Barry read the note, and punched in a bunch of keywords, and found, oddly enough, that there were four bronze sculptors in the United States who had been arrested for sex crimes involving some level of violence, and two of them had had studios in New York.
One of them was dead.
But James Robert Verlaine wasn’t.
“James Robert Verlaine,” Lily read the next morning. They were in Lincoln’s crime lab, once a parlor.
“Or as we know him, ‘Jim Bob,’ ” Lucas said.
“Has a fondness for cocaine, has been arrested twice for possession of small amounts, did no time. Also arrested years ago for possession of LSD, did two months. Four years ago, he was charged with possession of thirty hits of ecstasy, but he’d wiped the Ziploc bag they were in and he’d thrown it into the next toilet stall, where it landed in the toilet and wasn’t fished out for a while. Quite a while — somebody hadn’t flushed. The prosecutor dumped it for faulty chain of evidence. Last year he was arrested in an apartment over on skid row in a raid on a meth cooker, but he was released when it turned out the actual cooker was the woman who was renting the apartment. Verlaine said he was just an innocent visitor. The prosecutor dumped it again, insufficient evidence.”
“Get to the sex,” Lucas said.
“He’s never been arrested for a sex crime, but he’s been investigated,” Lily said, reading from the FBI report. “He’s known for sculptures with slave themes involving bondage, whipping, various kinds of subjugation of women. A woman named Tina Martinez — note the last names here — complained to police that he’d injured a friend of hers named Maria Corso, who was supposedly modeling for one of these bondage sculptures. Corso refused to prosecute, said there’d been a misunderstanding with her friend. The investigators say they believe she was paid off.”
“He’s a bad man,” Amelia said.
“Bad,” Lincoln agreed. “With a substantial interest in drugs.”
“And probably with the kind of brain rot you get from meth,” Lucas said.
“Do you have a plan?” Lincoln asked.
“I plan to spend some time with him today. Just watching. Amelia and Lily can help out. See what he does, who he talks to, where he hangs out.”
“Do we know where he lives?” Lincoln asked.
“We do,” Lily said.
Lincoln said to Lucas, “I wonder if the women could handle the surveillance and keep you informed, of course.”
Lucas said, “No reason they couldn’t, I guess. Easier with three of us. Why?”
“I have an idea, but I want to speak to you privately about it. Just to avoid the inevitable question of conspiracy.”
“Oh, shit,” Lily said.
Well, now, here’s a pretty.
Tasty, this one.
Oh, he could picture her on her back, arms outstretched, yeah, yeah, lying on something rough — concrete or wood. Or metal.
Metal’s always good.
Sweat on her forehead, sweat on her tits, sweat everywhere. Mewing, gasping, pleading.
For a luscious moment, every other person in the club vanished from James Robert Verlaine’s consciousness as his eyes, his artist’s eyes, lapped up the brunette in black at the end of the bar.
Tasty…
Raven hair, tinting from red to blue to green to violet in the spotlights. Disco décor, punk music. Rasta’s could never make up its mind.
Hair. That aspect of the human form fascinated him. A sculptor of hard materials, he could reproduce flesh and organ, but hair remained ever elusive.
She glanced toward him once, no message in the gaze, but then a second time, which was, possibly, a message in itself.
Studying her more closely now, the oval face, the sensuous figure, the provocative way she leaned against the bar as she carried on a conversation on her cell phone.
It irritated him that her attention was now on some asshole a mile or ten miles or a hundred miles away. A smile. But not at Verlaine.
Mona Lisa, he reflected. That’s who she reminded him of. Not a compliment, of course. Da Vinci’s babe was a smirky bitch. And, Lord knew, the painting was way overrated.
Hey, look over here, Mona.
But she didn’t.
Verlaine flagged down the bartender and ordered. Like always, here or at one of the other clubs where he hung out, Verlaine drank bourbon, straight, because girls liked it when men drank liquor that wasn’t ruined with fruit juice. Beer was for kids, wine for the bedroom after fucking.
Mona looked in his direction once again. But didn’t lock eyes.
He was getting angry now. Who the hell was she talking to?
Another scan. Little black dresses were a coward’s choice — worn by women afraid to make a statement. But in Mona’s case, he forgave her. The silk plunged and hovered just where it ought to and the cloth clung like latex paint to her voluptuous figure.
And what hands! Long fingers, tipped in black nails.
Hair was tough to duplicate, but hands were the most arduous of sculptors’ challenges. Michelangelo was a genius at them, finding perfect palms and digits and nails in the heart of marble.
And James Robert Verlaine, who knew he was an artistic, if not blood, descendant of the great master, created the same magic, though with metal, not stone.
Which was much, much tougher to accomplish.
The crowd in Rasta’s, Midtown, was typical for this time of night — artsy sorts who were really ad agency account managers, nerds who were really artists, hipsters pathetically clinging to their fading youth like a life preserver, players from Wall Street. Packed already. Soon to be more packed.
Finally, he caught Mona’s eye. Her gaze flickered. Could be flirt, could be fuck off.
But Verlaine doubted the latter. He believed she liked what she saw. Why wouldn’t she? He had a lean, wolfish face, which looked younger than his forty years. His hair, a mop, thick and inky. He worked hard to keep the do in a state of controlled unruliness. His eyes were as focused as lasers. Thin hips, encased in his trademark black jeans, tight. His work shirt was DKNY, but suitably flecked and worn. The garment was two-buttons undone with the pecs just slightly visible. Verlaine humped ingots and bars of metal around his studio and the junkyards where he bought his raw materials. Carried oxygen and propane and acetylene tanks, too.
Another glance at Mona. He was losing control, as that familiar feeling rippled through him from chest to crotch.
Picking up his Basil Hayden’s, he pushed away from the bar to circle Mona’s way. He tried to get past a knot of young businessmen in suits. They ignored him. Verlaine hated people like this. He detested their conformity, their smugness, their utter ignorance of culture. They’d judge art by the price tag; Verlaine bet he could wipe his ass with a canvas, spray some varnish on it, and set a reserve price of a hundred thousand bucks — and philistines like this’d fight to outbid themselves at Christie’s.
L’art du merde.
He pushed through the young men.
“Hey,” one muttered. “Asshole, you spilled my—”
Verlaine turned fast, firing off a searing gaze, like a spurt of pepper spray. The businessman, though taller and heavier, went still. His friends stirred, but chose not to come to his defense, returning quickly to a stilted conversation about the game.
When it was clear Mr. Brooks Brothers wasn’t going to do something stupid and get a finger or face broken, or worse, Verlaine gave him a condescending smile and moved on.
Easing up to Mona, Verlaine hovered. He wasn’t going to play the let’s-ignore-each-other game. He was too worked up for that. He whispered, “I’ve got one advantage over who you’re talking to.” A nod at the phone.