Art In The Blood

"So WHAT DID you think of the higher arts?" I asked as Bobbi finished off the last of her steamed vegetables.

"Not so high. It's a business, just like everything else. But I'm not saying that's bad. Artists have to eat, you know, speaking of which, thanks for supper."

We were in Mailman's, one of Escott's favorite haunts. It was a fancy place with potted palms and a staff that, in their bright uniforms, looked like fugitives from a Russian opera. Though the greatness of its food was forever lost to me, it was still a hell of a good place to impress one's girlfriend.

Bobbi did proper justice to her meal, which somewhat compensated things for our waiter. To keep from insulting him or the chef, I said I'd eaten earlier and pretended to nurse a cup of coffee.

"Sure you don't want a bite?" She offered a forkful dripping in rich sauce.

My throat constricted. "Not of that, no."

"You don't eat anything?"

"'Fraid not."

She caught the look on my face. "Have I said the wrong thing?"

"Not you, sweetheart, you've a right to ask questions. I just don't know if this is a private enough place for me to answer them."

"You really think anyone here would take it seriously?"

"Why take chances?"

"Okay." She shrugged and changed the subject. "What was t hat talk you and Evan had in the kitchen?"

"I was just letting him know some of his financial worries were over." I explained about the roughhouse with Dimmy Wallace's boys the night of the party. "Now you know why Sandra and Evan were camping out with Alex."

"How did you get the shark off his back?"

"I talked to Gordy about it and he did all the hard work. Guess I owe him a favor now."

"Maybe. He might not collect."

"Yeah? Why not?"

"Because of all that business with Slick. I think he still feels had about slugging you around."

"I never felt a thing."

She didn't look convinced.

"Honest, he hardly laid a hand on me."

"Now you're sounding like Evan."

"Let's hope he's not catching. What were all those paintings like that Alex showed you?"

"It's hard to say, you just have to see them. He had everything: mountains, cities, there were dozens of portraits that he'd done for magazines-really famous people."

"And now you're going to be one of them."

"You think having Alex Adrian do my portrait will make me famous?"

"More likely the other way around."

"Why, thanks! But he's already famous."

"And he hasn't worked since January. Sabbaticals like that can ruin a career. You have to keep producing or risk being forgotten."

"Not this guy. His stuff ought to be in a book or something. With someone like him I'll bet hundreds of galleries would I imp at the chance to exhibit his work."

"Maybe you can mention it to him during your sittings. Who you taking along for moral support?"

"You were my first choice."

I nodded a modest acknowledgment of my status with her. "And your second?"

"Probably Marza."

"You sure she won't curdle his creative process?"

"She's okay, except where you're concerned."

"Tell me what I've done this time."

"Nothing, as usual. Once Marza has an idea lodged in her head about someone, it's impossible to get it out."

I waved a playful fist. "I know a great way to-

"It's a lost cause. Jack. She'll either have to get used to you or lump it."

"Lump it," I concluded. "Is it just me or does she hate all men?"

"Well, there's Madison, but I suppose he's so tied up with his politics he doesn't really count. She's not really a man hater, she just hasn't met a nice guy yet."

And with her attitude it seemed likely she never would. Where Marza was concerned, charity was not one of my stronger virtues.

"I think I'll ask Penny instead of Marza," she said thoughtfully. "She's a giggler with nothing in her head but clothes talk, but meeting Alex Adrian might keep her subdued."

"She's the skinny redhead I met at your house warming?"

"Slender. And yes, that's her. You've got a good memory."

"She nearly dropped her drink on me. I tend to keep track of potential disasters.

Just keep her from tipping Alex's paints over, he's got a temper."

"I don't doubt it."

"Why's that?"

"When he was showing me his canvases he came across a portrait of a woman and sort of froze. It was like I was next to a block of ice and I could feel the cold coming off him."

"And you think it was anger?"

She nodded. "Then he shook out of it, shoved the painting back, and brought out something else as though nothing had happened. I wanted to ask him about it, but it wouldn't have been polite, so I pretended not to have noticed. He was aware of it, too; damn social games."

"A portrait, you said?"

"I think it was his wife."

"Why?"

"Just a feeling from the way he acted. It's like those times when you say Charles can read your mind."

Escort was no swami, he just had his own method for figuring out people by the way they talked and moved. It was all based on deliberate and analytical observation and could sometimes be pretty spooky if you're not used to it. Bobbi wasn't as scientific minded, but I could put as much stock in her intuition as Escort's logic.

Both were pretty reliable.

The evening ended very pleasantly at Bobbi's and I almost didn't need the elevator to float down to the lobby and out the door. The euphoria was enough that I hardly noticed the ghost-town streets during my leisurely drive to Chicago's huge library. I parked under one of the multi-globed lamps and made a cautious sweep of the area for watchers. The last thing I needed was a beat cop taking notice.

Things were clear and I slipped inside. Literally. Vampirism has disadvantages, but sometimes it can be fun. The whole place was mine, no interruptions, no distractions; all I had to do was remember to get home before dawn, which was hours away yet.

I headed for the newspaper section and located their morgue, searching out all the editions from the previous January. They were very informative about the usual New Year's celebrations and stories on the first babies born after midnight.

The Celia Adrian suicide made the front page on the afternoon of the third.

Details were sparse: her husband, the famous painter and magazine illustrator, Alex Adrian, had found her slumped in their car in their closed garage early that morning. The car had apparently been started and left to run until the gas was gone, but by then it was long over. He'd called an ambulance, but efforts to revive her were futile; she'd been dead for some hours.

It gave a few more crumbs about Adrian's career and that was all-no hint of suicide, much less murder.

ADRIAN TURNS VIOLENT! screamed the next day's paper. On the surface the story was of a man so beside himself with strong emotion that it came boiling out onto the streets of his peaceful neighborhood with an attempt to assault a member of the press.

Read between the lines: the reporter had gotten too nosy and Adrian had kicked him out the door.

A day later in one of the tabloids was a picture of Adrian and Celia with the headline question: is THIS THE PORTRAIT OF A KILLER? The story went on to report again on Celia's death, with heavy emphasis on innuendo. Adrian was not available for comment, the police were keeping quiet, and there was a possibility of further startling developments in the case. The question in the headline was clarified down at the end of the article as they puzzled over the tragedy of Celia Adrian and why she may have killed herself. There was no by-line, which was hardly a surprise.

It was an unfortunate piece, escalating things enough so that the more respectable papers noticed and joined in on the smear. A story on the coroner's report appeared in one, most of it padding. Celia Adrian had died on January 3, between the hours of midnight and four A.M., of asphyxiation caused by carbon monoxide exhaust from her car. The note found beside her on the car was such as to indicate that she had killed herself. No other evidence was available to the contrary, but the tabloid strongly suggested that the police were being lax in their duty. Later I found an editorial with the theme of there being a different kind of justice for the rich and famous as opposed to the poor and oppressed. Stirring stuff, but not so noble when in conjunction with their apparent campaign against Adrian.

There was one last story a day later on Adrian's house being the focus of an innocent prank by some schoolchildren. It vaguely alluded to a broken window that may have been the result of an off-course baseball and condemned Adrian for wasting the resources of the police department in calling their assistance to the scene. This one had a by-line, somebody named Barb Steler, which I noted down before looking for more of her work.

Yesterday's tabloid carried her name, so it wouldn't be too hard to find her, something I had an inclination to do. I wanted to know why she had it in for Adrian.

Flipping back to the screamer headline, I studied the grainy shadows of the photo. It was obviously a file shot, taken a at some social function. Adrian was in a tuxedo, the woman next to him wore a shiny evening gown. Celia had a model's aristocratic face; short, light hair; and beautiful, searching eyes. I tried to see if there was a hint of self-destruction in them, but whatever I saw was inevitably my projection onto her. This was a picture in a newspaper, not a crystal ball or even a mirror.

The tabloid offices were larger than I'd expected, but it probably took a large and imaginative staff to keep their pages Tilled with more than ads for invisible lifts and rejuvenating face creams. It was getting late, but there was still a skeleton crew working the phones and typing up tomorrow's scandals. At the receptionist's desk a large man with a morose, leathery face noticed me come in and stopped eating his horse burger long enough to ask what I wanted.

"I'm looking for Barb Steler."

"Gotta 'pointment?"

"Get serious, at this hour?"

"Then why try here?"

"Thought she might be working late."

"Maybe, but not this shift. Tomorrow she might be in."

"I want to find her now."

"You got that in common with a lot of guys, but I can't help you." He sounded all broken up about it, heaving a sigh and giving me the bracing benefit of the raw onions in his dinner. He made it easier by looking me square in the eye, daring me to start something.

smiled and leaned in closer. "Listen to me, this is very important..."

Like I said, sometimes it can be fun. A minute later I had Barb Steler's home address straight from their personnel files and the advice that she wouldn't be there, but in a boozer down the street called Marty's.

"What's she look like?"

"You'll know her. Only real broad in the joint."

I thanked the man and told him to go back to his meal and forget he ever saw me.

He did so, and by the time he shook it enough to be able to notice me again I was out the door.

Marty's was a dark, comfortable place, and its proximity to the tabloid offices must have made it the main watering hole for the workers there. One of the deep, padded leather booths was loaded with a group swapping lies over their drinks. I could tell they were newsmen a mile off because I used to do the same thing. A big brown case on the floor identified at least one of them as a photographer. They'd sooner be hanged than part with their Speed Graphics, on or off duty.

I was about to ask the bartender for help when I saw Barb Steler. Her co-worker had been right when he said I'd know her, and it wasn't just because she was the only woman in the place. No mental image I had conjured would have fit the reality.

She was in the booth with the boys, blowing cigarette smoke with the best and holding her own in the conversation. She wore a severely tailored suit, a mannish hat, and a worldly expression. Her bronze eyes were very large and predatory rather than vulnerable. Her skin was the palest I'd ever seen, but didn't look unhealthy. It set off her short jet black hair and generous bright red mouth.

I must have been gaping; she saw me and those seeking eyes flicked up and down and then turned to one of her party.

"Friend of yours, Taylor?" she drawled in a husky voice that could carry. She had meant it to do so.

Taylor gave me a once-over and shook his head. "You got a problem, buddy?"

"Barb Steler?" I said, making it less of a question than a statement. I ignored Taylor because I hate drunks.

"Give the kid a nickel," said Taylor, and got a chorus of approval from the audience.

"Who wants to know?" she asked.

"My name's Jack Fleming and I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

"You and half of Chicago," added Taylor. More hilarity.

"About what?" There was a hint of a smile, but it was a distant hint.

"I'd rather not say." Weak, but it was the best bait I could come up with under the circumstances. The way I'd said it indicated I had something interesting to tell and that she might not want to share it with her gin-soaked colleagues.

She tilted her head to one side, studying me with amusement. I studied her right back and she didn't seem to mind.

Taylor got impatient at all the eye play. "Ya want us to throw the bum out, Barb?"

This didn't speed up her decision; she'd already made it by then, but it did give her an excuse to act. She gestured with one hand, the way queens do when they wave at their subjects, and damned if every one of the guys there didn't give way to it. Two of them made haste to clear the booth so she could slide out.

I expected her to be tall; it had to do with her long, graceful neck and the way she moved. Again, I thought of royalty.

The boys were watching us with some resentment. She knew it but left the next move to me. I tried a cool but polite smile and nodded at some empty booths at the far end of the joint. She matched the smile and preceded me slowly, giving me plenty of time to evaluate the body under the suit. There wasn't a thing wrong with it.

She eased into a booth and I took the other side, facing her.

"Drink?" she asked.

"What would you like?"

"It was an offer, not a request."

"Thanks, but I'll take a rain check. You need anything?"

"Not to drink, no. What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Mr. Fleming?"

"Last January did you cover the story on Celia Adrian's suicide?"

"Among others. Why do you ask?"

"I was interested in why your paper maintained that it might not have been suicide."

The amusement spread from her huge eyes down to her mouth. She had absolutely perfect teeth. "Because a simple suicide does not sell papers."

"And courting a libel suit does?"

"Of course." Her cigarette burned out and she made a point of thoroughly crushing the butt in the table ashtray. "Now, why are you so interested in such old news? Surely you're not a lawyer?"

"No, I'm a journalist. I'm working on a book about famous unsolved cases and I thought the Adrian thing might be something to look into."

"It sounds very ambitious."

"It fills in the time."

"What paper do you work for?"

I gave her the name. "Except I don't work for them anymore. I came into a legacy, decided to quit and go free-lance." It was the truth, more or less. I was a crummy liar.

"Aren't you the lucky one? That's a New York paper... Why are you out here?"

"Because this is where the story happened. What can you tell me about it that didn't get past the editor?"

She made a business of lighting another cigarette and blowing the smoke from her nose. It was quite leisurely and gave her plenty of time to think. "Very little, really. It was a fairly simple case, as I remember, but this was months ago. You probably know more about what I wrote than I do if you've been into the old files."

"I guess so, but that's not quite the same as listening to someone who's been there. What were your impressions of Alex Adrian?"

"The husband? He hardly left any."

Somehow it was oddly comforting to know I wasn't the only bad liar in the world.

Her answer complicated things, but I had all night. "Too bad, I was really interested in hearing something solid. I guess I can check the police records tomorrow."

"Yes, there's always tomorrow, isn't there?" She was smiling again and part of me felt like a lone fish in a shark tank.

"I suppose I should leave you and let you get back to your friends."

"They can wait, Mr. Fleming."

"My name is Jack."

"I know, and mine is Barb." She locked those wonderful eyes onto mine again.

This opened things up for a little flirting, but not much-she was a very decisive woman. She stood up soon after and went back to the boys long enough to toss a dollar on the table to cover her drink, and we left together.

"Think she'll let this one live out the night?" Taylor muttered to the others as the door closed behind us.

The pretext we'd established between ourselves was for me to give her a ride home. We walked to my car and I helped her in; it was all very formal and polite. I never liked playing games like that, but this time I didn't mind because I wanted her information.

She had a nice apartment in a nice building. Thankfully she didn't pause at the door for more games on whether she should let in me or not. She opened it and let me make up my own mind and smiled again as I let it snick shut behind me.

"I suppose you think I'm fast?" she said, tugging at the lingers of her black kid gloves. She tossed the empties onto a chair along with her purse and hat.

"I think you know what you want," I returned.

She vanished into the kitchen and I heard the clink of ice on glass. When she came out the top few buttons of her coat were undone, revealing a little more milk white skin. Her very short hair and the harsh lines of her suit perversely emphasized her femininity. It was the same kind of effect Marlene Dietrich got in a tuxedo.

She handed me a glass heavy with ice and bourbon. "Bottoms up?"

It was less a toast than an invitation. She sipped, watching me over the rim, then eased onto her couch and watched me some more. I let my lips touch the edge of the glass and was hard put to hide the spasm of rejection my stomach sent up.

"You don't have to have it if you don't like it." Innuendo was her specialty.

"Thanks." I placed it on a low table and sat next to her. We weren't quite touching.

She put down her drink and rested her arm along the back of the couch, her fingers lightly rubbing the fabric of my coat. "You know, most men your age would either be all over me at this point or rushing out the door in a desperate attempt to preserve their virtue."

"Which do you prefer?"

"Neither, that's why you're here. You act older than you look."

"Maybe I am."

"Are you really a journalist?"

"Not anymore."

"Perhaps you thought by coming here I might talk a little more freely about Alex Adrian?"

I laughed a little. "Not much gets past you."

"No, indeed. I'm afraid you'll find me quite useless, as I've nothing to tell you.

Nothing at all."

We had moved closer together somehow. "That's too bad."

Her mouth curled. "What would your girlfriend think if she saw you like this?"

"Who says I've got a girlfriend?"

"I do. I can smell her perfume on you. Winter Rose. It's very expensive."

She pressed the length of her body against mine, and I won't lie and say she wasn't having her effect on me. My symptoms were familiar enough: tunnel vision, heightened hearing and smell, and of course my upper canines were pushing themselves out of their retractable pockets. Mixed in with Bobbi's perfume and Barb's perfume was the all-too-tantalizing scent of blood. I stopped breathing but couldn't shut out its soft rumble as it surged through the veins in her throat.

She sensed at least part of what was happening to me and brought her lips around to cover mine. It lasted only an instant and left the possibility open for more if I wished it. I did, but pulled back.

"You don't have to do this."

She smiled with infinite patience. "How many times do I have to convince a man that it's not a question of 'have to'? I want to and that should be enough. Now lie back and enjoy yourself." And she pushed herself against me a little and started undoing my tie.

I let things go until she stopped to smile at me again. She slipped into it easily; it was so subtle I was only aware she was under by the slightly glazed look in her bronze eyes. Her hands dropped away and her head went sleepily back, drawing the skin tight over her unblemished throat. I stroked it gently, feeling the vein working under my fingers and noting the soft warmth with a great deal of regret.

Getting to my feet, I walked around the living room until things settled down internally. A few gulps of fresh air from an open window helped clear my head and before long my teeth were back in their place again. Barb Steler was one of the most desirable women I'd ever met, and I certainly wanted her, but she wasn't Bobbi and there was no way in the world that I would ever intentionally hurt either of them.

With that firmly in mind I went back to the couch and sat next to her. Her eyes were wide open, but she was asleep, and taking no notice of me now.

"Barb, close your eyes and think back to last January. I want you to tell me about the story you did on Alex Adrian."

Her eyes drifted shut. It was more for my comfort than hers, because I hate that empty look they get.

"Tell me about Alex Adrian."

Her face twisted. "Bastard."

For a second I wondered if she was talking about him or me, but she was still safely under. "Why is he a bastard?"

"He doesn't love me."

I didn't quite whistle. "You love him?"

She made a low noise in her throat. That was one question she didn't want to answer.

"Okay, never mind. Where did you first meet him?"

"Paris."

"When he was a student there?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it."

It took quite a while because I had to prompt her with questions. It was a simple story but she'd buried it down deep.

She was a society deb on a continental tour with some friends when one of them dared her to model for an art class. She took up the dare and so met Alex Adrian, a promising art student. Long after her friends returned to the States she was still living with him in a little hotel on the Left Bank. Things were idyllic, from her point of view at least. There had been talk of marriage for a time, but it had fallen through.

"He didn't really want me," she sighed. "He didn't. It was his art first, always his goddamned art."

Their fights became more frequent as she demanded more attention from him, and he pulled away to concentrate on his studies. She finally left for home, returning to her own study of journalism. She was smart enough and good enough to work for any paper in the country, but preferred the style of her tabloid. She had a lot of venom in her system and it only increased when Adrian returned from New York with his new wife.

I shook my head, not liking my next question. "Do you think he killed her?"

"No..."

"Barb, tell me, did you kill her?"

"No."

"So it was suicide, after all?"

"Yes."

"And all those stories in the paper?"

"He deserved it. He hurt me. Bastard."

From under her closed lids a tear slipped out and trickled down her heart-shaped face. I touched it away.

"You tired, Barb?"

"Yes."

"I don't blame you. I want you to get up and get ready for bed as usual. All right?"

Her eyes opened and, still unaware of me, she walked into her bedroom and began removing her clothes. It took some effort on my part to remember I was a gentleman. I stayed out in the living room until she'd finished her bath and climbed into bed. The springs creaked as she settled into the sheets and pulled up the blanket.

She wore an ice white satin gown that left her shoulders bare and defined her breasts. She didn't see me standing in the doorway, but stared at something next to it. I came into the room. Hanging on the wall was an oil portrait of her. She was younger, her hair was different, but the artist had left no doubt to the world about her beauty. The signature at the bottom was Alex Adrian's.

"Bastard," she whispered.

I walked around the big double bed and pulled back the covers from the empty spot next to her and climbed in, clothes and all. It was the only way I could think of to convincingly leave the impression we'd slept together.

"Barb-"

"Barbara. My full name is Barbara."

I put an arm around her and drew her close so she was leaning against me.

"Barbara."

"Yes?"

"You hide it very well, but you hurt a lot because of him."

"Yes."

"I think you should let go of the hurt, don't you?"

Until she crumpled, I hadn't been aware of the tension in her muscles. I murmured things to her, soft words meant to soothe, and they seemed to work.

When her eyes were dry again, she really was ready to sleep. I shifted position, sitting up and facing her and easing her back onto the pillow.

"You had a good evening, Barbara," I told her. "You don't have to remember talking to me about Adrian, but thinking about him doesn't hurt now. Understand?"

She nodded.

"Now you have a good night's sleep. When you wake up in the morning you'll feel a lot better about things."

The covers rustled as she turned over. I carefully got out of bed and studied the portrait a moment longer before shutting off the light. A minute later I locked her apartment door, slipped out into the hall, and walked quietly downstairs so as not to disturb the other tenants.

The car seemed to make more noise starting than usual, but only because I wanted it not to. I shifted gears gently and drifted down the dark and empty morning streets, my head full of complicated thoughts and feelings. Instead of the road I saw a heart-shaped young face in an expensive frame.

The sad part was that she'd been dead wrong about Adrian; no one could paint a portrait like that and not be in love.