Perfections (39 page)

Her sister nods. Lifts a loose fist to her sternum. ‘I feel
both
of you.’

Lina straightens. ‘Dante, I think we’re going to . . .’

Her boss has his phone pressed against his right ear, while his other hand shields his left. ‘Wait,
what
? Say that again.’ His voice raised now, face contorted with frustration. ‘I can’t – damn this bloody signal.’

Lina throws a questioning glance down the table to Zane, but the girl only shrugs. Shakes her dreadlocked head, turns her palms to the air. Around them, people on nearby tables have lowered their own conversational levels. Lowered or ceased talking entirely, ears pricked and greedy for gossip.

Dante pales. ‘Did you say
fire
? Yes. Yes,
fuck
, I’m on my way.’ Out of his seat with wallet in hand. Waving at the maître d’ who is already striding towards their table. ‘Alisa – sorry, love.’ He passes her a credit card. ‘Got a situation happening. We’ll square this all later, yeah?’

‘Of course, Mr Moretti.’ The tall brunette slides the card discreetly into her pocket. ‘I’ll order you a taxi.’

‘Dante?’ Lina is on her feet now as well. Ryan too, and Zane.

Her boss runs a hand back and forth over his scalp. Stares wild-eyed as though even
he
has trouble believing the words now stilting from his mouth: ‘The gallery is on fire, Jacks. Seventh Circle is burning to the fucking ground.’

Not to the ground – the building too solid; the fire brigade far too quick to respond to a blaze in the CBD – but certainly gutted, the interior rendered black with rubble and ash, filled with dripping water and the sodden smell of smoke. Antoinette huddles to one side, well away from the barrier of bright yellow tape,
crime scene do not enter
in solid black caps like some surreal re-enactment of the CSI shows Paul used to download. Complete with rubber-neckers and looky-loos, a shifting semi-circle of pedestrians mostly disbanded now that the flames have been doused, now that the media have packed up their gear and retreated into the night, and Antoinette keeps to the side of them, too.

Ryan sags in the gutter, back turned away from the charred and ruined mess, from the jut of blackened wood and occasional scrap of canvas that flaps in the air. Those beautiful paintings, that cool non-zombie apocalypse, all gone. Antoinette wants to hug him but the blue-haired girl is already there, barnacled to his side, skinny arms wrapped around his waist.
Ryan
, the girl says, over and over.
Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, oh god, Ryan
. While Ryan says nothing at all.

Antoinette shivers, rubs her arms against the chill in the air.

She looks over at her sister again, faithful lieutenant posted by Dante’s side as he talks to the thin-faced cop, answering questions in her turn as the cop nods and scribbles down notes in his pad. Jacqueline, eyes red and streaming with smoke-spiked tears, coughing into her fist and then pointing towards something within the hulking wreck of Seventh Circle, while Dante mimes a shoebox-sized shape with his hands. And the cop looks, and nods, and makes another note.

Until finally it seems to be over.

Or at least for Jacqueline. She approaches Ryan, places a hand on his head and says something that the night catches and spirits away. His shoulders hitch, and Jacqueline bites her lip, is already moving away when the blue-haired girl – Zane, that’s it, her name is
Zane
– launches to her feet and catches Jacqueline in a massive bear hug. And Jacqueline hugs her right back, and whispers into her ear, and after a minute Zane slips away, slips back down to the gutter and rests her cheek against Ryan’s arm.

When Jacqueline shuffles over to her sister at last, the shock in her eyes is still palpable and raw.
Come on, Ant, it’s late. Let’s go home
. Antoinette takes her hand, holds it tight.
I feel better
. Not good, not well, but
better
. The Loki-stone calmer than it has been for days, the weight and the tug of it less strident, less demanding. Her sister smiles wearily –
that’s great, Ant, honestly
– drags her over to where a taxi is waiting, and tells her to climb on in. And as Antoinette peers through the rear windows, she sees him. Just a glimpse, not enough to be certain, but still.

She
does
see him.

A boy, tall and moon-skinned, slipping sinuous through the remaining looky-loos. His crow-black hair long, tied neat at the nape of his neck, and his eyes shining bright as blood-diamonds.

Lina spends much of Thursday making and fielding Seventh Circle calls from her study at home. Cancellations and concerned clients, the entire RSVP list for tonight’s aborted opening, plus a dozen other tawdry tasks. Everyone wants to know the juicy details. What and how and who and why. By the end of it, Lina has her patter honed word-perfect. Yes, it’s a tragedy for all involved; yes, the police are investigating; no, she cannot reveal any further details. The occasional distraught artist with work still in storage, or irate client with acquisitions unshipped, she bounces straight to Dante. Her boss is handling the insurance side of things. Compensation and counselling both.

He’s also handling Ryan Jellicoe.

The artist refuses to talk to Lina, which means he must have been told. Those witness descriptions last night: tall skinny male; long black hair; pale skin; nose sharp enough to cut paper. The officer wanting to know if that sounded familiar. Sounded like anyone they knew. Anyone who might have been hanging around. And Dante, no slackwit, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

Sound’s like your sister’s ex-dropkick, doesn’t it?

You mean Paul?

Paul, yeah. Becca told me he came by a couple weeks ago, tried to throw his weight around. She said that he scared her.

Dante, I hardly think–

But the officer was already writing down the details. Asking for Paul’s last name. His place of residence. How long ago he broke up with her sister. The time since either of them last saw him, and anything else Lina might think relevant.
It’s probably nothing, ma’am, as you say. But Arson will have my bollocks for breakfast if I don’t lay it out all pretty for them.
And so Lina told him. Embellishing nothing, though of course omitting any and all references to Loki. As she spoke, the expression on Dante’s face became more and more hostile.

Wish you’d told me the dude was a fucking nutter.

It’s not as though I expected him to do anything.

He came in to
my
gallery, Jacks. Threatened
my
staff.

Dante, you can’t seriously be blaming me for this.

No.
A sigh, hand scratching across his hair.
No, of course not.

But still, she’ll be on indefinite leave from next week while Dante and Susan Keyes sort through the salvageables. And with her Fearless Leader thus far offering not a single word of commiseration or concern, Lina finds herself wondering if there will even be a position made available to her once Seventh Circle re-opens.

If
Seventh Circle re-opens.

And so, when two detectives from the Arson Squad arrive on her doorstep late that afternoon, it feels pretty much par for the course. They pass her their business cards. Brush the rain from their shoulders and wipe their shoes on the mat before following her inside.

‘Is your sister here?’ the female detective asks after Lina has seated them in her living room. After they have both smiled politely and declined tea or coffee. She has already forgotten their names. ‘Antoinette Paige? We’re told she is living with you at the moment?’

‘She’s sleeping,’ Lina says. ‘It’s not been a great week.’

‘Oh?’

‘Her . . . our mother died on the weekend.’ The detectives exchange a glance of what Lina can only describe as
keen interest
. ‘Cancer,’ she hastens to explain. ‘She was ill for quite some time, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected. But still, you know . . .’

The male detective looks sympathetic.

His partner maintains her poker face. ‘We do need to talk with Antoinette rather urgently. It’s in regards to Paul Morgenstern.’

‘I thought this was going to be about the fire at Seventh Circle.’

‘That’s right,’ says the female detective.

It takes Lina a few minutes to rouse her sister. A few more to encourage her into robe and slippers. Even then, she digs her heels in at the bedroom door. ‘They won’t leave until you go out there,’ Lina whispers. ‘It’ll only be a couple of questions, and I’ll be sitting right next to you. Just tell them the truth.’ Ant frowns, and Lina rolls her eyes. ‘Well, not the whole truth, obviously.’

As it turns out, the detectives do most of the talking. They slide three black-and-white photographs from a manila envelope. Spread them out on the coffee table. ‘Are either of you able to identify this person?’ Two headshots captured from different angles. One close-to-full body with only the feet cut off. Despite the graininess of the prints, the features are unmistakeable.

‘It looks a lot like Paul,’ Lina says carefully.

Her sister clears her throat. ‘Maybe. They’re a . . . bit blurry.’

Pulled from Seventh Circle’s security camera, they’re told, with a positive identification already furnished by Paul Morgenstern’s parents. The female detective slides the photos back into their envelope. ‘We want you to appreciate how serious this situation might become.’ It’s now clear that it was Paul who broke into the gallery last night. Spraying as many works of art as he could with lighter fluid before setting fire to the place. Oil paint is its own accelerant. Once the flames took hold, they made short work of every canvas.

‘It’s lucky the MFB got to the scene so quickly,’ the male detective says. ‘Very lucky no one was inside at the time. We’re told that Mr Moretti would sometimes work back late in his upstairs office – he wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

‘I don’t . . .’ Ant swallows hard. She speaks as though she needs to force each syllable from her tongue with a crowbar. ‘I don’t . . . understand why he would . . .’

The detectives frown at one another.

‘She took some medication earlier,’ Lina explains. She rubs the back of her sister’s hand. ‘It makes her a little sluggish sometimes.’

The lie seems to appease them. Paul’s motive is not entirely clear, they admit, though it does appear to involve Antoinette. He made aggressive phone calls to the restaurant where she was employed around the same time he threatened Jacqueline in person at the gallery. It’s possible that the only reason Simpatico hasn’t been on the receiving end of a Molotov cocktail is that Antoinette no longer works there.

‘I didn’t . . . quit. I’m only . . . on leave.’

‘Good for them, he never made that distinction. Antoinette, this guy is dangerous. We need to know when you last heard from him?’

‘I don’t . . . Jacqueline?’

‘The same day he came to Seventh Circle,’ Lina tells them. ‘He showed up here afterwards and I had to threaten to call the police to get him to leave.’

‘He was violent?’

‘He didn’t hurt either of us, but . . . yeah, it was pretty scary.’

‘And you haven’t seen or spoken to him since?’

‘No,’ Lina says. ‘I honestly thought it was all over and done with.’

‘Antoinette, how about you?’

Her sister shakes her head. ‘No,’ she whispers.

The female detective swaps pointed looks with her partner. ‘Listen, if either of you girls
have
heard from Paul or know anything else you might not have told us about yet . . .
now
would be a
very
good time.’

Ant is beginning to look frightened.

‘Has he said something?’ Lina asks. ‘Because you can’t trust him, you know. He came over spouting all this paranoia about how Ant was trying to turn his friends against him. Complete rubbish. She’s made a clean break of it, or tried to at least.’

‘We haven’t spoken to him yet,’ the male detective tells her. ‘None of his family or friends have seen Mr Morgenstern for at least three days.’