by M. C. Grant
With a sigh, I survey the desolate space again.
Strange. This isn’t like any artist I’ve ever met. In my admittedly limited experience, an artist’s home is usually cluttered with half-realized ideas, rough sketches of beginning works and failed experiments; magazine clippings of shapes and colors that took their fancy; paint splatters from late-night trials in shade and texture; pencils, paper, charcoal, pastels, anything that will leave a mark on paper, cardboard, or canvas. Inspiration is fleeting—no artist ever wants an idea to leave without trying to capture its essence.
Diego may have lived here, but it doesn’t seem like he ever actually worked here.
I return to the window. The view is a yuppie’s dream: cappuccino bars, art galleries, wine boutiques, all mixed with a scattering of cozy, ethnic restaurants that serve mostly white, wealthy professionals. If you climbed to the roof and stretched your neck, you may even be able to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Who could ask for more?
Millie’s tea is starting to weigh on my bladder. I head into the bathroom and poke through the medicine cabinet before sitting. The usual contents are accounted for: toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant (both stick and unscented powder), electric shaver, cologne (the same brand I remember), and mouthwash. There is also a small inhaler with a prescription label on the side showing it’s for asthma. There are no other drugs on the glass shelves, not even a bottle of Tylenol or aspirin.
The absence of painkillers annoys me. Who doesn’t get headaches? If this was a woman’s medicine chest … well, I better not get started on how blatantly unfair it is to be a member of the fairer sex.
After washing my hands, I head into the bedroom to poke through the closet and a chest-high, four-drawer dresser. Diego’s clothes look perfectly normal, although better quality than I remember. No paint stains on the crisp dry-cleaned shirts, and the feel of a silk-blend suit jacket is expensive. Even the two pairs of jeans (one black, one blue) have been ironed. I sniff the closet, hoping to catch his scent, but the only odor is of dry-cleaning fluid.
There are no condoms in the nightstand and no dirty magazines under the bed. In fact, there are no magazines, newspapers, or books anywhere.
Remembering the painting that Frank found sandwiched in the bed, I lift one side of the mattress and look down at the box spring. It looks no different from any other box spring I’ve ever had the pleasure of eyeballing; even the Do Not Remove New Material Only tag is still attached.
I let the mattress drop, the motion causing the tucked sheets to spill out. When I bend to tuck them back in, I notice they are lightly stained with splotches of paint. I lift the mattress again, but this time I look up. More splotches of dried paint dot the underside of the mattress.
The only explanation I have, unless Diego often hid paintings under his mattress, was the paint came from the Adamsky. But according to the gallery owners, Adamsky lived in Portugal.
Why would an artist ship a painting before the oils had completely dried? It makes about as much sense as Diego hiding one under his mattress in the first place.
The only other thing of note is located outside the bedroom window. A black metal staircase descends at a sharp angle, stopping at a landing in front of each apartment below. Also, a simple metal ladder attached firmly to the outside wall ascends to the roof. The window exit is locked from the inside and a small security sticker indicates it is alarmed.
Feeling none the wiser but unaccountably sad, I leave the apartment and head back downstairs.
_____
Millie’s singsong voice calls me inside when I knock on her door. She clicks off the TV and immediately pours a fresh cup of tea when I join her in the living room to hand back the key.
“It’s such a shame, isn’t it?” Millie says, raising her eyes to the ceiling.
I agree it is and take a sip of tea. The strength of it makes my eyelids flutter.
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?”
“Not at all.” Millie offers the plate of cookies. “Have another biscuit. A growing lass like yerself needs her energy.”
I accept, even though the only growing I would find acceptable at this point in my life is perhaps an enhanced bosom. And even that idea lost some of its luster after I stumbled into my thirties.
“Do you know if Diego has a workshop anywhere?” I begin.
“I believe he does,” Millie replies. “He never spends much time at home. An ideal neighbor really.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No, Mr. Chino isn’t—wasn’t—much of a bletherer at all. Very quiet.”
“Blether?”
Millie laughs. “Forgive ma Scots. A bletherer is someone who likes to talk. Get a couple of bletherers together, and it becomes a right natter.” She touches a finger to the side of her nose and winks. “I just love a good natter.” She giggles. “Do you read that Mary Jane Clooney in your paper? She’s a rare gossip. I wouldn’t mind having lunch with her one day. The stories she must know. All those celebrities, and she’s certainly one to kiss and tell.” Millie slaps her knee and crunches her face into a pincushion as she chuckles.
I try to keep the grimace off my face.
“Do you think it would be OK to speak to your other neighbors?” I ask.
“I don’t see why not, but they won’t be in right now. If you come back around suppertime, you’ll have a better chance of catching one of them home. Such busy professionals, you know? Everyone trying so hard to make a good life, they don’t realize it’s passing them right by.”
I take a second, smaller sip of tea to be polite and thank Millie for her time.
She walks me to the door. When I open it, I feel the heat of the day filling the hallway. It reminds me of how much colder Diego’s apartment had been last night compared to today.
“Did you turn the air conditioner off upstairs after the police left?” I ask.
“No, wasn’t me,” Millie answers. “I’m just so happy it’s working again. It was broken for nearly two weeks, but that handsome repairman—George, I think his name was—came just yesterday or the day before.” She sighs, disheartened. “It’s sad though, Diego won’t be able to enjoy it.”
Eight
Frank enters the restaurant just as I am scooping out a large dollop of yogurt-garlic tzatziki sauce with a thick wedge of warm pita. I quickly stuff it in my mouth and wash it down with a swallow of chilled Domestica.
He strolls over to the table in his lopsided gait, thin tie askew, the knot looking tighter than usual, and his sleeves shoved up to expose thick, hairy arms.
Above his left wrist, the words Nasty Habit are tattooed in blue ink around the black outline of a broken horseshoe.
The first time I saw the tattoo, I asked Frank for the story, but he shrugged me off. Naturally, this only made me more tenacious. It had taken a little digging to discover a young cowboy from Butte Creek, Montana, had ended his burgeoning saddle-bronc career going full-bore for a million-dollar payday at the Calgary Stampede.
According to the newspaper story, Frank’s chute jammed as he sat upon the ornery steed, and before the cowhands could get the gate free, Nasty Habit bucked Frank onto the steel rails with his hand still wrapped to the leather saddle horn on the horse’s back. Both cowboy and horse fought to get free, and both came off for the worse. Frank went to the hospital to have his shoulder shoved back in its socket, his broken nose realigned, a steel rod inserted in his left leg, a cast put on his wrist, and enough stitches sewn on him to make Frankenstein envious.
Nasty Habit wasn’t so fortunate.
Frank turned in his spurs soon after, and his next news mention was a short notice in the Spokane Review when he graduated from the police academy with a special mention for being top marksman.
Before Frank reaches his chair, I order the house specialty combination platter f
or two, another glass of Greek wine, and an O’Doul’s.
Frank sits with a weary sigh.
I open with, “So what can you tell me about the late Mr. Chino?”
Frank growls.
“Easy, Frank. If we don’t talk business, I can’t write this off.”
“You’re buying?”
I find the incredulity in his voice surprisingly hurtful. I may not be wealthy, but I try not to be cheap. Then again, my skin is normally much thicker. I blame lack of sleep.
“If you’re talking,” I volley back, just a touch off my usual pace.
“Off the record?”
“Mostly. The public doesn’t care about your opinions, but if you hand me some useful facts, I’ll use ’em.”
He nods and places a red cloth napkin on his lap, tucking one corner into his waistband.
“There isn’t much to tell. The apartment was clean.”
“Clean?”
“Clean, clean. No signs of a struggle, no signs of a break-in, front door was locked when the officers arrived, and there’s nothing to indicate anyone but the victim was ever there.”
“Sounds too clean,” I say.
Frank’s mouth twitches. “OK, for a single guy living alone, the apartment did appear a little too spotless. But before you jump to any conclusions, he had a maid in once a week. Yesterday was her regular day. She was there just a few hours before he ventilated his skull.”
Frank stops as the waitress brings our drinks.
I hand her my empty glass and take a generous sip from the fresh one. It is sharp, cold, and pleasantly bitter, though sadly not as good as the first glass. It never is.
“Why kill himself after the maid left?” I ask. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to kill yourself the night before? That way, your body gets discovered when the maid arrives and you’re not rotting around for a week. I mean really, yech, nobody likes to leave an ugly corpse, right?”
“The guy was checking out, what does he care who finds him?”
“Suicide tends not to be spontaneous. You know that. Depressed people plan their deaths, often meticulously.”
“Exactly.” Frank’s grin widens. “And you don’t get any more meticulous than spraying your brains over a signed canvas and sending a suicide note to your art dealer, do you?” He snaps his fingers. “See! He arranged it so the art clown would be first on the scene. He wanted to make sure no one messed with his grisly work of art, especially not a maid.”
Frank dumps his bottled beer into a tall, frosted glass. Not being a connoisseur, he doesn’t tip the glass for a smooth pour. I sip my wine, feeling depressed.
“By the way,” Frank adds, “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d be upset, but since you’re already there—”
“You’re leaving me for another?” I quip dryly.
Frank rolls his eyes. “No, they did the autopsy earlier this morning.”
“Shit, Frank. I asked you to get me an invite.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But by the time I found out, the coroner was nearly done.”
“I thought you had to be there to witness it.”
“Usually the investigating officer is notified, but because this isn’t looking suspicious, no one saw the need.”
I grunt my displeasure. “Did they find anything?”
“I haven’t seen the report yet, and the screens are still in progress, but I’m told there were minute traces of cocaine under his right index finger and in his nasal passage.”
“Nasal passage!” I say loudly. “How in hell did they find a nasal passage? His face was splattered from floor to ceiling.”
Frank chokes on his O’Doul’s, the splutter making people at nearby tables turn to stare.
“People are trying to eat, Dix,” Frank wheezes when he gets his breath back.
“Well … it’s a legitimate question.”
Frank’s eyes dance with mirth. “The coroner is a woman of many talents, kid. One of which is identifying chunks of flesh and telling us what they used to be. In fact, she’s probably the only one on the force who can actually tell her ass from a hole in the ground.”
“Sounds like love.”
“Fuck you.”
I laugh as the indignant and slightly embarrassed look on Frank’s leathered face brings me out of my doldrums. Methinks the coroner has definitely caught Frank’s eye.
“Can your lady friend tell if a person had asthma?” I ask.
“Probably, why?”
“Diego may have been asthmatic.”
“So?”
“If he had asthma, why would he snort cocaine? Wouldn’t a drug like that cause an attack?”
“If you were going to blow your brains out, would you worry about an asthma attack?”
He has a point.
“Besides,” Frank continues, “how do you know he had asthma?”
“I found an inhaler in his medicine cabinet.”
“You went back to his apartment?” His tone is disapproving.
“Sure,” I reply. “The police don’t consider it a crime scene. It’s a nice apartment in a nice neighborhood.”
“One you can’t afford.”
I stab myself in the heart with an invisible knife. “That hurts, Frank. Really.”
The lunch platter arrives loaded with moussaka, dolmades, spanakopita, calamari, souvlaki, and Greek meatballs. We immediately split it onto our oven-warmed plates and begin to devour the feast. Before the waitress leaves us alone, I order another glass of wine and a second O’Doul’s.
“When do you think you’ll see the autopsy report?” I mumble, my mouth stuffed with béchamel cream and savory ground lamb.
Frank shrugs. “Depends on the drug screens. The morgue is a busy place.”
He turns his attention to the shoulder chop in his hand and busily scrapes the blackened fat onto his tongue with eager teeth.
“Did you interview any of Diego’s neighbors?” I continue.
“Just the woman on the ground floor.”
“Millie?”
Frank cocks an eyebrow, but lets it go.
“You planning to go back?” I ask.
“Haven’t you been listening? The case is closed. Hell, it’s not even my case anymore. The Commish told me to forward the paperwork to Northern and let them tie a bow on it. I’ve got other cases.”
“Since when does Vanmoore do you favors?”
Frank shrugs again.
“You think there’s something there he didn’t want you finding out?” I ask.
“Christ!” Frank drops his chop and his hand snakes out to grab my drinking arm, spilling a spoonful of wine onto the white tablecloth. “OK, I don’t like people telling me how to handle an investigation, Dix, but this one is cut and dry. Northern is welcome to it. Let it go.”
He releases my arm.
“Fair enough,” I say. “New topic.”
The waitress returns with our drinks. I down the rest of my wine and hand her the empty glass. When she leaves, I lift my fresh glass and sip, enjoying the sensation of chilled grape mingling with warm garlic in my mouth.
“So what do you think about the signature on the blood painting?” I ask. “Genuine or forged?”
Despite himself, Frank chuckles. “You’re as stubborn as a Brahma bull I used to know.”
We eat the rest of our lunch with chitchat about the ’Niners, Sharks, and Giants. When the bill comes, I pay. Just as we’re getting ready to leave, another thought creeps into my head and immediately escapes my mouth.
“Do you know who turned the air conditioner off in the apartment?” I ask.
Frank sighs. “It was on when I left. The only people still there were Vanmoore and McInty, the chief from Northern. They probably
switched it off when they left.”
“How green of them,” I say.
Frank chuckles. “Yeah, a right pair of toads.”
Nine
Frank drops me at the block-long Ghirardelli sign with its white neon letters dancing above the open-air plaza. Ghirardelli Square is your typical tourist trap with a gorgeous view of San Francisco Bay. But unlike some others, the bright boutiques, galleries, strolling minstrels, and fresh-seafood restaurants add a touch of class to the clutter of tacky T-shirt and postcard booths.
With a few minutes to spare until my two o’clock “appointment,” I drop into the landmark chocolate factory to buy a small square of Ghirardelli peppermint dark. It’s the closest thing they have to a breath mint and tastes deliciously decadent, even if it can’t quite disguise my garlicky Greek lunch.
The entrance to Stellar Gallery is all stainless steel and clean glass with Adamsky originals on display behind virtually every pane. The plaza’s unobtrusive coral stone pathways and bleached sand walls heighten the art’s whimsical abstract designs and iridescent colors.
I dig out the Polaroid that Frank had given me and hold it up to the paintings in the window. It’s tough to tell from the small image, but the one Diego hid under his mattress seems more brooding, with thicker brush strokes and darker tones than the ones on display.
I’ve discovered from numerous interviews over the years that a lot of creative people dance around the edges of mental illness. Periods of mania when they produce some of their brightest and most colorful work are often followed by tortured bouts of dark depression. The most famous artists, writers, poets, and musicians also tend to be the ones who, often at their peak, slip off the edge and plummet into the bottomless depths of the illness.
I wonder if that is what Diego was trying to hide under his mattress, something only another artist might notice: Adamsky’s encroaching dark side. But if so, why? What’s his connection to the reclusive Portuguese artist?
I return the snapshot to my pocket and push through the over-sized glass doors to the gallery. Inside, the showroom is alive with art. The explosion of color, shape, and form combine with an icy blast of conditioned air to make me feel disconnected from my body for a second. That third glass of wine doesn’t help either. I usually know to limit myself to two at lunch, but visiting Diego’s shook me up more than I care to admit.
