The Genius

“The other cases.”

“What other cases.”

“Your father wanted to look through old cases to see if any of them fit the profile. Detective Soto was working on it for him.”

“All right. I’ll call him. You rest up and get out of here and we’ll talk then.” She stood up. “You know, you really made me feel like shit about my dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Too late now.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“So am I,” she said.

15

checked out the next day. Marilyn sent a limousine to pick me up, instructing the driver to take me to her town house. Certainly I had no intention of going back to my place. The person who had assaulted me had to be familiar with my comings and goings; either he had followed me from the warehouse or he’d been waiting around the corner from my building. Either way, I thought a few days under the radar would be prudent.

My prudence was nothing compared to Marilyn’s. In the back of the limo was a bodyguard, a mammoth Samoan in a Rocawear tracksuit. He introduced himself as Isaac; his hand swallowed mine; he was at my service until further notice. To me, this was going overboard, but I wasn’t about to start arguing with a man his size.

As one would expect, Marilyn’s house is done in the best taste; it’s also surprisingly livable, albeit tailored to her quirks. She has two kitchens, a full one on the bottom floor and a smaller one near her bedroom, so she can cook herself waffles or eggs or a steak or whatever strikes her fancy at three in the morning. You’ve seen her block before; it has appeared as the backdrop for many a television show, the downtown real-estate equivalent of Murderer’s Row—tall, skinny, picturesque West Village brownstones, each with a patio out back and a throng of camera-happy Midwesterners out front. The Sex and the City bus tour stops two doors down to allow its patrons the opportunity to memorialize the spot where, I’m told, Carrie and Aidan had an argument during season four.

Isaac, used to battling paparazzi, had no trouble getting me through the crowd.

The maid let us in. Marilyn had ordered a room made up on the first floor so that I wouldn’t have to walk up the stairs. On the bed were three new sets of clothing, Barneys tags still attached. She had set out a tray of spice cookies and a little plastic jack-o’-lantern with a note tucked inside. I opened it up. It said Boo.

I went into the bathroom and got my first good look at myself in days. They had changed the dressing on my face several times, each time putting on a slightly lighter one, until all I had were Band-Aids covering my left cheek from dimple to hairline. I peeled one of bandages back and saw a thin patch of scab, like someone had gone after me with a potato peeler. The missing teeth were also on the left side. The shock of seeing them gone started me laughing; I looked like I’d just wandered down out of the Appalachians.

I found a bottle of ibuprofen and shook out four. In my jacket I had a prescription for OxyContin, which I intended to fill and then give away, either to Marilyn or as party favors. I went to grab a bite from the lower kitchen and found Isaac on a folding chair outside my room, blocking the hallway with his girth.

“I really think I’ll be okay,” I said.

“That’s what they want you to think.”

We went to the kitchen. I swallowed my pills. My appetite dwindled as soon as I took a bite of my turkey sandwich, so I offered Isaac the other, bigger half. He accepted gratefully, discarding the bread before eating the meat, lettuce, and tomato.

“No carbs,” he explained. “Right.”

All I wanted to do was sleep. Three days of sleeping will do that to you. I made myself a cup of coffee and called Marilyn at work.

“Did you find everything all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“How’s the man I sent you?”

Across the kitchen, Isaac was pouring himself a bowl of cereal. So much for his diet. “Superb.”

“Greta recommended him. He used to work for Whitney Houston. Don’t tell me you don’t need it, I can tell you’re about to say that.”

“I wasn’t, in fact. I was just going to thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Really—I’m so grateful for—”

“Hush,” she said and hung up.

Next I called the gallery. Nat picked up. I asked how the opening had gone.

“Beautifully. Alyson was ecstatic.” Like me, Nat went to Harvard, but he graduated summa cum laude, writing his thesis on ambisexual iconography in Renaissance tapestry. His Boston accent is clipped and wry and fabulous, making him sound sort of like a gay Kennedy.

He told me about the show, concluding, “And the fridge is on order. Oh, and something came in the mail for you from the Queens District Attorney. Do you want me to open it?”

“Please.”

“Hold on.” He put the phone down and came back a moment later. “There’s a little cotton swab thingy and a vial. It’s some sort of—what is this?”

I heard Ruby say, “A paternity kit.”

“It’s a paternity kit,” Nat said. “Did you impregnate the Queens District Attorney?”

“Not yet. Messenger it over here, would you.”

“Si, senor.” Then, to Ruby: “You know, you sound awfully well acquainted with this paternity thing. Are you in a family way again?

“Bite me,” she called.

I smiled. “Listen, I’m worried about the two of you. Whoever did this to me is out there and I don’t want anything happening to you.”

“We’re fiiine.”

“It would make me more comfortable if you didn’t hang around the gallery. Close down for a couple of weeks and take a vacation. Paid.”

“But we just opened. Alyson will go ballistic. And I wouldn’t blame her.”

“Keep your eyes open, then. Please. Do that for me.”

“We’re fine, Ethan. Ruby knows kung fu. Tell him.”

“Ki-yai!”

I LEFT A MESSAGE FOR SAMANTHA and she called back within the hour, her tone all business.

“Did you get the kit?”

“Yes. Thank you. I’ll do it today.”

“Good. I need you to think, Ethan: was there anything else that might possibly have a trace of Cracke’s DNA on it?”

“There might be,” I said. While watching the nurse change my dressing in the hospital, I’d noticed that the color of the bloodied gauze looked eerily like that of the five-pointed star at the center of the Cherubs, a theory that appeared to me more and more brilliant as they continued to feed me drugs. In the sober light of day, it seemed not quite as brilliant, but given our shortage of viable leads, I didn’t see how it hurt to consider the possibility.

“Even if it’s blood,” she said, “it might not be his blood.”

“That’s true.”

“But it can’t hurt. Let’s give it a whirl.”

“Well, hang on. Here’s the tough part. I don’t have the drawing anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I sold it.”

“You’re joking.”

I told her about Hollister.

“Are there any other drawings like that one?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. We can go through all of them but it’ll take a while. First let me see what I can do about that one.”

I had no doubt that Hollister liked me enough to invite me back to his house. But he’d have to like me a lot more than that to allow me to start cutting samples out of his artwork. Which left me one option: if I really wanted that piece, I’d have to buy it back.

I hate to buy back art. Some dealers guarantee that if an item’s market drops, they will repurchase it at sale price, allowing the buyer to walk away even. I won’t. I think it infantilizes the client; part of the point of collecting is to hone one’s own aesthetic sensibilities, and that happens only when one takes a personal stake in the matter.

And, understandably, I balked at forking over a large amount of money only to discover that the bloodstain was not a bloodstain, or not one that could give us any information. My hesitation turned out to be moot; when I called Hollister the next morning, his secretary told me he was unavailable.