In the Wrong Hands, стр. 23

“Earl! You okay back there!?”

The sound behind the curtain repeated, followed by a muffled “yup.”

“Mr. Avery, you are not in any trouble.  We think you might be able to answer some questions we have regarding a new case.  That’s all.”

“Well, okay then.  Earl!  Out front!  I’m going to be up in the studio for a while! …Earl!”

They took the stairs up two stories to Avery’s studio.  The room showed him to dabble in several mediums.  Only the tools of his trade were visible.  Everything else was covered.  Avery pulled out three chairs from the organized clutter and offered seats to his visitors.

“It’s not the Ritz, but it’s the only way I can be sure we won’t be disturbed.  And, please, it’s Wallace.”

Everyone sat and things began. The detectives minced no words explaining why they were there.  Upon hearing, Avery leapt to his feet with an unbecoming yelp.  Lynch put up a hand.

“Calm down, Wallace.  Like I said…”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, you just blew my mind a little bit.  I mean, with what I do, I generally don’t associate with the most strait-laced of characters, but Jesus!  What do you think a bishop’s murder has to do with me?”

Gomez produced a copy of the security camera capture.  Lynch pointed out the trench coat and started to put forth the theory regarding its connection to Avery’s painting.  By his eyes, however, the artist had filled in the gaps himself.

“Follow me, detectives.”

He led them down to the second floor, which was reserved for more exclusive showings and, Lynch supposed, the occasional orgy.  As they stepped onto the carpet, Lynch couldn’t help but wonder what sort of DNA it contained.  He pictured Gomez hitting it with a black light and saying “Now that’s what I call art.”  There was only one painting in the room.  It was on a covered three-by-five landscape canvas and hanging on the wall to their right.  Avery unceremoniously removed the sheet to reveal his most famous work.

“Here it is:  The Unjudged.”

Lynch and Gomez instinctively stepped forward in unison for a closer look.  Avery, dust cover in hand, took position behind them.

“Want to hear a secret?”

“We’d love to hear a secret.”

“I just wanted to paint some boobies.”

Lynch waited for Avery to elaborate, but the artist (and his ego) would not continue unless asked.

“Boobies?”

“No, really.  One afternoon, strictly for my own amusement, I got the urge to paint three perfect pairs of breasts.  What do you think?  I truly outdid myself, didn’t I?”

He got no answer.  He didn’t really want one.

“Then I said to myself ‘screw self-amusement.  These must be seen.’  The problem was my particular circle wouldn’t accept boobies alone.  I had to give them context.”

“And this was the result?”

“The creative process is an organic one.  The brush hits the canvas and starts moving from the center outwards.  One thought begets another and another.  Hopefully they line up into one stream of consciousness.  By the will of the muses and a little luck, in the end, you find yourself looking at a whole.  We create our own truths.”

“So, all that stuff about the high point of our existence, and the burden of adulthood was all made-up?”

Lynch wanted to say “bullshit,” but it would have been discourteous.

“You mean bullshit? Not entirely.  But as far as the original inspiration for the work…boobies.”

Avery was a talker.  Lynch knew he was going to walk out of that gallery with twice as many answers as he had questions.

The artist introspectively worked his way through the painting’s images.  Julie was on point with all but the symbols on the robes.

“I had an intern with Theban tattoos.  I can’t remember her name.  She didn’t last long.  Few do.  Anyway, I needed an authentic yet unfamiliar unifying symbol, and it was the first thing that came to mind.”

Avery strode between the detectives and re-covered his masterpiece.  He turned and continued his train of thought with folded hands and a shrug.

“So, detectives, getting back to the gentleman in your photo, I’ve never seen him, and therefore have drawn no inspiration from him.  If he drew any from me, it would have been due to a gross misinterpretation of my work.”

The artist looked beyond the detectives, and inexplicably locked a stare on the far wall.  When it came to arty-farties, Lynch could never tell how much of the persona was forced and how much was natural.  Either way, he found their pensive little trances tiresome.  The only thing worse was the weird half-schizo little tone they took when they snapped out of it.  Avery did not fail to deliver.

“Which reminds me…where are my manners?  I never offered you coffee.  We’re completely set up here.  I can make lattes if you…”

Avery turned back towards the stairs.  For the first time, Lynch viewed the area behind where they had entered.  On the wall under the stairs were some pieces from a partially dismantled display.  The pieces, however, were not paintings.  They were photographs.  His memory was stimulated.  The situation may not have rung such a loud bell had Avery not mentioned lattes.  He reached into his jacket pocket for the picture of Samuel.  Thanks to Kelly, he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask.

“I think he mentioned running errands for a photographer, but that was a couple years ago.”

“Mr. Avery, have you ever seen this man?”

Avery barely gave the photo a glance.

“No.  Don’t think so.”

“Can you take another look, please?  It would have been maybe two years ago.”

Lynch handed Avery the picture.  The artist glanced again and handed it back dismissively.  After all, his life was faces.  He knew them well.  If he didn’t recognize the guy, he didn’t recognize the guy.  He could stare at it all day, and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“I’m afraid not, detective.”

This paint jockey schmuck wasn’t going to make it easy.

“Okay.  Thanks for looking.”

“Wait a minute.”

Avery pulled the photo back to his face.  His expression changed.

“This is Matthew.”

“Matthew?”

“I didn’t recognize him at first.  When he worked for me, he was