Milo said, “Maybe potential clients.”
Dugong’s head snapped back. “Yeah. Fine. Doesn’t give you the right to fuck up my opening.”
He stomped out.
Medina Okash said, “Artists.” As if she couldn’t care less.
CHAPTER
25
As we made our way out of the gallery, I searched for Dugong in the crowd. In a corner, blocking one of his paintings as he sulked and gulped Prosecco. Not even pretending to listen to a shaved-head, six-foot woman’s arm-waving description of something.
Angry eyes. No red dots on any of the paintings indicating a sale. Reacting to that or was his emotional thermostat set permanently on high?
We stepped outside into soothing silence and headed up Hart. The same homeless people plus a few more. The stench of self-neglect assaulted the cool spring air in noxious bursts. This time Milo handed out money. A few blessings, a lot of stupor.
He said, “The mayor lets it get this way and also thinks he can be president—problem is maybe he can.”
I said, “Geoffrey’s got a temper problem.”
“He does, indeed. What’d you think of Medina?”
“Never had my belly button appraised before.”
“Touchy-feely but cold,” he said. “The way she stood in the doorway and did this.” Caressing his sleeve. “Like being prodded during a physical.”
“I got that plus a love-bump, here.” Patting my flank.
“Now I’m jealous—fine, you’re cuter.”
“She’s also got a protégé who comes unglued easily and the gallery was Benny’s last destination before being killed. I find all that interesting.”
“Fascinating,” he said. “I mean it.”
As I drove, he ran Okash through the databases. “Well, well, well, our girl’s got a record, all in New York. Three DUIs and one cocaine but also an assault conviction…looks like she cut up another woman outside a Lower East Side bar, served seven months of a two-year sentence at the Bedford Hills women’s prison. One bust but it’s still serious violence. Maybe she just got craftier.”
I said, “One thing for sure, she learned to suppress her emotions. Or never had a problem in the first place. Dugong’s a loose cannon but she wasn’t thrown an inch by his tantrum.”
“Yeah, I saw that, patronizing. You’re an idiot child, Geoffy.”
“She didn’t mention Dugong being with her on Saturday when she was setting up his show but artists often participate. And the prep could’ve begun earlier. As in Friday, when Benny was there.”
His shoulders bunched as he pushed his palms against the glove compartment door. “Okash coulda lied about leaving Benny alone in the gallery. If Dugong could get that pissed about Okash ducking out for a minute, a slow guy like Benny making some kind of mistake could’ve really set him off. He drags Benny to the back, shoots him in the head. Poor guy went in but never came out.”
I said, “Small-caliber bullet, the mess would’ve been manageable. But the show was coming up so the body needed to be moved. Friday, Benny doesn’t return, McGann gets worried about Benny and phones the gallery. Okash ignores her, so the following morning, before she’s due to leave for Mexico, McGann and Vollmann show up and ask the wrong questions. Like Coolidge said, Vollmann was a big guy, so he was subdued first with a knife then obliterated by a shotgun in order to delay identification. Okash and Dugong find the airline tickets, wait until after dark, and dump the bodies near the airport, where it’ll look like what Coolidge assumed: a wrong-way gang thing. They use Vollmann’s Camaro for transport and another vehicle to get away.”
He stayed silent. I maneuvered the downtown interchange, got on the 10 West, and passed three exits.
I said, “The only problem is Benny’s murder being an impulsive lashing out by Dugong doesn’t fit with three other victims and the choreography we saw in the limo. So what if by the time Benny showed up on Friday he’d been long groomed for victimhood. Because he fit a role in a script. The worst kind of casting call.”
“Back to the production thing.” He slapped the glove compartment door. “I’ve got something fits better, Alex. What planet do Okash and Dugong inhabit? Maybe we need to start thinking about performance art.”
My gut tightened. Good sign. “I like it.”
“I’m developing a majorcrushon it—okay, time to check out thisartiste’shistory.”
He returned to his phone, clicked awhile, and sat back. “Just petty stuff in Florida, some under Dugong, most under his real name, Jeffrey Mitchell Dowd.” He scrolled. “Weed, weed, DUI, weed, DUI, cocaine, weed. All personal use, total of…five days’ jail time over twelve years. Why the hell couldn’t he be cooperatively violent?”
