“He’s certainly not daunted by tradition,” I said. “Could you tell me more about his background—is it rigidly academic?”

“Well,” she said, “he did go to Yale. But we’ve always felt Nicholas transcends academic painting. There’s something about his sensibilities. And the way he uses light.”

“Yes. Quite. I like his sense of composition.”

“That, too. He’s simply first-rate. Unfortunately, we have no paintings by him in stock, at this time. If you could give me your name—”

“I always research an artist before I take the plunge. Would you happen to have some biographical information on Hansen that you could fax me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ll get that right out to you. And about the academic aspect . . . Nicholas is well schooled, but please don’t hold that against him. Despite his meticulousness and his way with paint as matter, there’s a certain primal energy to his consciousness. You’d need to see the pictures in person to really appreciate that.”

“No doubt,” I said. “There’s nothing like in person.”

Five minutes later, my fax machine buzzed, disgorging Nicholas Hansen’s curriculum vitae. Education, awards, group and individual exhibitions, corporate collections, museum shows.

The man had accomplished plenty in two decades, and unlike his old pal Garvey Cossack he hadn’t recounted any of it in a pumped-up biography. No mention of high school at all; Nicholas Hansen’s account of his education began with college: Columbia University, where he’d received a B.A. in anthropology, summers filled with painting fellowships, a Masters of Fine Arts at Yale, and two years of postgraduate work at an atelier in Florence, Italy, learning classical painting technique. Among his museum shows were group spots at the Art Institute of Chicago and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Prominent names figured among those who collected his work.

An accomplished man. A polished man. Hard to fit that with Vance Coury’s garage or the Cossacks’ vulgar lifestyle. A gang-rape murder.

I went over the dates on Hansen’s résumé. Saw something else that didn’t fit.

Milo still wasn’t answering any of his phones, so I tried to dispel my restlessness with a beer, then another. I carried the bottle down to the pond, thought about kicking back, decided to net leaves instead. For the next hour or so I pruned, raked, busied myself with mindless chores. I was just about to allow myself a moment of repose when the phone rang up in the house.

Robin? I ran up the stairs, grabbed the kitchen extension, heard Dr. Bert Harris’s voice. “Alex?”

“Bert. What’s up?”

“It was nice to see you,” he said. “After all this time. Just checking to see how you’re doing.”

“Did I look that bad?”

“Oh, no, not bad, Alex. Perhaps a bit preoccupied. So . . .”

“Everything’s rolling along.”

“Rolling along.”

“No, that’s a lie, Bert. I screwed up with Robin.”

Silence.