“You can see it all in this one,” she said, leading Shephard to one wall that was Bottex-covered. The scene was of an old man and a young girl sitting outside a wooden shed. Serene as the scene was, the canvas vibrated with hot pinks, bright yellows, and rich cinnamon reds.
Sensing his hesitation, Beverly Doan eased Shephard away from the Bottex to another wall featuring smaller paintings done on wood.
“You’ve probably never heard of some of these artists, and you probably never will,” she said matter-of-factly. “They are desperately poor men and women who live in the city and work night and day on their art. I’m biased, of course, but it all has an enchanted quality for me. It speaks of voodoo, poverty, sensuality.” She offered Shephard a quick smile. “But it’s never forlorn or bleak. The Haitians are a happy people and a spiritual people.”
Shephard brought Beverly Doan’s attention to the drab sketches in his hand and felt bad for interrupting her charming enthusiasm. Something as unhappy and dispirited as the search for a killer didn’t seem to fit with the Haitian Experience. She had seen the picture in the Tides and Times, and the face meant nothing to her.
“Think about one anyway,” she finally said. “A little Haiti can brighten up any home in the world.” She took his card with a polite smile and said she’d put him on the mailing list.
He continued, gallery after gallery, sketch after sketch, until the sun had gone down and the city hung in the brief penumbra of pre-darkness. Headlights flashed on, storefronts came alive for the night, traffic thinned, and the heartbeat of the city slowed for dinner, family, friends. The night was warm, and still no breeze had arrived. Shephard noted the last streak of orange over Catalina. He passed St. Cecilia’s Church and glanced in at the burnished silence of the chapel and the dark wooden cross that hung behind the altar. There were flowers and a white-robed father, with his back to Shephard, arranging them. The pews were empty but polished. A short block from the church he found another row of galleries. One specialized in seascapes, one in the work of a prominent Laguna artist, one in budget-priced posters.
But none of the owners had ever seen the man in Shephard’s Identikit.
Farther north he crossed the highway, jaywalking nimbly through the oncoming pairs of headlights. By then the stack of sketches in his hand was smaller, and the bottom ones were limp and ragged. He passed them out to the Gallery Andrea, the Coveside Gallery, and Gallery Laguna. Then the Jones/Churchill/Adams Gallery, the Gallery Panache, the Gallery Elite; Artiste’s, the Seaside Gallery, the House of Art, Svendell’s, Mason’s. Some of the owners had seen the Identikit — none had seen the man it pictured. Finally, his legs beginning to fatigue and his stomach gurgling for dinner, he stopped at a dark, dusty store called Charles’s, whose owner offered him a cup of coffee from a nineteenth-century cup and saucer.
Shephard declined the coffee and watched the man study the Identikit. His face reddened. He brought his hand across his hair — an involuntary urge to cover himself, Shephard thought — then shook his head slowly.
“No. No, I’m sorry,” he said finally. He gave Shephard a diluted smile. Shephard saw that his business cards, arranged in a porcelain tray atop the counter, said Charles Mitchell. “What did he do?”
“He killed two people in town, Mr. Mitchell. They were about your age. Good people.”
Charlie Mitchell’s hand shot again to his thinning hair. “The Fire Killer?”
“He’s still in town. He’s a painter. Trying to sell some of his work to the galleries. Maybe he tried you.” Shephard watched Charlie Mitchell lift his teacup with unsteady fingers. He sipped quickly, set down the cup, and sighed. “Have you seen him?”
“Dammit. I’m afraid... it might cost me.”
“Cost you what?”
“That depends on you.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to depend on me, Mr. Mitchell.”
The owner sighed again, then turned to a cabinet behind the counter. “Borderline, some of them,” he said with his back to Shephard. “The ones that work require a state and local check, as you well know. And a fifteen-day wait. The ones that don’t work are classified as antiques, and we sell them as-is, no forms, no wait.” He brought a large wooden case to the counter and lifted the lid. Inside were five derringers, and space for one more. “When a customer looks dependable, I’ll sell him a gun without the usual forms. I reason that anyone spending good money isn’t going to use it on someone else.”
Shephard pointed to the Identikit and Charlie Mitchell looked very disgusted with himself. His entire face lit with red; his ears seemed ready to bleed. “When?”
“Yesterday. Friday. An old Colt thirty-two. Jesus Christ. He was an old fellow and very polite. And he paid... oh hell, he paid cash.”
By nine o’clock Shephard had worked his way into the gay sector of town, the hub of which was the intersection of Crest Street and the highway. Things were still quiet, although the streets were beginning to fill up with the men who nightly crowded the bars, hotels, beaches, and stores until the early hours of morning.
At Valentine’s, the most popular gay bar/hotel in town, Shephard ran embarrassedly into an old schoolmate, who was about to show two men to their room when he looked at Shephard and smiled enthusiastically. He gave the key and instructions to an assistant — a boy who looked no older than fifteen — then shook Shephard’s hand politely. “I remember you from high school, I think,” he said. “I’m Ricky Hyams.”
“I remember you. Tom Shephard.” Shephard noted that Hyams had permed his hair and put on weight since he’d seen him last. He was dressed preppie — penny loafers, a pink golf shirt, and cotton trousers — and Shephard detected a hint of liner on the eyes.
“Are you looking for a room?” he asked happily.
“No, thank you,” Shephard answered, aware of the stares from two gentlemen who loitered near the lobby cigarette machine. “But I am looking for—”
“You’re a policeman, aren’t you? That’s right, you left for Los Angeles with Louise Childress right out of high school. Did you get married?”
“Yes, two years later.”
“How is she? Louise was always so funny.”
“Well, fine. It didn’t work out all that well.”
Hyams nodded understandingly and shot a quick glance to the men by the cigarettes. Then back to Shephard.
“It’s hard to get along. Always will be.”
When the assistant returned, Hyams left him in charge of the desk and led Shephard into Valentine’s main bar. The place was dark and still quiet. The disco music, strangely subdued, issued from two large wall speakers. A network of tiny lights on the ceiling and walls blipped to the beat of the music, pulsing with each quiet thump of the drum.
“We’ve got two dozen rooms upstairs and behind,” Hyams said proudly. “The dancing doesn’t start really happening until about ten. Food is good and everybody gets along. First time you’ve been in?”
Something in Ricky Hyams’s voice told Shephard that he was being looked on as a convert. He nodded abstractedly and handed Hyams the Identikit. In the beam of a small flashlight, Hyams studied the sketch momentarily, then looked up. It was apparent to Shephard that something in Hyams’s mood had changed.
“Never seen him,” he said with a tone of regret. “Sorry. He’d look better without the beard. Might try some of the other places. There’s the Little Shrimp or the Boom-Boom Room, you know.” Hyams gave Shephard the sketch and wiped his hands against his trousers. “If I see him I’ll give you a call, okay? I see lots of faces around here.”