From Black Rooms (9 page)

"The Corps does lots of things it doesn't want its members to know about--like releasing the Violet

Kil er, for instance. If Amis used any Corps conduits for his dirty work, they'd be sure to tel Uncle Simon, who could put a stop to it." Serena stashed the photos in her coat. "These paintings he asked you to do...how many artists are capable of that kind of work? Who could Amis go to after you turned down the job?" Natalie considered a moment but shook her head. "I have no idea. But I think I know who could tel us." As the phone at the other end of the line started to ring, Natalie plugged her free ear with a finger to shut out the karate shouts while Cal ie sparred with Serena in the living room. A brusque recording answered: "You know who you are. I don't. Leave a message."

"I know you're there, Hector," Natalie shot back after the beep. "Pick up."

"Only for you, Boo," the reclusive artist grumbled when he final y deigned to reply. "What d'you want?"

"You can stop cal ing me 'Boo,' for a start."

"Wel , excuuuuuuuuuse me, Princess Natalie. How may I serve your ladyship?"

She laughed, imagining him dipping his bulk in a mock curtsey, plump fingers daintily lifting the folds of an invisible skirt. "That's more like it, peasant. Remember your place."

"At your feet, as always. So what's up, Boo? Natalie, I mean."

"I need your help--"

"With Munch? You gave back the brush, so I thought you guys were good chums by now. That Self-Portrait was rad, by the way."

"Thanks." Natalie exhaled annoyance, reminded again of al the money she hadn't made from the masterpiece she'd helped to inspire and create. "But this isn't about Munch. At least, not directly."

She described her meeting with Carleton Amis, but omitted any mention of his connection to the Violet Kil er. "The cops think this guy might have something to do with the stolen paintings that suddenly

resurfaced," she said to avoid having to explain about Serena and Evan Markham. "They've asked if I know anyone else who could copy al those paintings he wanted. What do you think? You familiar with any

Violets who might take on a project on the sly?"

"Nope. Even if they wanted to risk pissing off the Corps, I doubt they'd have the know-how to age the fakes accurately. For that, you need a pro. A forger."

"And who might that be?"

"Let's see...you say Madonna of the Yarnwinder was on the dude's shopping list, right?"

"Yeah."

"In that case, I'd start with Calvin Criswel . He's already painted six of them."

Natalie shifted the cordless receiver to her other ear, glancing through the kitchen door into the living room to make sure Serena was keeping Cal ie busy. "Whoa!

Back up. This Calvin guy's painted six what?"

"Madonnas." Hector chuckled. "Pretty good scam, I have to admit. After the real Yarnwinder disappeared, Criswel did six copies of it. Pretending to be a fence for the real thieves, he sold five of the forgeries to private col ectors, none of whom could report him to the cops without revealing that they'd tried to purchase art on the black market. Unfortunately for Criswel , he tried to sel the sixth fake to an undercover detective for Scotland Yard."

"What happened to him?"

"He copped a plea and served two years. But no one in the art world wil touch him now, so he lives

somewhere in Silver Lake and paints kids and puppies for eighty bucks a pop."

Natalie made a face. "Honesty doesn't pay. You have an address for this guy?"

"Sorry. You'd have to get that from his parole officer. I doubt he even uses his real name anymore."

"That's okay. We can track him down."

Hector's jocular tone turned wary. "We?" Natalie peeked into the living room again. Stil poised for hand-to-hand combat with Cal ie, Serena gave her a quizzical look.

Natalie nodded to her, thanked Hector, and hung up. Serena did, in fact, learn Calvin Criswel 's present whereabouts from his parole officer, but she had to wait on hold through several long phone cal s until she got access to the address. She suggested that Cal ie could stay home with Wade while they went to question the artist, but Natalie refused to leave either her father or daughter alone while Evan was on the loose. Serena had only her black Harley motorcycle for transportation, so al four of them piled into the Volvo and headed up the I-5 toward L.A.

The late-afternoon traffic thickened like tar on the freeway, and Cal ie complained the whole way, making them exit twice so she could go to the bathroom at the nearest gas station or fast-food place. She final y settled down when Natalie bribed her with a McDonald's

Happy Meal, and they reached the apartment house in Silver Lake near dusk.

The two-story Mediterranean Revival building bore the weary vanity of a faded screen star--cracked plaster splotched with white patches like a botched Botox job, tear streaks of rust trailing from its terra-cotta drainpipes. Like its neighbors, it served primarily as a shelter for Hol ywood actors either on their way up or on their way down. The aura of gloom deepened once Serena convinced the apartment manager to let them inside, for the landlord had evidently decided to save electricity by refusing to il uminate the foyer until after nightfal . Natalie could barely see the toes of her Doc Martens as she and Serena clumped up the narrow

wooden staircase to the door of one of the second-floor apartments.

Despite the catacomb darkness in the hal way, the young man who answered their knock greeted them

wearing sunglasses. No, not sunglasses--smoked

glasses with old-fashioned, nearly opaque rectangular lenses. Exceptional y tal and scarecrow skinny, he nearly fil ed the narrow space he opened between the door and the jamb. "Yes, miss? Can I help you?"
Must be our man, Natalie thought, seeing his black
jeans and T-shirt freckled with paint spatters, drizzles, and smears. A lamb's-wool tuft of sandy-brown hair sprouted from his chin, a bohemian affectation Natalie had always loathed. She wondered if the glasses were supposed to hide eyes bloodshot from pot-smoking, but the only tel tale aroma that seeped from the apartment was the stale pine scent of turpentine. "Mr. Criswel ?" He shook his head. "Sorry. The name's Turner. Fred Turner."

He receded from the door, but Serena stopped him from closing it. "No need to playact, Calvin. We know al about you."

Criswel sagged back against the doorjamb with a sigh.

"Wish I could say the same. Who are you people?"

"Art lovers," Serena snapped before Natalie could introduce herself. "We admire your past work and want to know if you're doing anything new lately." He chuckled but was clearly not amused. "You're kidding, right?" He cocked his head to glance down the hal . "Is this an episode of Cops? 'Cause I'm not gonna bite."

"You're not in trouble," Serena assured him. "Or should I say, you won't be if you answer our questions."

"We only want to know if anyone has approached you about copying some old masterpieces," Natalie added.

"Rembrandt, Vermeer, Manet, Munch--"

"You mean forgeries. I went to prison for doing forgeries. I don't do forgeries anymore. So you can take your Munch and--Hey, wait a minute." Brows

frowning over the lenses of his glasses, Criswel

motioned toward Natalie's right. "Turn this way."

"Huh?"

"Turn! Three-quarter profile."

Scowling at him, she angled herself to the right until he raised his hand.

"T
here." He grinned and jabbed an index finger at her.

"You're the girl in the Munch Self-Portrait. The one that just sold."

"Umm...yeah." Natalie felt herself flush as if Criswel had found her in the centerfold of a men's magazine. She imagined those hidden eyes of his lingering on the portrait's half-concealed bosom.

"You know, that was a fantastic picture. I'd give my right arm to work with Munch. What was he like?" Natalie opened her mouth, unsure how to respond, but Serena saved her the trouble.

"We'd love to talk shop," she said dryly, "but we're in kind of a hurry." She dug one of the photos of Carleton Amis out of her jacket and presented it to Criswel .

"You seen this guy 'round here?"

Criswel did not betray any anxiety when he saw Amis. He was a convicted criminal, after al , used to keeping his cool in dangerous and suspicious company. But Natalie thought she could discern the ghostlike flutter of his eyelids behind the one-way glass of his shades.

"Nope. Never seen him."

Serena huffed and returned the photo to her pocket.

"Mind if we come in?"

Criswel laughed and shook his head. "Ah, ladies! If only you'd cal ed ahead, I would have tidied up the place."

"Could you show us some of your recent pieces?" Natalie asked. Past his shoulder, she could see one corner of a canvas on an easel, lacquered with the dark glazing of the Dutch masters.

He moved to block her view. "You mean Dogs Playing
Canasta? I think we can skip it. Sorry I can't help you,
but I've been reduced to catering to the bourgeoisie. Cal me the next time you want a candlelit country vil age."

He waved good-bye.

"We'l be back, Mr. Criswel ," Serena said.

"Good. Bring a cop or a search warrant. Preferably both." He shut the door, turning the dead bolt slowly as if to make sure they could hear it lock.

"Lying dog," Serena muttered as she and Natalie descended the stairs on their way out.

Wade Lindstrom waited patiently for them in the

Volvo, his lanky frame folded into the backseat. When Natalie and Serena got into the car, his head nearly brushed the ceiling as he sat forward, his face anxious in the rear-view mirror. "Wel ? You find out anything?"

"We found out you can't trust a crook," Serena groused.

"That's about it."

Cal ie wilted against the armrest of her door in an agony of boredom. "You mean we came al this way for
nothing?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." Natalie peered through the windshield at one of the apartment building's upstairs windows. An old drop cloth spotted with rainbow dots of paint served as a haphazard curtain. As she watched, a hand nudged one corner of the cloth aside, exposing a triangle of blackness as dark and deep as Calvin

Criswel 's smoked glasses.

Gazing down at the Volvo that lingered, engine

running, on the street below, Cal could feel the Violets staring back at him. Although he couldn't distinguish the color of their eyes through his dark glasses, he knew who they were--what they were. Particularly the girl from the Munch portrait.

He didn't care if they saw him watching. Indeed, he'd been tempted to invite them in for espresso and half hoped they would come back to harass him some more. He could use their advice.

They did not return, however. When the car at last drove off, Cal let the paint-dappled curtain fal back into place, cutting off the waning light of dusk. Fortunately, one didn't need natural light for forgery. A bright halogen lamp il uminated the work-in-progress on the easel: Rembrandt's Storm on the Sea of Galilee. Beside it, a drafting table bore a half-dozen spreadeagled art books and four different posters of the original painting. Carleton Amis wanted the copy by the end of the month--an impossible deadline--and Cal intended to pul another al -nighter in a vain attempt to get it done on time. It was a hel ish job, and the Rembrandt was only the beginning.

But the reward would be worth it.

To motivate himself, he shuffled into the apartment's closet-size bathroom, flicked on the fluorescent light, and took off his dark glasses. Leaning close to the medicine-cabinet mirror, he spread the lids from his right eye with his fingers, as if searching for a stray lash. Yes, he could see the flecks of violet forming among the green of its iris.

Worth it, he told himself again. The queasy flutter in his
gut made him wonder if that were true, however.

"I can give you something far more valuable than money, Mr. Criswel ," Carleton Amis had purred when Cal had refused to create the forgeries he wanted. "I can give you the masters themselves."

Cal gave a crooked smile. "I don't deal in stolen art, either." He indicated the shabby studio apartment around them. "It may not look it, but this place is bigger than a prison cel , and I'd like to stay here." Amis chuckled and shook his head. "You

misunderstand me, my friend. I'm not offering you a few measly paintings. I'm going to give you the artists who created them. Al of them, whenever you wish." For an instant, Cal froze, as if someone had strol ed over his future grave. Then he laughed, sharing the joke, wagging his finger at the older man. "You know, dude...you're nuts."

Amis clucked his tongue. "Oh, come now, Calvin. You can't tel me the thought--the idle wish--hasn't

crossed your mind." He crossed to the drafting table, shoved aside a pile of Cal's sketches, and set his briefcase there. "You've spent the better part of your career aping the giants of your profession." He patted the lid of the leather case. "Why settle for imitations when you can have the real thing?"

Cal maintained a smile to emphasize that he was not taking any of this seriously. "Wel , Carleton--since we're apparently on a first-name basis now--perhaps you can explain what the hel you're talking about."

"Of course! I wouldn't expect a good businessman like yourself to take such an offer on faith." Amis opened the case, which contained three objects set into customcarved niches in the foam-rubber interior: an unwieldy, oddly shaped gun; a glass vial of algae-green liquid; and a smal notebook computer.

He flipped up the laptop screen and punched in a

preprogrammed video presentation entitled PROJECT

PERSEPHONE: An Overview, which began with an

arcane lecture on DNA sequencing and gene therapy, most of which went over Cal's head. A series of video clips fol owed, before-and-after shots of test subjects. Men and women with brown and blue and hazel and

green eyes whose irises each turned various shades of violet. Electrode wires suckling on their shaved heads like leeches, the transformed subjects each became inhabited by deceased personalities, the presence of the dead entities registered by the seismic scratching of a SoulScan readout that scrol ed up the left side of the screen. Calvin's mouth went dry as he watched the footage in dumb fascination, but it was the silent promise of those other two items in the briefcase--the weird pistol and the liqueurlike drug--that convinced him that Amis could actual y bestow the miracle he promised.