Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney Page B

book?’
    â€˜Because I don’t know where it is.’
    Stern’s face reddened. ‘I’m gonna beat the shit out of him,’ he said.
    â€˜There’s a right time and a right place,’ Rose said, then turned to look at Lang. ‘Maybe later.’
    â€˜You and your promises,’ Stern said.

Six
    Reed Fine Arts was on the fifth floor of 69 Geary, an address where a number of respected firms had their galleries. Carly had settled on a loose-fitting knit sweater and slacks, a delicate gold necklace, and low-cut boots by Jimmy Choo she bought in a moment of weakness . . . or madness. But dressing right was important. She knew it was superficial, shallow. Sometimes she liked superficial and shallow.
    She always remembered her grandmother taking her downtown to the City of Paris before it closed and telling her how important clothes were to the proper young woman. Maybe her grandmother made it true, but dressed like this Carly felt confident, and she was about to meet with people who were knowledgeable about a subject she knew little about. It was the philosophy that if everything is all right on the outside, the inside will adapt. It did.
    There were two desks behind a rosewood wall on the right as she entered. At each was a young woman dressed in black, sitting in front of an Apple computer. They didn’t look up as Carly passed by them. Beyond was where the exhibitions began. The first room showcased very large underwater photographs . . . brilliant blue-greens and ephemeral shapes in the water. The images didn’t come from the ocean deep, but from swimming pools. There was something both ghostlike and cheery – a very difficult mood to embrace. Off to the left was a hallway, clearly a place for offices. But there was another opening, a smaller room where portrait photographs, maybe twenty-five of them, resided on white walls. They were all the same size and looked at first to be identical. In fact, they were portraits of just one person, each with a subtle difference.
    Carly came back to the women who sat at the desks by the entrance. One of the women, a blonde of maybe thirty, looked up. Smiled and nodded. Eyebrows lifted, she was asking what Carly wanted without uttering a word.
    â€˜I’m trying to find Frank Wiley,’ Carly said.
    â€˜The photographer?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Just a moment,’ the woman said, picking up the phone. After a brief conversation, she said, ‘Mr Reed will be right with you.’
    Carly moved into the room of swimming pool photographs and waited. A slender man in a pinstriped suit that made him look slenderer came in. He wore squarish horn-rimmed glasses. He was probably fifty. His hair was brushed back. There was a Fred Astaire kind of elegance, but his face was solemn.
    â€˜Yes?’ He forced a smile from a face that seemed uncomfortable with the exercise.
    â€˜I’m trying to find Frank Wiley,’ she said. ‘I understand you carry his work.’
    He put his fingers to his lips. Obviously, this required some thought.
    â€˜We did,’ he said finally.
    The conversation was held in hushed tones as if they were in a library or church.
    â€˜You don’t anymore?’
    â€˜No. Mr Wiley, you might be interested to know, is holding his own retrospective. Probably his last. He wanted to do it here, but frankly . . . well, nothing.’
    â€˜His work has slipped.’
    â€˜No, it’s just that his work is a bit . . . uh . . . historic now. He’s a fine photographer. We’ve always been a little ahead of the times, you know.’
    â€˜I’m trying to find him. Do you know how I can contact him?’
    â€˜I’m not sure that would be appropriate,’ Reed said.
    â€˜I’d like to see his new show,’ she said.
    â€˜I’m sure there will be some notice in the papers,’ Reed said. ‘Anything else I can help you