“Do you think the bust was ever real?” Quinn asked. “Existed at one time? Still exists somewhere, somehow?”

“I thought I made that unclear,” Doyle said.

“What if I talk to other people in the art world?” Quinn asked.

“That’s where I got my information.” Doyle shifted his weight, deepening the soft squeaking of his swivel chair. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you so interested in finding Bellezza?”

“I’m not,” Quinn said. “I’m interested in finding a serial killer.”

“The dead women at the Fairchild Hotel,” Doyle said. “What do they have to do with a sixteenth-century bust?”

Maybe everything.

Quinn moved to the door. “Maybe Bellezza can tell me.”

“If she does,” Doyle said, “I want to introduce you to Mona Lisa.”

30

Sarasota, 1992

Barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts, Dwayne looked in on his dead parents before going down to the garage. He flipped the opener light switch to Off so the garage stayed dark when the heavy overhead door rose. The roll and rumble of the door seemed unusually loud in the still night.

Leaving off the lights of both cars, Dwayne moved his father’s big Mercedes out of the driveway. Then he backed Maude’s Chrysler convertible from the garage and out of the way. He had some trouble with that one, as it was a stick shift and Dwayne had practiced only on cars with automatic transmissions.

But he got the job done. Then he moved his father’s car into the garage, and replaced it in the driveway with Maude’s. The third car in the garage, his father’s Porsche, he didn’t touch.

Now it would appear as if his father had driven to his office as usual in his Mercedes. When Bill Phoenix came by later this morning, as Dwayne knew he would, he would see only the Chrysler convertible parked in the driveway—his signal that Dwayne’s father wasn’t home and it was safe for Phoenix to “clean the pool.” Maude should be waiting, probably sprawled in her lounger with a catalogue.

After flipping the toggle switch to its usual position, so the light would come on when the garage door was raised or lowered, Dwayne went back upstairs.

He looked in on Maude and his father, like a dutiful son.

Neither had moved. Everything in the room was the same.

Remaining only in his shorts, Dwayne went to his bedroom and set his alarm clock. He knew Bill Phoenix would be at the house at ten o’clock, and seeing Maude’s car, he would pull in behind it with his service van. It was where he usually parked; in the driveway, sheltered by the palms and bougainvillea, the van couldn’t be seen from the street.

Then Phoenix would walk around the house to the pool, where Maude should be waiting. After a little while, they would stroll together to the cabana, where they were safe from being seen by any part of the outside world.

Since it was summer, and there was no school, they would assume that Dwayne, a late riser, was still asleep in his bed. Dwayne didn’t much care for swimming, so even when he happened to be awake, he always stayed in the house. So Maude and Phoenix thought.

Dwayne switched the ceiling fan on low and got back in the bed. He lay curled on his side, his cheek resting on his upper arm, and almost immediately fell asleep.

He didn’t dream.

At 9:45 A.M. Dwayne’s clock radio played the recorded-and-saved Cyndi Lauper number about girls and fun.

Dwayne’s eyes opened but he didn’t move right away. His throat was dry, so he swallowed several times and then yawned. Memory of last night came to him in pieces, and he smiled.

People underestimated him because he was young. He didn’t mind that. It was an advantage, and even at his age he’d learned how to use it to the fullest. He had a handle on things.

Dwayne relieved himself in the bathroom off his bedroom, adjusted his shorts, then flushed the toilet. He rinsed and dried his hands, then got half a dozen tissues from the dispenser on the granite vanity.

He carried the tissues to his Father and Maude’s bedroom and removed the knife from the bed.

He had plans for the knife.

31

At 10:01 A.M., here came Bill Phoenix.

From where Dwayne crouched concealed by the oleander bushes near the garage, he watched Phoenix’s white pool service van hesitate at the bend in the driveway, then continue and park where Phoenix and Maude had determined the vehicle couldn’t be seen from the street.

Phoenix climbed down out of the van, walked around it, and got a long-handled pool skimmer out of the back. A breeze ruffled his swept-back dark hair as he swiveled his handsome head to look in all directions. His gaze slid right over Dwayne.

Dwayne knew the skimmer was a prop. In the off chance somebody dropped by and caught Phoenix and Maude together, Phoenix could stop whatever else he was doing and begin skimming leaves and debris out of the pool. Just like that, he would become the proper and preoccupied hired help, engrossed in his job rather than in his employer.

With the skimmer propped on his shoulder, he strode across the lawn toward the back of the house and the pool, where he assumed Maude would be waiting as planned.

As soon as Phoenix was out of sight, Dwayne went to the van and opened the door on the passenger side. He gave the knife that he’d used on Maude and his father a final wipe with the tissues so it would be free of any fingerprints that weren’t smeared. Then he slid the knife beneath the passenger seat, closed the door softly so Phoenix wouldn’t hear, and hurried out of sight, concealing himself near the bushes by a big date palm.

Less than another minute passed before Phoenix reappeared, carrying the pool skimmer at waist level now. After leaning the skimmer against the van, he walked up to the front porch. He wore a slight frown, and seemed aggravated and vaguely puzzled.

Dwayne knew what Phoenix was thinking. Maude was probably still in bed. Her husband was gone, and even if he wasn’t and came to the door, Phoenix could go into his pool cleaner routine. The worst that could happen is that Phoenix would actually have to clean the pool. If Dwayne’s father wasn’t around, Dwayne himself might come to the door and would tell him where Maude was.

Assuming an attitude of boldness, Phoenix leaned on the doorbell.

When he got no response, he knocked.

Knocked again. Harder. This was turning out not to be a good morning.

His hands propped on his hips, he left the porch and strode back toward the van. Then he changed his mind, kicked a small rock off the driveway, and went back up on the porch. He knocked again.

This time when he got no response he tried the doorknob.

It turned. The house was unlocked.

Phoenix eased the door open, stuck his head in, and yelled hello. Shouted, “Pool man!”

Dwayne had never heard Phoenix refer to himself as “pool man.” It sounded like some kind of superhero who rescued people who bumped their heads on their diving boards.

After the third hello, Phoenix called for Maude. When he got no response he called Dwayne’s name.

Phoenix stood for a while, pondering, then seemed to gather resolve. He went inside, leaving the door open about a foot.

Time passed. The jagged shadows of palms trees dancing in the breeze moved this way and that on the porch.

Dwayne waited.

When Bill Phoenix emerged from the house, he was white. Dwayne was surprised. He didn’t think a person—especially one with such a great tan as Phoenix’s—could suddenly turn so pale. Phoenix was stumbling as he walked toward his van. Something that had to be vomit glimmered on the chest of his sleeveless T-shirt and down one leg.