Chapter Nine: "Down for the Count"

There was one more stop before I headed home and hit the sack. I sure hoped there was something in the fridge. I hadn't eaten since lunch and Iris hadn't packed much for herself today. I imagined she was furious to discover I'd stolen her food again. I would've loved to have seen her face when she did.

The Abbott Gallery was uptown in one of the more active hubs of the city. I imagined they were open late since things didn't shut down in that part of town until well past midnight.

The cabbie dropped me off across the street and I paid my fare. I really did wish Mr. Quinn would spend the money to buy the agency another vehicle. These cab prices seemed to go up every day!

There were well-dressed young executive types with beautiful women wearing furs strolling up and down the street, stopping to window shop or enter a club. I tried to avoid most of them and jaywalked across the street at a fast trot.

As I'd suspected, the gallery didn't close until eleven o'clock and there were still a few customers inside. I slipped in amongst them and pretended to be admiring a painting I couldn't quite come to terms with. I read the plaque beneath it for the artist's name: Jackson Pollock. I'd never heard of him before and was pretty sure I wouldn't hear about him ever again. This thing was atrocious! I could paint better than this!

"His talent is volcanic. It has fire. It is unpredictable. It is undisciplined. It spills out of itself in a mineral prodigality, not yet crystallized."

I turned to gaze at the young woman who had stepped up to my side and then smiled. I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Cecelia Vanderpool."

I accepted the fingers-only handshake quietly and turned my head to avoid her cigarette smoke. "Ben Noble."

"It's remarkable, isn't it?"

Frankly, I was hoping Cecelia worked at the gallery and was just making small talk. Perhaps, if I was courteous to her, she'd give me some information in return.

"It's definitely something else," I admitted truthfully while pretending to appreciate the mess in front of me.

"It's on loan from the Guggenheim Estate, of course, but I imagine Peggy would part with it for the right price."

"And what would the right price be?" Surely, she could tell from my wrinkled trench coat and worn-out shoes I probably couldn't afford anything in here.

"Oh, I'd say about $500."

I disguised my shock with a cough and returned to admiring the work of art. I could buy a used car for that much! And a pretty decent one at that!

"It would be a wise investment. I hear the man has a real drinking problem."

So she didn't expect the artist to live much longer? Is that what she was trying to say? I overlooked her rude comment.

"I'll keep that in mind. This piece most definitely causes an internal reaction." Nausea, to name one of them.

"Perhaps you would allow me to show you some other pieces? We have an excellent and affordable painting over here by the artist Renee Magritte."

I followed Cecelia to the other painting, to discover by surprise that this one made much more sense. It was a painting of a tree. Weirdly enough, the moon was in front of the tree and not in the sky, but it looked like a real tree.

"I could let this one go for $100 to the right buyer."

"Over my dead body!"

I spun my head around to see a man walking up to us. No, wait. Maybe it was a woman. It was hard to tell! The voice had been relatively high-pitched, and his or her's outfit for the evening could work for either sex. Was it a dress? Billowing pants, or what?

"Cecelia, darling, I'll take over from here before you start giving things away for free!"

Now that I had a closer look at the person, I could see the shadow of a freshly shaved beard as well as an Adam's apple. This was definitely a man. I think.

"Marlow Abbott. I own this gallery. How do you do?"

I shook a hand that felt more likely a woman's. The skin of it was soft and his grip was weaker than Ami's.

"Ben Noble," I replied. I was disappointed Cecelia had been asked to leave. Now, I had to start all over again.

"I saw that look on your face when I walked up. You're not from around here, are you?"

"Not really," I confessed. "I'm more of a downtown kind of guy."

"So, I see."

Marlow looked my attire over, starting with my feet and ending at my tie.

"What can I help you with this evening? My guess is that you didn't come here to appreciate or buy any art."

At least he was straightforward and honest. I could work with that. I hoped he was courteous as well.

"I need some information on someone you may know: Lucas Solowsky. Does he work here?"

"Lucas? Yes, I know him."

I couldn't understand the undertones I'd heard in his statement or the smile that appeared as soon as he'd said the name.

"Is he working tonight?"

"He doesn't exactly work here," Marlow explained. "Not in the fashion you're expecting."

I wasn't sure what that meant. "In what fashion does he work here?"

"He's one of our resident artists. Here's some of his work right over here."

I followed Marlow to another wall to be introduced to a dark and disturbing depiction of a young man being killed by numerous barbs. They pierced his naked body in several places and blood flowed down his skin in rivers. A dog stood nearby lapping up the blood, and behind the young man was another man holding a sword, only this man had no face. He was but a shadow; a silhouette against a thunderous sky.

"I can tell you understand this depiction quite well. I can see it in your eyes. You know, most artists have difficulties in life. They deal with broken relationships, family rejection, social misunderstandings, or homelessness. They seek a way to express their turmoil. Some achieve that through art while others find their escape in a needle or a bottle."

"What you're basically saying is that Lucas Solowsky has mental issues and this is his way of coping with them?"

Marlow's eyes darted to the side and then back to me. Someone was coming. Great. Now I'd have to start all over again.

"Why don't you ask him that yourself?"

I didn't expect Lucas to approach me. I imagined I would find him here and have to pry him away to talk with him. Instead, he walked up to me, smiling.

"Detective Noble. How nice to see you. What brings you here this evening?"

I'd already wasted enough time in this place. Time to get to the point.

"I need to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

He couldn't have been all that surprised. He was a smart guy. He had to know that eventually I'd find out the truth and track him down.

"Of course. Follow me."

We entered through a brightly painted white door and into darkness. Once my eyes had adjusted to the significantly reduced amount of light back here, I noticed crates lining a wide hall. Each was marked with letters and numbers, though some with dates. I supposed this was their inventory. Apparently, there were a lot of people in this city who felt the need to express themselves. There were a lot of crates back here.

Lucas didn't stop to discuss them, however. He kept walking and swiped a black curtain away from an arched entry. On the other side of that divider was a studio. Easels and paints were strewn about, half-finished art pieces stacked on tables and leaned against chairs. There was a lone horizontal window on the back wall, as well as another door that most likely led to the alley.

"Welcome to my job."

"This is where you work."

I didn't say that as a question. It was obvious this is what Marlow had meant when he'd said Lucas worked here in a different fashion.

"You must be friends with the owner," I guessed as I looked over some of his pieces. I noted that as the dates progressed, his art became more dark and gloomy.

"You can say that. Now, what is it you wanted to talk about?"

I put down a smaller canvas that depicted a decapitated pigeon.

"I want to talk about the murder of your brother, Hank."

"What about it?"

Lucas coolly and calmly picked up a brush and stepped behind the easel to work on something. I couldn't see what it was, not that I wanted to.

"I believe that you went to Hank's apartment that night intending on killing him. Why? Because of blind jealousy."

"Don't be ridiculous," Lucas chuckled. "My life is much better than his. At least I'm not trapped in that dirty, stinking factory all day."

"Well, for one, I don't believe you were jealous of him because of his job. I believe you were jealous of him because of your father. Your father favored Hank, did he not? Treated him special? I imagine he didn't think you were tough enough, not manly enough for a job like that anyway, right? Hank got all the attention, Hank got the job, Hank receives all the praise, and now that Hank is gone, it's all better now, right?"

I was watching Lucas carefully as I spoke. The more I said, the more slowly he painted until he had dropped his brush altogether.

"Wrong," I continued. "Because now, your father is grieving. He'll never love you as much as he loved Hank because now Hank has become a martyr in his eyes. His beloved son was murdered and he'll never get over that. You will never replace your brother. This is a typical Cain and Abel tale."

Green eyes peered at me from behind the canvas. "A what?"

"Oh come on. Didn't you ever read your Bible? Go to Sunday School?" When Lucas didn't signify a positive response, I explained. "It's a story about two brothers: Cain was a farmer and his brother, Abel was a shepherd. When it came time for their sacrifice to God, Abel's was accepted, but Cain's was not. In a jealous rage, Abel killed his brother Cain. It was the first murder to have ever happened on Earth."

Lucas licked his lips and picked up his brush. "That's just a myth and even if it were true, you can't prove anything. I heard mother speaking on the phone the other night. She called you the worst possible detective in the city. She went on to say that we could safely assume that Ashley Tanner will receive the death penalty since you hadn't yet done a thing to help her."

When a wild cat is backed into a corner, they usually come at you with their claws out. I could see Lucas sweating from here.

"There's no need," I replied confidently. "I've got an eyewitness."

Just as the word left my mouth, Lucas glanced at me for a second. I had him against the ropes. Now, time for the knockout punch.

"She heard the gunshots. She saw you leave Hank's apartment. She'll be able to pick you out of a lineup. You're as good as arrested. Why don't you just give yourself up? Maybe the judge will go easier on your sentence if you do."

"You don't know anything." Lucas calmly told me, still taking shelter behind his easel. "Be sure to let Marlow know you're on your way out."

I'd made him uncomfortable and doubted he'd get a good night's sleep tonight. That was good enough for the time being. I'll let him stew on what I'd said for a little while and then return to pester him again. Sooner or later, this nut was going to crack. I just knew it.