairs, and basic kitchen appliances. Cahn places an old whistling kettle on a gas stove and sprinkles a chunky orange powder into a teapot that is made to resemble a large, overfed hedgehog. I sit at the table as Cahn produces a plate of square cookie bars.

“They're all natural,” he says of the bars. “No processed sugar, preservatives, or gluten.”

He sits across from me and bites into one.

“What type of person was Diego?” I ask, picking up a bar to munch on. It's surprisingly good.

“Quiet mostly, except when he talked about art. Then you couldn't get him to shut up. He'd rattle away in Spanglish for hours and I would struggle to keep up. If he got too carried away, he started throwing in words in his native tongue, and then I was lost.”

“His native tongue?”

“Navajo.”

“I didn't know he was Navajo. I mean, I knew he was Native, but not the tribe.”

Cahn shrugs. “I think for a while he was trying too hard to leave his roots behind, to blend in. But look at his work on that wall: that's his true path. He came to embrace it more over the last few months. That abstract crap made him some money, sure, but it was a white man's poultice leaching into his soul.”

Cahn sighs and continues. “I'll bet nobody who bought one of his abstract pieces even suspected he was Native. How could you tell from squiggles and blobs?”

I furrow my brow. “How could he afford to live where he did if his new paintings weren't selling?”

“I guess he was smart with his money. Last year, when he was the in-thing, he pulled down thousands per piece.”

“And what about drugs?” I ask, remembering the coroner's report. “Did he use cocaine?”

“Doubtful. I don't think he could even if he wanted to. He was allergic to practically everything: penicillin, codeine, you name it. He was just lucky he wasn't allergic to his asthma medicine.”

“How serious was it? The asthma, I mean.”

“Serious enough. He took to wearing one of those Medic Alert bracelets.”

I can't remember him wearing a bracelet in the time I knew him, nor can I remember seeing one on the body or during my search of his apartment. But then again, I didn't even know he was Navajo.

The kettle begins to whistle and Cahn fixes the tea.

“I've invented a new blend,” he says, pouring boiling water through an opening in the hedgehog's skull. “Rosehips, honey, and dried orange peel. But where the layman would end the recipe there, I add a flowering bud of white tea from China. Mellows out the rosehips.”

Cahn brings the teapot over to the table and I catch a whiff of steam as it spirals out the hedgehog's mouth. It smells awful.

“Diego had an Adamsky painting in his apartment. The police believe it was stolen. Any thoughts?”

“Stolen?” he repeats. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“Diego was one of the most honest men I've ever met. He told me once about an incident at this factory where he was working. The pop machine stuck and spat out three Cokes. Diego had only paid for one. So like any other person, Diego gave the extra Cokes to his pals. But then …” he laughs lightly, remembering. “Then he mailed a check for two bucks directly to the servicing company. Now that's honest. There's no way he would steal a piece of art.”

Cahn pours tea into two earthen mugs. He hands me one and I sip. It is weak and bitter and as awful as it smells.

“I notice you don't carry Adamsky's work,” I say.

He smiles. “Not my scene.”

“Did Diego ever mention Adamsky to you?”

“Not that I recall.”

I glance down at my notes. “You said he worked at a factory. Do you know which one?”

“I don't know the name of it, but when a cousin of his moved to town, he managed to get a job for him there too. I think it was down near his art studio.”

“His studio!” I kick myself for not thinking to ask about it earlier.

“Yeah, he worked out of an old warehouse on the Central Basin docks. It's kind of an artist's commune thing, you know? Community owned, cheap rent, lots of space. A modern hippie happening.” Cahn laughs again.

“Do you have an address?”

“Warehouse two twenty-two. He told me he liked the number, but that's all I know.”

Cahn pours more tea for himself. I decline a top-up, but dunk half a wholesome cookie into my cup to soften it before stuffing the whole thing in my mouth. Cahn laughs and offers to make lunch, saying he is hungry himself. I accept and we spend a good hour eating egg salad and sprouts on whole grain, discussing art.

With the background information from Cahn, I'm feeling that I know Diego better in the grave than I ever did when he was alive. The realization is regrettable.

When the clock strikes one, I stand to leave.

Cahn looks over the rim of his mug. “Err, there's something I want to ask before you go.”

“Sure.”

“Well, I don't want to sound morbid, but do you know when the police will release Diego's final work?”

“The blood painting?”

“I suppose you can call it that.” He struggles for the words, obviously uncomfortable. “I know this does sound morbid, but I've had a six-figure offer, sight unseen. I am still his agent …”

“
You're
his agent?” I interrupt.

“Yeah, for all his new stuff. He had another arrangement when he was doing the abstracts, but I represent everything he's done since last September.”

I pause. “There's another man claiming to be his agent who was at the scene of his death. Casper Blymouth. He said Diego left him detailed instructions to pick up the blood painting.”

“Well, that's not right,“ Cahn says. “Diego hated that little creep. He's an errand boy for Roger Kingston, not someone who cares about the artists. No way Diego would trust him with something so important.”

“If you have a contract, maybe—”

Cahn winces. “Paperwork was never my strong suit, I'm afraid. We did everything on a handshake.”

He tries to smile, but it hangs there like limp celery.

I don't know what to say.

_____

Back at the
NOW
offices, I dig out the files on Diego and Adamsky and go through my messages.

There is sticky note from John, the copy runner, apologizing for not finding a single dealer who recognized the Adamsky. He enclosed the Polaroid, which I slip into my pocket.

I scribble a quick thanks, enclose an IOU for a beer, and pop it into the runner's mail slot.

A second message comes in the form of a blinking red light on my phone that informs me I have voice mail. I punch in my personal passcode and hit the button for play. The voice belongs to Rip Van Winkle.

“Yeah, hello. This is Paul Gibson, you asked me to call. Err, anyway, the hospital said I'm OK, probably just overworked or overstressed or something. Sounds like a good excuse for a vacation. Well, thanks again for waking me. Bye.”

I've never cared much for voice mail; people always sound stupid. Personally, I prefer e-mail. Like a letter, you have time to think about your reply before sending it. Of course there will always be people like Clooney who want to spoil it for the rest of us and insist on placing obnoxious happy faces at the end of each sentence. :-)

I would have preferred to hear that Gibson was drugged with some unique form of chloroform only found in a remote village where an eccentric collector of Adamskys lived, but as it is, I file his message in the trash can folder of my mind to be emptied later.

The newspaper archives on Diego are painfully thin. One clipping from two years back is a piece on happening young artists with a thermometer-style graphic showing each one's unique hotness factor. Diego's name tops the list with a thermometer rating of “sizzle.” A second story only mentions him in passing with the sentence “noticeably absent from the showing was new work from last year's top seller, Diego Chino.” Neither story mentions that he is Native.

The file on Adamsky is slightly fuller, and one of the stories even contains a color photo of one of his paintings. Strangely, there are no profiles on either artist, just stories about their work.