Closest to the eye, bathed in a ray of what had probably been bright-golden light centuries ago but was now ecru, sat a handsome, young, rosy-cheeked man, resplendent in blue silk and white lace. Glossy ringlets of dark hair trailed below his shoulders. Gold epaulets on his shoulders suggested military rank. So did a royal-blue cavalier’s hat balanced on his right knee.
The smirking expression of a spoiled adolescent. A waxed mustache and a wispy triangle of hair on his chin failed to add maturity. Nor did slumping posture, drunken eyes, and an agape mouth molded into a besotted grin. In the center of the mouth, a tongue tinted and shaped like a Japanese eggplant curled backward, a fleshy nautilus probing the innards beyond.
Sitting between the men, pressed close to the cavalier’s right flank, was a hook-nosed crone in a fraying, dust-colored dress, the garment baggy but unable to conceal a barrel of girth.
A black beret roosted lopsided atop strands of white hair so wild they appeared electrified. Drool beaded on her chin. The dress was cut low and square, exposing puckered cleavage that dipped to the withered roseate of the woman’s right nipple.
Like the three men, smiling. Crafty smile, as if a spell had been cast. Two brown teeth on top, a single incisor below.
The hag’s right hand, gnarled and liver-spotted, circled the young man’s penis. Small organ, but erect.
On the floor of the coach, two snub-nosed dogs, tongues drooping, observing the merriment. Resting on a bed of scarlet taffeta.
I turned away, heart racing. Robin’s hands alit on my shoulders and stayed there.
I put my hand on hers. “How did you find this?”
“The more I thought about what you described, your suspect running a gallery, the more I wondered if someone had tried to re-create an actual work of art. My first thought was Hieronymus Bosch or someone like him but I came up empty. So I keyed erotic art along with the basic victim descriptions. Black man young man old woman. I wasn’t sure how to characterize the mentally challenged guy but finally I said to heck with political correctness and put in fool. Because that’s how I saw a cruel murderer viewing him. To my amazement, this came up right away on a website called youdidntinventsexstupid.com. There’s all sorts of racy stuff on it. Apparently, Rembrandt went for outdoor sex, did a bunch of etchings, the most famous is The Monk in the Cornfield. Then there’s Picasso, Egon Schiele, Japanese woodcuts. But also this.”
“Who runs the site?”
“A woman named Suzanne Hirto. Art history professor at Swarthmore, she directed it to ‘the smug, entitled brats who invade my classroom.’ ”
I said, “Not a great career move.”
“You’ve got that right, she was fired. Not for erotica, for hurting the poor dears’ feelings. But she keeps the site up, message of defiance and all that. Anyway, here it is: The Museum of Desire, painted sometime around 1510, probably in Venice by one Antonio Domenico Carascelli. He was rumored to be a student of Titian but that can’t be proved. This is the only known work attributed to him and even that’s up for grabs. But putting aside taste issues, he was good, don’t you think? So maybe.”
I stared at the image. “How long did you work on this?”
“You know,” she said. “You get caught up.”
“Where’s the painting now?”
“No one knows. I emailed Hirto — she’s retired, sculpts and paints. She answered right away, said she got the image from a catalog put out by a Holocaust survivor group back in the seventies.”
“Nazi art?”
“Yes, but not what you’d think. This wasn’t stolen from Jewish collectors, it was part of Hermann Göring’s personal collection. Most of which was plunder. Great stuff — Velázquez, Renoir, Monet, all stolen. Like a good Nazi, he left handwritten lists that finally got cataloged a few years ago. But the bastard also bought and hoarded erotica that he didn’t record. This may have been an exception because of the Titian link, but no one knows for sure. The survivors tried to get compensation for reparations but they were poorly funded, relinquished control to a larger group who’s still struggling to get the stolen stuff back. So no interest in a dirty picture by an unknown artist.”
“Unbelievable,” I said. “That you found it.”
“It turned out not to be that complicated, hon.”
“That’s like saying all a drag racer needs to do is drive straight.” I got up, took her face in my hands, and kissed her hard. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
“Aw,” she said. “Now I need a bigger hat.”
She and Blanche returned to the studio and I studied the painting, feeling queasy rather than triumphant.
I began to send the image to Milo. Decided phone-miniaturization would lessen the impact and texted instead.
How close are you?
Still at the office. Everything okay?
Fine. Come over.
Paraphrasing Robin. Why mess with brilliance?
Chapter 39
I filled the time waiting for him trying to find other references to The Museum of Desire, Göring’s porn stash, Antonio Carascelli.
Nothing.
I checked out Suzanne Hirto’s site. Two headshots of her on the homepage: a photo that showed her blond, midfifties, with an open smiling face, and a self-portrait in oils that distorted her countenance to the shape of a dog bone and tinted it bilious green under a thatch of plaid hair.
The bell rang. I put the painting back on the screen and went to open the door.
Milo charged in. “What’s up?”
“A whole lot.”
He said, “How the hell did you find this?”
“Robin found it.”
“Jesus. What is it?”
I told him.
He said, “Obscure? So whoever knows about it coulda seen it on this site?”
“Could be.”
A third look at the painting. “Unbelievable. What’s her email?”
I logged back onto Suzanne Hirto’s site. He pointed to the grotesque self-portrait. “What’s that about?”
I said, “Maybe a confident woman.”
“Don’t see a visitor count. Push Contact, I’ll do the begging.”
Dear Professor Hirto,
This is Lieutenant Milo Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Department. You were contacted recently by Robin Castagna, an artist who resides here in L.A., about a painting titled The Museum of Desire. I believe the painting may be related to a case I’m investigating. I know this is a difficult request because of privacy issues but would there be any way for you to be comfortable releasing the email addresses of people who’ve logged onto your site? It’s possible one of them is involved in this crime. I assure you no one innocent will be contacted or otherwise hassled.
Thanks and best, Milo
He exhaled. “She’ll probably ignore me.”
Seconds later:
Hey, Milo. Really? That’s crazy and creepy. What type of crime? Suze.
Thanks for getting back, Suze. Unfortunately, murder.
Holy shit! I have no problems giving you the info, no one should get away with killing someone. Problem is I don’t pay attention to the site anymore, never kept a user file in the first place and I delete my emails every week or so cause I don’t want shit piling up.
Understood, Suze. Would you be willing to have one of our tech people take a look and see what they can come up with?