Mississippi 3 - Dead Sleep by Greg Iles

Author:Greg Iles
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-05-08T03:22:08+00:00

“Do I look like I just made a million bucks to you?”

“Your paintings reveal a predilection for violence,” says Lenz.

“Who the hell are you?”

“This is Doctor Lenz, Leon,” says Kaiser. “You speak to him with respect, or you’ll be funding the Vaseline concession at Angola. That’s the only real self-help program that means anything there.”

Gaines says nothing.

“The artist painting these pictures doesn’t sign his work. But we’ve found some rare sable brush hairs in the paint on some of them. Sound familiar?”

There’s a pause as Gaines works it out. “It’s those expensive brushes Wheaton got us. Right?”

“Right.”

“You tracked brush hairs from Hong Kong to Tulane?”

“That’s what we do, Leon. We can track pubic hairs from an Algiers whorehouse to your ass if we need to. I want some answers. You waste five seconds of my time, you’re on your way up Highway Sixty-one.”

Gaines says nothing.

“Where were you three nights ago, after the opening at the museum?”

“Right here.”

“Can anybody verify that?”

“Linda!” Gaines yells, clipping the mike Lenz is wearing.

There’s a pause; then Kaiser says, “Ms. Knapp?”

“Who’s asking?” says a scratchy female voice.

“I’m with the FBI. Could you tell us-”

“Tell these guys we were here after the NOMA thing,” Gaines cuts in. “They don’t believe me.”

“Shit,” mutters Baxter.

“That’s right,” the woman says. “We came straight home. I was bored. Everybody thinks they’re hot shit at those art things. We were here all night.”

“Can anyone else confirm that?” asks Kaiser.

“No,” says Gaines. “We were having some quality time, you know?”

“Right,” Kaiser says wearily.

“That’s all,” Gaines says, dismissing his girlfriend as he would a waitress.

“She your steady alibi, Leon?” asks Kaiser.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me about Roger Wheaton.”

“What about him?”

“Why did you want into his program?”

“Roger’s the man.”

“What do you mean?”

“He does his thing and doesn’t give two shits what anybody thinks about it. And because he’s done that his whole life, he’s now a rich and famous man.”

“You want to be rich and famous too, Leon?”

“Whatever.”

“Do you like Wheaton?”

“What’s to like or not like? The guy paints, that’s it.”

“Do you respect him?”

“The guy’s dying, but he keeps working and he doesn’t bitch. I respect that. You see the piece he’s doing now? The room thing?”

“Yes.”

“It’s tearing him up, doing that. He’s got all kinds of joint problems. His tendons or something.”

“Enthesopathies,” Lenz says.

“Whatever. He has to climb that ladder and sit there for hours, holding his neck in one position. It’s worse than the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo had scaffolding, so he could lay on his back, you know? And Wheaton’s hands… Sometimes his fingers turn blue, man. Blue. First white, then blue, sometimes even kind of black. There’s no blood going to them, and he can’t paint or anything else. It’s agony. But he just sits down and waits until it stops, then goes right back to work.”

“You clearly respect him,” says Lenz. “And I suspect you don’t give respect easily.”

“You got that right. I think Roger saw a lot of shit in the war. He’s got wisdom, and he knows how to pass it on.

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