“Just to drop off papers. Did what happened — was it here?”
Milo shook his head. “Did you ever meet Ms. March?”
“I haven’t. I saw a picture of her, that’s all. On Doug’s desk, the two of them at some gala. She looked gorgeous.” Her voice caught. A woman she’d never encountered but human compassion kicks in easily for those blessed with it. “What a horrible thing to happen.”
I said, “What did Doug tell you about it?”
“Nothing. Next to nothing,” said Randi Levine. “He’s only been in the office once since it happened, yesterday afternoon, prepping for the Apex inspection — that’s a project in Columbus, Ohio. I thought something might be wrong because he was even quieter than usual. And kind of bent over. Like someone was sitting on his back — forget that. Please. I shouldn’t be talking about Doug, period. I’m sure you know all this, anyway.”
I said, “Bent over. Affected by what had happened.”
“How could he not be? How could anyone not be? I asked him if something was wrong and he came right out and told me what had happened and it blew me to bits. Especially when I saw the tears in his eyes, that’s so unlike — oh, shoot, let’s stop talking about this, Doug wants everything to be discreet. Please don’t tell him I said anything, okay? Please.”
“Promise,” said Milo.
She looked at him doubtfully.
“So he told you what happened.”
“Then he said, ‘Randi, I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.’ And went into his private office and shut the door. I went to my desk and ensured that his travel plans were all set.”
She looked at the Audi, began tapping a foot.
Milo said, “Anything else you can tell us?”
“Can’t see how there would be,” said Randi Levine. “You really can’t tell me how long it’s going to take?”
“Depends on what we find,” said Milo.
“Oh God, that sounds ominous,” she said. “Well, I hope you find nothing. Okay, I’ll just wait in my car and catch up on work.”
Chapter 24
Unsnapping his gun but leaving it holstered, Milo remoted the gate open then strode past me.
I followed and caught up.
He stopped. “It probably won’t take long, wait outside.”
“Why?”
“Just to be careful.”
“We’re not talking about a bad guy lying in wait,” I said. “Worst case, there are two corpses in there and my nostrils can handle it.”
“Yeah, well, the last time I thought I had everything figured out.”
“The last time is irrelevant, no need for superstition.” The harshness in my own voice surprised me. Like listening to an evil twin.
He said, “Being careful is superstitious?”
“Finding causation where there is none is the definition of superstitious. Don’t worry.”
“I always worry.”
I walked quickly toward the mansion.
His turn to catch up.
When we reached the front door he said, “You can come in but stand well back and let me do my thing. No debates, okay?”
I said, “Quantify ‘well back.’ ”
“Jesus, what’s got into you?”
“The promise of adventure.”
“Consider it a broken promise.” He unlocked the door. No alarm buzz. Just inside, an alarm company monitor said Ready To Arm.
Emptied of people, the marble-floored space felt cold and sepulchral. Like a museum after hours.
The first thing both of us did was sniff the air. Scanning for the cordite bite of recent gunshots or the stomach-turning fetor of death.
None of that, just sterile, odorless air, but in a house this huge that meant nothing. Milo took out his Glock and stomped the floor with a desert boot. Three times. The sound echoed.
He said, “Police,” in a loud voice.
Silence.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s the quantification: you can stand here or get comfy in the living room. Concentrate on producing psychological wisdom while I do the scut work. If there’s nothing to report, I’ll be back soon enough.”
I said, “Okay. Mom.”
Muttering and shaking his head, he pointed the gun forward and passed under the right side of the double staircase. Left alone, I circled the center table a few times before making my way to the same seat I’d occupied the day we’d talked to Douglass March.
The path took me past one conspicuous change: the photo of the Marches in full dress was gone. In its place, propped against a lamp, was a framed artist rendering of a residential complex.
Belle-Vieux Gardens. Atlanta, Ga. Venture Quest Properties.
Douglass March embracing true love.
Milo was gone for twenty-two minutes. During that time, I checked and rechecked my phone, then punished myself by scanning national, international, and local events on a “news aggregator” and encountering nothing but the shrill squawks of click-addicted misery pimps. Tired of sitting, I circled the massive room thirty-eight times. Failed to come up with a shred of wisdom, psychological or otherwise.
When Milo returned, he was shaking his head. “Place is crazy-big, checked everywhere including the garage and the pool house. She drove a Porsche Panamera and his hot wheels are a Mazda SUV with eight hundred miles on it. No sign of struggle anywhere including the maids’ room. Irma and Adelita shared it, there are two beds. Both are made up and tucked tight and all their belongings are gone.”
“Orderly retreat.”
“Hope so for their sake.”
I said, “What about Meagin’s clothes?”
“Untouched. What is different is that little studio of hers. Her easel and supplies are still there but the paintings are in the trash bins outside. Where I spent a pleasant chunk of my time even though no serious smell told me I was wasting my time.”
“Could I have a look at the paintings?”
“Why?”
“There’s one in particular that I’d like to see.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the screen shot I’d taken of the gray-white stalky thing. Ambiguous, maybe unfinished, topped by a starburst, pincer-like extensions at the bottom.
He said, “Oh, yeah, the ugly one. When you snapped it March got miffed and you said art was personal expression or something like that. Why’re you still interested?”
I said, “It’s different from the others. Exceptions can be interesting. Maybe it meant something to her.”
He studied the image. “Don’t see what good it can do, but why not? You’ve been admirably patient.”
Six oversized trash bins stood alongside the northern wall of the mansion. Three were green and filled with lawn clippings, the others, black. Two of the black ones were empty, one was packed with three untied industrial-sized silvery plastic bags. Milo having a look.
He said, “Checked out the yard waste, too, nothing but grass clippings down to the bottom.”
I pulled out the bags and laid them on the ground. The first two were crammed with the decently rendered but banal oils we’d seen the first time. Stacked but intact.
The last one, retrieved from the bottom, yielded one painting: twelve-by-sixteen canvas covered in shades of gray.
Anything but intact.
The image of the stalky thing had been sliced twice diagonally, from corner to corner. Destroyed by a perfect X.
Milo’s eyes had grown wide. “Musta missed it. Guess it meant something to him, too.”
He removed the other paintings and restacked them on the ground. Bent and lifted them as a group and held them close to his chest.
“Let’s go. Maybe I’ll start a gallery.”
As we neared the gate, he said, “Art appreciation’s fine but back to basics. Irma and Adelita cleared out because they’re scared. Which puts it right back on Doug.”