he asks.
“No. But I never studied the photos of those beyond number six.”
“You’re one hundred percent sure it was your sister’s face in that painting?”
“Are you kidding? It’s my face, Baxter. My body, naked to the world.”
“Okay … I believe you.”
“Have you ever heard of these paintings?”
“No. I’ll talk to our fine arts people in D.C. as soon as we get off. And we’ll start taking this Christopher Wingate’s life apart. When will you be in New York?”
“Nineteen hours. Around five p.m. New York time.”
“Try to get some sleep on the plane. I’m going to book you a flight here from JFK. American Airlines. It’ll be an e-ticket, just show your license or passport. I’ll drive up to Washington and meet you at the Hoover Building. I have to be up there tomorrow anyway, and that’s more convenient for you than Quantico. In fact, I’ll have an agent pick you up at Reagan Airport. Do you have any problem with that?”
“Yes. I think they should have left it Washington National.”
“Ms. Glass, are you all right?”
“I’m great.”
“You sound upset.”
“Nothing pharmacological therapy won’t cure. Mixed with a little of Scotland’s finest.” A hysterical laugh escapes my lips. “I need to take the edge off. It’s been a tough day.”
“I understand. But leave a little edge in place, okay? I need you sharp and thinking.”
“It’s nice to be needed.” I terminate the connection and replace the Airfone in the armrest.
You didn’t need me thirteen months ago, I say silently. But that was then. Now things have changed. Now they’ll want me around until they get a handle on the significance of the paintings. Then they’ll cut me off again. Exclusion is the worst fate for a journalist, and a living hell for a victim’s family. Better not to think about that right now. Better to sleep. I’ve practically lived in the air for twenty years, and sleeping on planes was effortless until Jane disappeared. Now it takes a little help from my friends.
As the chemical fog descends over my eyes, a last cogent spark flashes in my brain, and I take out the phone again. I’m in no state to hassle with directory assistance, so I plug into an entirely different connection. Ron Epstein works Page Six at the New York Post; he’s a human who’s who of the city. Like Daniel Baxter, he’s addicted to his work, which means he’s probably there now, despite the early hour in New York. When the Post operator puts me through to his section, he answers.
“Ron? It’s Jordan Glass.”
“Jordan! Where are you?”
“On my way to New York.”
He responds with a giggle. “I thought you were off in the hinterlands, taking pictures of clouds or something.”
“I was.”
“You must need something. You never call just to kibitz.”
“Christopher Wingate. Ever heard of him?”
“Naturellement. Very chic, very cool. He’s made Fifteenth Street the envy of SoHo. The old dealers kiss his ass now, and the more they do, the more he treats them like shit. Everyone wants Wingate to handle their stuff, but he’s very picky.”
“What about the Sleeping Women?”
A coo of admiration. “Aren’t you in the circle. Not many American collectors know about them yet.”
“I want to see him. Wingate, I mean.”
“To photograph him?”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“I’d say you have to stand in line, but he might just be intrigued enough to talk to you.”
“Can you get me his phone number?”
“If I can’t, no one can. But it may take a while. I know he’s not listed. He lives above his gallery, but I don’t think the gallery’s listed either. It’s that exclusive. This guy will skip a sale just because he doesn’t like the buyer. Are you somewhere I can call you?”
“No. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m going to sleep for a while.”
“I’ll have it for you then.”
“Thanks, Ron. I owe you dinner at Lutèce.”
“Let me choose the place, honey, and you’re on. I hope you’re not sleeping alone. No one I know needs love more than you.”
I glance around the first-class cabin at a rumpled platoon of businessmen. “No, I’m not alone.”
“Good. Tomorrow, then.”
The fog is descending so fast now that I can barely get the Airfone back in the armrest. Thank God for drugs. I couldn’t bear to be alert right now. When I wake, the museum will seem like a bad dream. Of course, it wasn’t. It was a door. A door to a world I have no choice but to re-enter. Am I ready for that? “Sure,” I say aloud. “I was born ready.” But deep down, beneath the brittle old bravado, I know it’s a lie.
Two hours before the Cathay Pacific jet landed in New York, I surfaced from my drug-induced dive, stumbled to the rest room and back, and asked the flight attendant for a hot towel. Then I called Ron Epstein and got Christopher Wingate’s number. It took an hour of steady calling to get the art dealer on the phone. I had worried that I might have to mention the Sleeping Women to get Wingate’s attention, but Epstein’s hunch proved correct: Wingate was intrigued enough by my modest celebrity to see me at his gallery after hours without explanation. I couldn’t tell much about him from his voice, which had an affected accent I couldn’t place. He did mention my book-in-progress, so my guess is that he hopes I’m looking for a dealer to sell my photographs to the fine art market.
Meeting Wingate alone is a risk, but my work has always involved calculations of risk. Photographing wars is like commercial fishing off Alaska: you know going out that you might not come back. But on an Alaskan boat, it’s you against the ocean and the weather. In a war zone there are people trying to kill you. Going to see Christopher Wingate could be like that. I have to assume he’s heard about the scene at the museum by now. He won’t have my name, but he will know that the woman who caused the disturbance in Hong Kong looked exactly like one of the Sleeping Women. Does he know that one of the Sleeping Women looks like the photographer Jordan Glass? He knows my reputation, but it’s unlikely that he’s seen a photo of me. I haven’t lived in New York for twelve years, and my work wasn’t nearly so well known then. The real danger depends on how involved Wingate is with the painter of the Sleeping Women. Does he know that the subjects in the paintings are real?
