“Yeah. I was just remembering that, too,” Simone said, stepping into the hallway.
“I’m sorry if the memory is unpleasant,” he said. “I only just remembered when the door opened. I had a memory of a young woman—you were what, eighteen?” Simone nodded. “Eighteen and already a detective. Your father was nervous, I remember, but you just stared at me with that quiet smile you have, like you were never going to be defeated. You didn’t wear a hat back then. Your hair blended with the walls…” Mr. Ryan motioned at them with his walking cane. “They were originally on the first floor, these mosaics. They were removed when the waters rose. It took me nearly a year to get them back once I’d bought the place, and more than a little finger-breaking.” Simone said nothing, the flickering shadow of her father at the edges of her vision. He was tall back then—not like when she found his body. He seemed so small then. “Well, come along. Let’s get to your lesson.”
Mr. Ryan nodded once at Ms. Antiphates, who disappeared behind the closing elevator doors. He turned and walked down the hall, and Simone followed.
“Thank you for doing this,” she said. “I know it’s short notice and an odd request.”
“Ms. Pierce,” Mr. Ryan said without turning around, “I am happy to tell you all I know about Paul Reinel. But I suspect you’re here because you want to know about a specific piece of his, yes?”
“Yes,” Simone admitted.
“Do you in fact represent Ms. St. Michel, and has she sent you here to ask me to auction off the piece in my little market?”
Simone considered lying but knew it would be a stupid lie, the kind that was sure to get her in trouble and lose her a regular client.
“No,” she said. “I’m here because I know that it’s a Reinel now, but I don’t know what would make a Reinel important, or worth killing for. And I need to figure it out, because right now I’m suspect number one.” And Caroline is suspect number two, Simone thought, with half the city lining up to join her. Ryan opened a door and led Simone into a white room with a white bar, white sofas, and a white carpet. The glasses on the bar were white, the table was white. It was all a canvas, a display for the one thing in the room that wasn’t white: a large sculpture in the center of the table. It was a deep, dried-blood red, and had a texture that looked like thousands of tubes facing out, packed so closely together that it seemed soft. The sculpture was of a naked woman reclining on a low table. Her legs were stretched out to the side, bent, and a robe or shawl was draped loosely around her. In one hand, she held what looked like a branch, and around her were animals—pigs, goats, and a cat. They all looked at her, pleadingly, but she looked straight ahead, her expression an invitation.
“Circe,” Mr. Ryan said. “One of Reinel’s earlier coral pieces. The only one I have. It’s made from pipe-organ coral, which was unusual. Most of the coral sculptors used something less fussy, like fan or lettuce coral—the sort of thing people expected. This is his only piece in the pipe organ. I love the texture of it and, of course, that color.” Simone approached the statue, wanting to touch it. Circe’s gaze was magnetic. “Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Ryan asked, going behind the bar. “I’m going to have a glass of the white Bordeaux.”
“Sure, thanks,” Simone said, still staring at Circe. She was beautiful, but beautiful enough to kill for? And how was it more than just a sculpture? Dash had said he thought it was like a chocolate egg, but Simone couldn’t picture anything inside the coral. Mr. Ryan handed her a glass of wine and sat on the sofa in front of the sculpture. Simone sat next to him.
“So you want to know what makes a Reinel worth killing for. Does seeing one answer your question?”
“No,” Simone shook her head. “It’s beautiful, Mr. Ryan, but… to kill for? I expected something people could say is worth something, something concrete.”
“You don’t think people would kill to possess something beautiful?”
Simone was silent. She took a long drink of her wine. It tasted expensive and heavy.
“Maybe,” she finally conceded. “But I’ve been told it’s not the art that’s worth killing over. It’s something in the art. Or maybe about the art. And unless you can crack this open—and I don’t think anyone would do that—I don’t see what it could be.”
She still had one more stop before her meeting with Sorenson. She didn’t have more time for art appreciation. She had thought that with Reinel’s name she would be closer to solving this, to getting herself out of Kluren’s gold spotlights, to getting rid of The Blonde, and to getting her friendship with Caroline fixed. But she didn’t feel closer to any of those things. She felt like she was in a white room, drinking wine, and staring at a bloodstain shaped like a person.
Mr. Ryan stood and walked around the statue, regarding it.
“His early coral work is more daring. More beautiful,” he said. “After this, he becomes just another coral sculptor. Early for the technique, yes, but not exciting. Not interesting. A shame.”
“What does that have to do with his art being something else?” Simone asked.
“He started as a painter, you know,” Mr. Ryan continued, as though Simone hadn’t said anything. “In general, I actually prefer his paintings. They weren’t just paintings; they were almost mixed media.”
“But—” Simone tried to interrupt, but before she could speak, Mr. Ryan brought his cane down on the floor in a loud thud.
“I promised you an art history lesson, Simone,” he said quietly. “I’m giving you one because I saw in your eyes a genuine interest and appreciation when you looked at the painting downstairs. I saw you become, for just a moment, something more. I saw it again when you looked at Circe here. That’s something art does to some people. Not many, unfortunately. But I saw it in you, and I want to encourage it. I’m not here to solve your problems or solve your cases or give you some vital clue.” He paused, and his face softened, his voice became lighter and smooth, like the oil coating a frying pan. “Unless, of course, you’d care to give me something in return?”
“Something like what?”
“There’s an item coming into the city in a month or so. I want it. Would you be willing to retrieve it for me?”
“Like an escort?” Simone asked, but she knew that wasn’t what he meant. He shook his head.
“Like a thief, Ms. Pierce,” he said. Simone took another sip of her wine.
“I’d like to hear more about Reinel,” she said softly.
“As I was saying, I prefer Mr. Reinel’s paintings. Generally. Circe is certainly more impressive than any of his early paintings, but he had a style in his brushwork: hard, glamorous. Common people he met on the street looked like movie stars. And they were fused into objects around them—hair turns into streets on a map, lips become bridges.”
“Maps?” Simone asked. Mr. Ryan’s lips turned up at this, but then he shook his head slightly, as if a little sad.
“His early work involved taking photos with an old-fashioned smartphone. This was just when the water was rising. He’d mark on his map the place where the photo was taken. In his studio, he would project both these images over each other, onto a canvas, and from that he would paint. He would combine the scene and the map. And then he’d spray the whole thing with Privilux, so no one could take a photo of it. He said it was about art from media; but media from art from media was one too many layers. He needed his work to be appreciated in person.”
“So he painted a scene with a map, and it couldn’t be photographed,” Simone said, standing. “It’s a treasure map.”
Mr. Ryan sighed with disappointment. “Do you want an art history lesson, Ms. Pierce, or do you want to solve the case?”