The room goes silent, and cold apprehension climbs my spine.

“Why in the world would he ask for me?”

“I was hoping you could shed some light on that,” says Baxter.

“Maybe de Becque is the killer,” suggests Bowles. “He killed Jane Lacour, and now he’s discovered she has a twin sister. He wants to do her as well. Make a set.”

In a voice dripping with disdain, Lenz says, “Please confine your theories to subjects with which you’re familiar. Like bank robbery.”

“Arthur,” Baxter warns.

Bowles is so red he looks ready to pop a blood vessel.

“De Becque is seventy years old,” says Baxter. “He falls well outside all profiles for serial murder.”

“This may not be serial murder,” says Kaiser, earning odd looks from the other men. “And de Becque could easily be behind the selections. We need to find out if he’s come to New Orleans in the past eighteen months, and if so, how often.”

“De Becque owns his own jet,” says Baxter. “A Cessna Citation.”

Kaiser’s eyebrows go up.

“We’re trying to trace its movements now.”

Lenz focuses on Kaiser. “Do you really think a murderer – or a kidnapper – who’s been so careful up to this point would invite his next victim to his lair through the medium of the FBI?”

“He might,” says Kaiser, “as a joke. A final joke. He’s getting old. He knows we’ve discovered the link between his victims and the paintings. He killed Wingate, or ordered his death, so his marketing conduit’s shut down. One way or another, he knows he hasn’t got much time. So he decides to immortalize himself by the way he goes out. Murder-suicide with a celebrity.”

Despite the antipathy between Kaiser and Lenz, the psychiatrist seems to be weighing this theory. “If he’s the suicidal type, why bother to kill Wingate at all?”

“Knee-jerk response. Like people who kill every snake they see. He perceived a threat and neutralized it before fully exploring how it would affect his situation.”

Lenz purses his lips in thought. “Did de Becque’s jet fly to New York yesterday?”

“No,” says Baxter. “It was on Grand Cayman for the past twenty-four hours. We’ve confirmed that. We are checking commercial carriers.”

“You can forget that,” mutters Lenz.

“De Becque says he’ll send his jet to pick up Ms. Glass and her equipment,” says Baxter. “The catch is, she has to go alone.”

Kaiser looks incredulous. “You’re not actually considering this.”

“John, we have to look at-”

Kaiser whirls on Lenz. “How long have you known about de Becque?”

“I heard what you did, when you did,” Lenz says quietly. Which is not exactly a denial.

“I’ll do it,” I tell them.

The room goes quiet again.

“If you do,” says Baxter, “it won’t be under de Becque’s conditions.”

“Under no conditions,” says Kaiser. “We have no control down there.”

“We have to see those paintings, John.”

“If she took one of our planes,” says Bowles, “we could put the Hostage Rescue Team inside. She goes in wired, and if it starts going south, they can bust in and bring them both out – Glass and de Becque.”

“If it starts going south?” echoes Kaiser. “You mean like if de Becque shoots her in the head? Then HRT, which is at the airport, starts for the estate?”

“Don’t waste your breath,” scoffs Lenz. “He’s talking about invading a foreign country.”

“We’d talk to the Brits first,” says Bowles. “Cayman is still a British colony.”

“Good God,” mutters Lenz, as though rendered speechless by the ignorance around him. Either the psychiatrist has forgotten whose territory he’s on, or he feels that Baxter’s patronage makes him bulletproof.

“Let me get this straight,” I say to Kaiser. “You think a seventy-year-old man is going around New Orleans kidnapping women in their twenties and thirties? Without leaving a trace? My sister ran three miles a day and worked out with weights. She could kick the crap out of most seventy-year-old men, pardon my French.”

“Seventy isn’t that old,” says Lenz, playing devil’s advocate. “There are seventy-year-old men in excellent health.”

“And you’re forgetting the taser wound on the Dorignac’s victim,” says Kaiser. “But if de Becque is behind it, I see him commissioning the paintings. Paying one or more men to take the women for him, and one artist to paint them. A guy like that? A wanted expatriate? He probably has all kinds of bodyguards on his property. Retired Israeli commandos. Ex-Paras or -Foreign Legion. Maybe even GIGN.”

“An elegant scenario,” says Lenz.

“You think de Becque could paint them himself?” asks Bowles.

“He’s a collector, not a painter.” Lenz sighs dismissively. “But if he commissions them, why does he only own five paintings? Why wouldn’t he have them all?”

“He could be selling them,” says Baxter.

“A guy worth fifty million?” asks Bowles.

“An elaborate hoax,” suggests Kaiser. “Turning the art world upside down. For kicks. For some twisted fantasy we don’t yet understand.”

I can’t tell who’s arguing for what. Though Lenz and Kaiser dislike each other, they clearly respect each other’s opinions, and Baxter respects them both, because he’s letting them run with the ball. As they bat it back and forth, something occurs to me.

“ Wingate told me de Becque bought the first five Sleeping Women,” I tell Baxter. “So how did you test the first painting for talc?”

“The paintings didn’t sell in the order they were painted,” he replies. “We tested the first one painted. One of the more abstract ones. It was the realistic ones that sold first and started the phenomenon.”

“His Nabi period,” says Lenz.

“The Nabis,” I echo. “Wingate mentioned them. Hebrew for ‘the Prophets.’”

“Just so.”

“Did de Becque know I’m already involved with you?” I ask.

“He seemed to,” says Baxter.

“How the hell would he know that?” Kaiser asks.

“I don’t know, John.”

Kaiser turns to Bowles. “How tight have you kept this?”

The Irishman’s lips tighten. He is, after all, Kaiser’s boss. “If there’s a leak, it’s not our people.”

Kaiser doesn’t look convinced. Neither does Lenz.

“So, what are we going to do?” asks the SAC.

“I’m going to Grand Cayman,” I tell them. “One way or another.”

Lenz nods approval, but Kaiser gives me a hard look.

“This isn’t some jaunt through Somalia with a press pass in your pocket.”

Now my face is red. “I’m flattered by your desire to protect me, Agent Kaiser, but I don’t think it’s going to advance this investigation.”

“She’s right,” says Lenz.

“What we’re going to do,” Baxter says in a conclusive tone, “is let Ms. Glass go about her business. We know her wishes. It’s up to us to decide what strategy makes the most sense.”

“She needs protection,” says Kaiser. “We have no idea what’s going on in this case, no idea about motive. De Becque could have people in New Orleans right now. They could snatch or kill her any time.”

“Agreed,” says Baxter. “Patrick, could you put one of your agents with Ms. Glass until we contact her?”

Bowles nods assent.

“Ms. Glass,” Baxter says in a conclusive tone, “I appreciate your willingness to go through with this. And if Agent Kaiser knew you like I do, he’d know there’s no point in arguing with you.”

Bowles looks at Kaiser. “Take her outside and find her some protection, John. Somebody you’ll be satisfied with.”

Kaiser gets up and walks out without a glance in my direction.

I stand and say, “Gentlemen,” with the panache I’ve developed over twenty years working in a profession dominated by men, then follow him out.

Kaiser is waiting in the hall, his jaw tight.

“Your work has dulled your ability to assess risk,” he says. “You think because you’ve tromped through a few battlefields, a visit to the Cayman Islands is nothing. But there’s a difference. In a war zone, a journalist’s enemy is bad luck. You might take a stray bullet or a piece of shrapnel, but nobody’s trying very hard to kill you. De Becque may have nothing else on his mind but killing you. Do you get that? You could walk in the front door, and he could stick a knife in your throat and laugh in your face.”