Nelson’s desk posed in the far corner, bare except for a printer and a couple of files; the ribbed curve of his office chair aimed toward the spot where his laptop would sit. Three chrome file cabinets lined the other wall. A couple of wooden art crates stood nearby, a crowbar on top. The room was a replica of Nelson de Wilde—polished and immaculate—except for a lumpy bag of takeout containers in his trash that smelled faintly of rotting coconut.

There was no dolly here, but I walked around the room once anyway, peering behind the couch, possessed by the sudden intuition that there was something here to find. But what and why?

I didn’t know much about Nelson beyond his power as a gallerist. Whenever he appeared at any opening, Nelson struck my artist friends speechless. They didn’t see a forty-something man with sun-stained skin who rarely touched food or drink, whose only appetite appeared to be young women. They saw a kingmaker. Nelson specialized in showy, conceptual pieces, and he liked objects more than performances. He liked things he could sell. Kim Lord had fit his bill in every way. He had discovered her, supported her. And yet he had also betrayed her. He had to have betrayed her. For money. And now he was letting us spy on Hal for money. He needed a lot. Nelson was famous—revered—for his long-term support of artists. Once he signed someone, he never let them go, which was not true of many gallerists. He gave generous stipends and waited years for work.

The door opened, and Zania’s frowning face poked through. I blurted, “I can’t find a dolly,” but she was fixated on the trash can.

“What is that smell?” Her small mouth crumpled inward. “Oh God. He forgot again.”

I saw Pearson stride down the hall behind her.

“Incoming!” he shouted.