“I don’t get to hear the punch line?”
“Thanks for your time. A man of your skills, I’m sure you can find your way out.”
“Really?” said Tischler. Sighing, he picked up his toolbox and left.
When the sounds of his footsteps died, Milo turned to Reed, Coolidge, and me. “I won’t say ready because you can’t be.”
CHAPTER
55
Equally cavernous space on the other side of the partition.
This lighting different, miserly, courtesy of a single track running down the center.
Warmer bulbs, though. Calculated focus.
The objects of illumination: two easels. Heavy-duty, solid oak professional artist models, both positioned along the room’s central spine, separated by twenty feet of open flooring.
The word “curation” has become a well-abused cliché. But it applied here.
An exhibit.
Perched on the nearer easel was a painting cased in glimmering gold leaf.
Hand-carved frame festooned with miniature gargoyle heads.
I knew the dimensions. But still,The Museum of Desirewas surprisingly small.
Vivid colors unsuggested by Suzanne Hirto’s muddy file photo spoke to recent restoration.
Beautifully, horribly done.
The painting the product of a gifted hand but failing to rise above cartoon.
Because the intention had been nothing but shock value.
The four of us stared, stunned into silence. I was still staring as Milo and Reed and Coolidge moved on to the second easel.
Coolidge gasped. Reed’s hand shot to his mouth.
Milo stood there. I caught up.
An even smaller painting, maybe ten inches square.
Similar hues, similar style.
A tag affixed to the easel. Loopy handwriting in fountain pen.
Fate of a Harlot
Antonio Domenico Carascelli
c. 1512
Cherry-sized lumps began coursing up and down Milo’s jawline. The muscular tic that afflicts him when he fights internal combustion.
I braced myself and looked at the painting.
