Relatively famous.

Someone who had worked with Jeanine Carson had made the appointment for Quinn with the Kadner Gallery director, a large-headed, narrow-shouldered man in a well-cut blue suit. His name was Burton Doyle. He’d lost most of his graying hair up top, and compensated by wearing it long on the sides, where it curled wildly over his ears and at the nape of his neck.

When Quinn was settled in the wing chair, Doyle sat down behind a wide desk that had what Quinn thought were Queen Anne legs. Papers were piled on the desk, including a tented bright Christie’s catalog. A cup of tea or coffee sat steaming on a folded paper napkin serving as a saucer. Three wire baskets laden with papers were stacked vertically and crookedly. They were labeled IN, OUT, and LIMBO. Next to them was a ceramic mug stuffed with pens and pencils. It was the desk of a busy man.

“Bellezza,” he said, smiling at Quinn. “I suppose you want to know where it is.”

“If it is,” Quinn said.

Doyle seemed to assess Quinn, as if he might have some value in the art market, then smiled. “Oh, it exists, all right,” he said. “Or at least it’s thought to exist. No one with a true appreciation of art or beauty could destroy it, and no one with even a hint of its monetary worth would consider devaluing it in any way.”

“Even if it were stolen and unsalable on the open market?”

“Especially then.”

“I can understand,” Quinn said, “why some people would find great satisfaction in simply owning it, looking at it from time to time by themselves.”

Or owning in a different way, like our killer, who might own and cherish the memories of beauty’s violent end at his hands. Not for nothing did the French describe orgasms as “the little death.”

“Fanatical collectors,” Doyle said. “The art world is full of them. Always has been.”

Quinn thought it likely that the killer he sought was one of those fanatical collectors, hoarding precious recollections of dead women instead of art.

Or might he collect both?

It seemed likely.

Serial killers often had a horrible or confused relationships with their mothers, or sometimes their sisters. A woman of true beauty, of marble perfection, might provoke extreme possessiveness. Or murder.

Doyle leaned back at a dangerous angle, causing his desk chair to squeal the way Quinn’s chair did at Q&A. “If you really understand such people,” Doyle said, “and you think Bellezza is in the hands of some obsessive connoisseur who probably won’t so much as hint that he or she has the bust, why are you wasting your time trying to find it?”

“I’m not sure the kind of collector we’re talking about has the bust.”

A gray, arched eyebrow raised. “Oh? Why not?”

“There isn’t a story,” Quinn said.

“Story?”

“About what happened to Bellezza. People who are willing and able to sit on valuable stolen merchandise usually provide some sort of explanation as to what happened to it—a fire, maybe. Or destruction by vandals. Or another art thief or a gang steals it to resell. Or they don’t know its value and destroy it. Or it’s in somebody’s attic, or was painted over and made into a lawn ornament.”

“I understand. It’s easier if you have an explanation, even if it isn’t terribly plausible.”

“But they’re all plausible? Given the context.”

Doyle absently ran his manicured thumb back and forth over a sharp pencil point. “All those things are possible,” he admitted.

“At least on Antiques Roadshow.” Quinn crossed one leg over the other and cupped his knee with laced fingers. “My guess is that the bust doesn’t exist, or that whoever has it doesn’t realize its value.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To know more about it.”

Doyle raised his gaze so he was looking up at a point somewhere above Quinn’s right shoulder. The expression on his face changed to one of... what? Reverence?

“It’s said that the bust was sculpted from marble by the hand of Michelangelo himself in the early sixteenth century,” Doyle said. “It was commissioned by the church. As you probably know, the subject and model for the sculpture was a woman who was of questionable moral fiber, especially for those days. Still, she was a favorite of many high in the priesthood.”

“How high?”

“Think big, Detective Quinn.”

“Ah.”

“The bust had its place in the nave of the great cathedral, but a new pope didn’t like its connotations, or its political implications, so he had it removed. Some said it was battered to dust and scattered in the hills.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I don’t know. It seems to have turned up in the hands of a wealthy merchant in Venice around sixteen hundred. A man who dealt mostly in spices, but was also a collector.”

“What about Bellezza? The flesh-and-blood one?”

“Congratulations,” Doyle said. “Most people forget to ask that. She disappeared at the same time the bust was removed from the cathedral.”

“What did Michelangelo have to say about all this?”

“Nothing, as far as we know.”

“And the wealthy Italian Merchant?”

“After his death, his premises were searched and, supposedly, Bellezza wasn’t found.”

“Untimely death?”

Doyle shrugged.

“What did the church do?”

“It provided solace. As it is now, it was then in the business of saving souls, not solving crimes. In the nineteenth century, Bellezza turned up in the collection of an Egyptian art aficionado who died a violent death. Though no one I know of actually claims to have seen it. It is said that the man’s brother claimed the bust, and took it with him to Morocco. A wealthy Moroccan bought it for an unknown price, and the sale was contested. The French government declared it theirs, as the French were wont to do, and it was shipped to Paris and installed in the Louvre.”

“Then it’s real. There’s a record of it being in the Louvre.”

Doyle smiled. “Yes and no. The records of the Louvre became more than slightly altered during and immediately after the Second World War and German occupation.” Doyle made a face as if there was a bad taste on his tongue. “Shortly after the occupation of Paris, the Nazis confiscated much of the city’s great art. Among the pieces they . . . stole, was Bellezza.”

“Or so it’s said.”

Doyle again shrugged his almost nonexistent padded shoulders. “Lots of people tell lots of lies about things that are beautiful. The truth is, we don’t know what happened to Bellezza. Rumor had it the bust became part of Hermann Goering’s personal collection, but that seems not to be true. There’s no record of it ever reaching Berlin. But that was true of a lot of art. It doesn’t mean Bellezza didn’t get there. For that matter, maybe Goering did obtain it. If so, who knows what happened to it. Goering was a madman.”

Doyle took a sip of coffee or tea. Both eyebrows raised. “I’ve been remiss. Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?”

“Thanks, no,” Quinn said.

Doyle blew on the cup, as if the tea were scalding. “And now you are attempting to find our missing beauty.” He sipped cautiously. Didn’t say ouch. “Forgive me if I’m cynical, but I have reason. You aren’t the first to search for Bellezza. For a while it was the great daydream accomplishment of hundreds of art students. That’s all changed now.” Another sip. “I’ll be glad to talk to you anytime. To help you any way I can. But I can’t pretend I don’t think your quest is hopeless. You might as well have dropped in to ask for help in finding the Holy Grail. The possibilities are about the same. Virtually nonexistent. Everyone has conceded that Bellezza isn’t going to be found.”

“Not everyone,” Quinn said. He stood up, stretched, and thanked Doyle for his time.

Doyle didn’t stand up immediately. He still had his enigmatic smile pasted to his face. Kept it while he stood and offered his hand. “Good luck, Detective Quinn.”