Cantu’s name was on the bell in the lobby, but no one answered when I rang it. It took three rings and a long press before the lobby door finally buzzed open. I made my way up to find the door to 400A standing ajar, the strong odor of fresh paint wafting out into the hall, which I would have expected for an artist. I hadn’t expected the sweet stink of marijuana that wafted out with it. I knocked, and then peeked tentatively through the crack in the doorway.

“Enter,” a man bellowed from inside. “Watch where you step.”

I eased inside to find a tall, rail-thin man, dressed in a black Lycra bodysuit, standing on a painter’s tarp spread over the hardwood floor, giving the wall an appraising look. He was covered in splotches of red and brown paint, and there were Slinkys attached to the bottoms of his black ballet slippers. The loud, jangled music piped in from somewhere was about as appealing as the sound of a ham-fisted toddler pounding wooden spatulas against upturned pots. While I watched, the man stepped each Slinky into a flat pan of paint, took a running start, and kicked his feet out—Slinky first—against a huge black canvas anchored to the wall. Bouncing back, he tumbled to the tarp. The canvas hung there assaulted by at least a hundred Slinky circles. He’d apparently been at it for a while. I eased the front door open a little wider for an easier exit.

“Teo Cantu?”

Sitting cross-legged on the tarp, he swiveled to face me, and shot me a bemused look as his breathing slowed. He clapped his hands twice and the music stopped. “You’re not my pad Thai. I ordered pad Thai.”

“No. I’m a private investigator. Cass Raines. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Timothy Ayers.”

I stepped over carefully, handed him one of my cards, which he got paint all over. He looked disappointed. “But I’m hungry.”

I stepped back, eyed the wall, the tarp, the slippers, the bodysuit. “I can see why. So about Tim Ayers?”

Cantu rolled his eyes. “Nothing to talk about. He’s dead. At least that’s what the news feed said.”

Four floor-to-ceiling windows at the opposite end of the loft were all opened halfway, as a floor fan whizzed back and forth spreading paint fumes around. Cantu unstrapped the Slinky toys and stood, his slender hands on narrow hips. I eyed the Slinky canvas again. Teo caught me looking.

“You want to strap on a pair of springs?”

I smiled politely. “No thanks. I’m good.”