“Maggie,” said Janis. “Good. I explained to Bas that you were doing some important freelance work for my foundation and that this shouldn’t count as vacation days. You ready? Ray thinks the world of you, you know, and you’ll make the right team for this. It’s delicate. Hal’s not an evil man. He’s done a lot of good.” She sounded frail suddenly. “And this woman deserved better. You need to help me make sure people are held accountable. Okay?”

I faltered at saying what was really on my mind: I’m sorry. “I will,” I said.

“It’s almost nine thirty,” she said. “You better get going.”

9

I ENTERED THE GALLERY WITH the keys Ray had given me and headed for the desk where I’d been told to sit. Layla Goetz-Middleton was gone. Only the two men were left in the space. Pearson was sitting on a stool. Erik was squatting, his heels lightly raised, picking through piles of used shoes: sneakers, sandals, penny loafers, boots—some polished, some bent and stained, some missing laces. The room smelled faintly of canvas, leather, and old sweat. Spools of wire were piled against the wall.

“This same crew has built Hal’s shows for the past two years,” Ray had told us at the coffee shop. “It’s a coveted role, apparently, as they go with him expense-free when his shows travel, and former crew members have moved on to star careers.”

Pearson was a devoted LAAC alum and the secret sauce to Hal’s shows since 1996—whatever Hal envisioned, Pearson executed. He lived alone in North Hollywood, working intermittently on lighting for movie productions, then accompanying Hal’s shows on the road to make sure they were installed correctly. Pearson had a sturdy, capable look—all his limbs were large for his frame—even so, his head seemed over-big, and shiny, lacking any hair to cap it. He wore a blank, placid expression, as if he were processing a very slow thought.

If Pearson was the organizing genius, Erik was the craftsman, a native of Vienna who had come to L.A. five years ago, first USC, then LAAC, where he’d quickly become a favorite of Hal’s. Erik had grown up in American international schools; he wanted to stay in this country for good. He was taking an extra semester to finish his graduation project: Bull, a herd of fifteen-foot-tall animals made from silver-blue cans of Red Bull. Rumor had it that Steve Goetz had already bought Bull, unfinished, for a large price tag, and other collectors were clamoring for more work. Erik was the physical opposite of Pearson—curly-headed, small, lithe, in constant motion. Yet he, too, seemed to have studied the art of expressionlessness, and I couldn’t get a read on how either felt about the installation.

“Color? Texture? Shape?” said Erik, tossing a high-heeled red pump. “What are we supposed to go on?”