“A bum.”
“Long hair and a beard. Mr. Critic said he had some ‘primitive talent.’ Said the same thing the gallery owner did—representation’s not his thing. Which I guess means in the art world, if you know how to draw, you suck.”
“So why’d he go to Tollrance’s show?”
“Cuuuuurious. Intriiiiigued. Couldn’t even get out of him how he found out about the show. Maybe Tollrance faxed him an announcement, maybe not. He said there hadn’t been much of a crowd, no one buying. He never heard from Tollrance again, has no idea what happened to the paintings.”
“Well, we know where one is,” I said. “A bearded bum could be the same guy Mrs. Krohnfeld chased away. Could be Donny Salcido Mate.
“It crossed my mind,” he said.
“Any idea where Donny was at the time of the show?
“No, but it wasn’t prison. He didn’t get busted till four months later.”
“His mother said by then he was living on the street,” I said. “He could’ve drifted east, ended up in Colorado, found himself a vacant building to pursue his art. Funny, his mother never mentioned any talent. Then again, she didn’t want to talk about him at all.”
“I called her at the motel. She checked out yesterday. You’re thinking Donny painted Daddy getting sliced up, then maybe decided to act it out?”
“The paintings could’ve been yet another attempt to establish a bond with Daddy. Selling himself. Maybe he tried to show off to Mate and got rebuffed again.
“Why deliver the painting to the gallery?”
“He’s an artist. He wants recognition. And look at the painting he delivered. All the others were straight portraits of Mate. The Anatomy Lesson put Mate on the dissecting table.”
“Look what I did to Daddy. Showing off.
Just like the note. And the broken stethoscope.
“On the other hand,” he said, “Tollrance could just be another starving artist, and this is a pure publicity stunt—taking advantage of Mate’s murder to breathe some life into a dead career. If so, it worked—here he is on the front page, making my life difficult. If he shows up tomorrow on TV with an agent and a publicist, scratch the whole psychological scenario.”
“Maybe,” I said. “This is L.A. But if he doesn’t surface, that says something, too.”
Three beats of silence. “Meanwhile, the painting’s resting comfortably in our evidence room. Care to see it?
Sure,” I said. “Representation is my thing.”
CHAPTER 17
“Nor HALF BAD, but no Rembrandt,” I said.
Milo ran his finger along the top of the canvas. We were in the Robbery-Homicide room, second story at West L.A. Half a dozen detectives hunched at their desks, a few sidelong stares as Milo propped the painting on his chair.
Zero Tollrance’s masterpiece was all browns and blacks and muted light, just the merest wash of pink where the left arm of the man on the dissecting table had been reduced to tendons and ligaments.
Cadaver with the fussy, soft face of Eldon Mate. Even Tollrance’s middling talent made that clear. Seven men, extravagantly robed and ruffed and goateed, surrounded the dissecting table, gazing down at the corpse with academic detachment. The dissector—another Mate—was clad in a black robe, white lace collar, tall black hat, probing the shredded arm with a scalpel, wearing a look of boredom.
In the original, the artist’s genius had distracted from the cruelty of the scene. Tollrance’s cartoon drove it home. Angry swirling brushstrokes, pigments laid on thickly to the point of impasto, sharp peaks of paint stabbing up from the surface of the canvas.
A smallish canvas—twenty-four by eighteen inches. I’d expected something far more grand.
Reducing Mate to size?
Milo lifted a stack of message slips, let them fall to the desk in disarray. “Kugler, the art dealer, has been bugging me all day. All of a sudden, he likes realism.”
“Probably got an offer,” I said. “Same guy who’ll pay big bucks for a stained blue dress.”
Phones rang, keys clicked, someone laughed. The room smelled of scorched coffee and gym sweat. “Got sleazeball talk shows wanting to interview me, too. And a six A.M. memo from the brass reminding me to keep my mouth shut.”