“What I said yesterday. Gurnsey and Okash humiliated her. That sped up Okash’s execution date and earned Gurnsey spillover hatred. Once he was targeted,The Museum of Desirecame to mind. The level of planning and cruelty we saw in the limo stinks of long-standing sadistic fantasies. It’s possible the slaughter would’ve occurred without Gurnsey but he provided an aha moment.”
“They’re evil, the painting fills in the blanks?”
“These are people who choose Nazi references when they name their companies. It’s all about game-playing.”
His turn in the kitchen. He came back chomping an apple viciously and working his phone.
Downloading Candace Kierstead’s DMV photo, he called the Caribbean market.
“Ms. Graham? Lieutenant Sturgis.”
“Oh, hi. What’s up?”
“You were really helpful when we were in and I wondered if I could send you another photo.”
“Of course. You’re making progress on Solomon?”
“Slowly but surely.” He sent the headshot. Seconds later, Graham called back. “Sure, that’s Candy. She’s a great customer, likes our beers and our fresh vegetables. She and her husband come in all the time. He told me he developed a taste for spice when they lived in Asia and then in the Grand Caymans.”
“Did they ever come in with the other woman I showed you?”
“No, they’re more recent—the last few months. Very nice, always pay cash.”
“Thanks.”
“That helped you?” said Graham.
“Inch at a time.”
“Just like starting a business.”
—
Milo demolished the apple as if it were a threat, dangling what was left from the stem. I said, “The Kiersteads probably heard about the market from Okash, discovered Roget on the bulletin board.”
“They do their thing with the limo, save Okash for last, do her on the sly.”
“No reason to display her,” I said. “She didn’t fit the painting, they could toss her like garbage.”
He put in a call to John Nguyen, got voicemail, tried a judge with the same results and went silent. Tossing the apple, he returned eating a nectarine, getting juice on his chin and dabbing. “Candace worked me like a goddamn piece of clay.” He laughed. “The art metaphors just keep coming.”
He demolished the nectarine. “What were you doing driving around at five in the morning?”
“Information overload. You were also up early, had time to research the Kiersteads.”
“Got your text at five forty, it threw me, all of sudden Candace is in a new light. Once I steadied my neurons with a shot of WhistlePig, I woke up the kids. Bogomil’s assigned to the gallery building, the lads are taking turns driving up and down Benedict and every third time, cruising Conrock. Can’t do a sustained watch on Conrock. Too quiet, no street parking, everything’s conspicuous.”
“Get the lads a Bentley from the impound lot and have them wear ascots.”
He exploded into laughter. Wrapped the nectarine in the napkin and said, “I saw eggs. Can you spare some?”
CHAPTER
45
Two thirty p.m., that day: new whiteboard.
The stars of the display: enlarged DMV shots of Stefan Sigmund Kierstead, fifty-four, and Candace Walls Kierstead, forty-one.
