Erik was the first to leap up but the last to leave, running to the restroom, misplacing his keys.

“I can drive,” Layla said from the door. “I’ll drive us.”

“No, but I don’t want to lose them,” said Erik, rooting among the shoes. “They’ll get lost.”

Pearson and Zania were long gone by the time Layla found Erik’s keys on the ladder and she and Erik departed. His usual boyish poise had crumbled, and he wore an expression of desperate benevolence, as if he were a prince about to give away his entire wealth. Layla followed him out with narrowed eyes. They promised me that someone on the crew would return by six, when I was supposed to lock up and go.

The Westing sank into quiet, the partially constructed artwork tumbling in all directions. One tilting column looked perpetually close to falling, but it never did. I checked my e-mail. Other than some messages from Rocque coworkers, my mother had written. She appreciated my note about James Compton and said she didn’t know anything about London art, but that I was lucky I was around so much culture, and that I would take that with me wherever I went. (The lead was buried in that last phrase, of course. Wherever I went. She was still waiting, longing, for me to leave Los Angeles.)

A jingling and a slam at the front door, and there was Hal Giroux himself, holding a manila folder. He scowled when he saw the empty gallery.

“They getting lunch?” he said.

It was nearly five.

“I’m not sure,” I hedged. “They just said they had to go out for a while.”

The vital, bearded Hal from his 1970s heyday had faded beneath close-trimmed gray hair, an age-mottled complexion, and a stringy neck. Hal was a fretful version of his old self. The full cheeks that had made him look smug and satisfied now sagged low, dragging on his cheekbones. His eyebrows pinched close together as he examined the shoe towers. Then, without speaking any further, he wandered over to the installation and started making adjustments, pushing a shoe here and there. He shoved at the leaning column unsuccessfully. Shoved again, failed again.

He looked over at me.

“They were working hard until three thirty,” I said. “I’m temping for the regular gallerina. I’m Mary.”

Hal grunted a greeting and grabbed the gallery phone, opening his wallet and reading a card there, then punching in numbers. He dialed three and listened before hanging up. “What are they up to?” he muttered. “Next time they leave, get them to tell you where they’re going, okay? The media could be coming through here as early as tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said.