“We’re just here to talk,” Kaiser insists.

“Foreplay for the police?” Smith asks in a taunting voice.

“We don’t control the police in this town.”

“I thought after all the corruption scandals here, you did.”

Beside me, Baxter says, “He’s pretty well-informed for a recent transplant.”

Not many years ago, police corruption and the city’s homicide rate were at an all-time high. Two police officers actually committed murder in the execution of a robbery, and the chaos that followed almost resulted in the Justice Department federalizing the New Orleans police force.

“We can talk here, in a civil manner,” says Kaiser, “or the police can haul you downtown.”

Smith laughs. “My God, it’s Humphrey Bogart in elevator shoes. Why don’t we go into the salon? I’ll have coffee brought in.”

Footsteps and a closing door echo in the van, then more footsteps.

“Please, sit,” Smith says.

There’s a groan of springs compressing under Dr. Lenz’s weight.

“Juan? Three coffees, please.”

“Si.”

“The guy has a servant,” says Baxter. “Shit. My student days were a little different.”

“Mr. Smith,” Lenz begins, “I’m Arthur Lenz, a forensic psychiatrist. This is Special Agent John Kaiser. He’s a psychological profiler for the Bureau.”

“Two Van Helsings in my salon. Should I be flattered or insulted?”

“What’s he talking about?” asks Baxter.

“Van Helsing was the professor who hunted Dracula,” I tell him.

“This is going to be fun, I can tell.”

“Put the tray there, Juan. Thank you.” There’s a pause, then Smith half-whispers, “I’m still training him. He has a long way to go, but he’s worth it. How do you take your coffee, Doctor?”

“Black, please.”

“Same for me,” says Kaiser.

There’s a tinkle of china, more groaning of springs.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” Lenz says. “We-”

“Let me save you both some time,” Smith interrupts. “You’re here because of the women who’ve been vanishing. You’ve discovered that the series of paintings known as the Sleeping Women depicts these women. Some bit of evidence has led you to Roger Wheaton’s program at Tulane. You’re now questioning Wheaton and the rest of us before turning the police loose on us and ripping our lives apart. Roger is very upset, and that upsets me. I’d very much like to hear the details of this supposed evidence.”

“You sound as if you were already aware of the Sleeping Women,” says Kaiser.

“I was.”

“How did you learn about them?”

“From a friend in Asia.”

“You have a lot of Asian friends?”

“I have friends all over the world. Friends, colleagues, clients, lovers. About three months ago I heard that paintings from a new series were topping a million in private sales. Then I heard some were to be exhibited in Hong Kong. I’ve been thinking of going to view them.”

“You were aware of the subject matter?” asks Lenz.

“Nude women sleeping was what I understood in the beginning. I only recently heard the rumors about the death theory.”

“How did you feel about the prospect that women might be dying to produce those paintings?”

A long pause. “I haven’t seen the paintings, so that’s difficult to answer.”

Lenz sips from his coffee cup; we can hear it over the mike. “Do you mean the quality of the paintings would determine your view of the morality of women dying to produce them?”

“To paraphrase Wilde, Doctor, there’s no such thing as a moral or immoral painting. A painting is either well done or badly done. If the paintings are beautiful, if they are indeed great art, then they justify their own existence. Any other circumstances involved in their creation are irrelevant.”

“That sounds familiar,” says Kaiser.

“How so?” asks Smith.

“Do you know a man named Marcel de Becque?”

“No.”

“He’s a French expatriate who lives in the Cayman Islands.”

“I don’t know him. But there’s a certain irony in the name.”

“What’s that?” asks Lenz.

“Emil de Becque was the French expatriate in South Pacific”

“Son of a bitch,” hisses Baxter.

I can feel Lenz’s embarrassment through the ether. “You’re right,” he says. “I’d forgotten.”

“Perhaps this man took the surname as an alias?”

“De Becque’s father went to Southeast Asia in the 1930s,” says Lenz. “Maybe Michener heard the name and gave it to one of his island characters.”

“I’ll tell you someone I did know,” says Smith. “This should get you hot and bothered. Christopher Wingate.”

This time the silence is longer. “Why would you bring up Christopher Wingate?” asks Lenz.

“Let’s not play games, Doctor. I heard about Wingate’s death. I knew he was the dealer for the Sleeping Women. I thought nothing of it at the time. But now that the paintings are connected with possible murders, I see his death in a different light.”

“How did you know Wingate?” asks Kaiser.

“A mutual friend introduced us at a party in New York. I was considering switching from my present dealer to him.”

“Why?”

“Because he was, in a word, hot.”

“I’m going to ask you a sensitive question,” says Lenz. “Please don’t take offense. This is very important.”

“I’m on pins and needles.”

Lenz is probably furious at being mocked, but he soldiers on. “Is Roger Wheaton gay?”

Smith barks a little laugh that’s hard to read. “Did you ask Roger that?”

“No. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to offend him.”

“I’m offended for him. Not because of anything to do with being gay, but because of the invasion of his privacy.”

“When people are dying, private matters often must become public. If you won’t answer the question, I will have to ask Wheaton. Is that what you want me to do?”

“No.”

“Very well.”

After a thoughtful pause, Smith says, “I wouldn’t say Roger is gay.”

“What would you say?”

“He’s a complex man. I’ve only known him personally for two years, and all that time he’s been seriously ill. I think his illness has caused him to concentrate on nonsexual areas of his life.”

“Have you ever seen him out with a woman?” Lenz asks. “Or with a woman at his home?”

“Roger doesn’t ‘go out.’ He’s either home or at the university. And yes, he has female guests.”

“Overnight?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Does he have particular male friends?”

“I flatter myself that I’m his friend.”

“Have you been his lover?”

“No.”

“Would you like to be?” asks Kaiser.

“Yes, I would.”

“Listen to this guy,” says Baxter. “Cool as they come.”

“Would you have any problem giving us your whereabouts on a particular set of dates?” asks Kaiser.

“I wouldn’t think so. But let me be frank about something, gentlemen. I’ll cooperate with this investigation up to a point. But if the police upset my life to an inordinate degree, without direct evidence against me, I’ll institute legal action against both the police and the FBI. I have the resources to vigorously pursue such an action, and with the recent history of the NOPD in this town, I’d say my chances were good. So be forewarned.”

There’s a silence I can only interpret as shock. I doubt that representatives of the FBI are accustomed to being talked to in this way by serial-murder suspects.

“Psychology happens to be a particular interest of mine, Doctor,” Smith goes on. “I happen to know that the incidence of homosexual serial killers is zero. So I think you’d have some difficulty persuading a jury that I’m a good candidate for harassment in this case.”

“We don’t necessarily believe the painter is the killer in this case,” Lenz says. “But we’re not focusing on you as a suspect. You’re simply one of four people with access to particular brush hairs taken from Sleeping Women canvases.”

“Tell me about these hairs.”