If It Bleeds by Linda L. Richards Page A

stood facing the artist boldly, as though he might spring from the canvas and punch anyone who got in his way. On one level, it was a portrait. But somehow, it was so much more. I said as much to Sam.
    â€œYes, yes,” he said. “That’s it exactly, isn’t it? Another artist could make this painting and it would be ordinary. But”—Sam shook his head sadly—“Steve saw the beauty in this. He saw it and incorporated everything one could see. And perhaps everything that couldn’t be seen.”
    This confused me. “How can you paint what you can’t see?”
    â€œThat’s the very essence of art, I think,” he said. “Anyone can paint what anyone can see. But to paint in a way that makes you feel something? That’s mastery.”
    I looked at the title of the painting. “ Eldert ?”
    â€œYes, yes,” he said again. “Isn’t it wonderful? Just Eldert . So in a sense, it is just a painting of this young man. And yet…”
    â€œWho is he?” I asked. “Who is Eldert?”
    Sam looked at me, surprised. “You don’t know much about this artist then?”
    I shook my head.
    He went over to a rack at the side of the gallery and pulled out a brochure. I wasn’t surprised to see that Eldert had been chosen to adorn the cover. It was a powerful work. “Here, you can read this. It’ll explain Steve’s work and, in a sense, the man.”
    â€œThanks. Can I take this?”
    Sam nodded.
    I tucked it into my bag. “Did you know Steve’s girlfriend? Caitlen Benton-Harris?”
    â€œYes, of course. I’ve met her on many occasions.” It was possibly my imagination, but I thought I saw a moue of distaste.
    â€œDid you see her here last night?” I asked.
    Sam pondered for a moment. “Now that you mention it,” he said finally, “I didn’t. Hmmmm…that’s odd.”
    By the time Caitlen had arrived, Steve was dead and Sam was occupied elsewhere.
    â€œDo you know where I can find her?”
    â€œI’m sorry, but I don’t. She’d show up with Steve sometimes. I don’t have a number for her. I had no reason to call her.”
    â€œOf course. What does she do?” I asked. “Where does she work?”
    â€œShe’s an artist too. She once asked me to represent her.”
    â€œAnd you wouldn’t?”
    â€œNo. Not then. The work was too raw,” he explained, “too unfinished. I told her to come back when she had some more miles on her. Honestly, though? I was being kind. I didn’t see anything that made me think she had what it takes.”
    â€œAnd what does it take?” I asked.
    â€œWell, a lot of things, really. But one thing is key. Talent.”
    â€œYou’re saying she lacked talent?”
    â€œIt sounds harsh, I suppose. But yes. I guess that’s it all right.”
    â€œAnd Steve had that?”
    â€œTalent? Oh yes! Steve did. And so much more. You never met him?”
    I shook my head, trying not to think of the dead man in his car. That didn’t count.
    â€œSteve was…well, he was extraordinary. I don’t know how else to say it.”
    There was something in Sam’s face. Or a shadow of something.
    â€œYou guys were close?”
    â€œOh no. Not really.” Sam shrugged. “I was his dealer. That is a special relationship in its own right.”
    â€œYou said his paintings are selling well now. Better than when he was alive?”
    â€œAs I said, that can be what happens when an artist dies. And when that happens? Well, people line up for opportunity, don’t they?”

FOURTEEN
    O n my way back to the office, I thought about what I knew so far. While the ice-pick thing was huge, I’d promised Itani I wouldn’t use it for three days. That meant that in three days I’d have an exclusive on the ice pick. This was a byline there was no way Brent was going to