his beer in one tip and a series of big gulps. When the last of it was gone down his gullet Jordan slammed the pint glass down onto his coaster and stood up to go. For a moment he loomed over the two of them, and it looked like he was about to say something else, but then he stormed away without a word.
Bollier reached to grab his arm but Agent Clemons quietly shook his head and said no.
Chapter Four
Vladimir Shirokov took two steps back and looked at the canvas, but it was not quite the right angle, so Shirokov stepped back several more. He had shed off the heavy cast and ditched the crutches the week before but still had to wear a walking boot on his right foot where the army man had shot him. The boot was better than the crutches but moving around was still an ordeal.
The canvas was 48 by 60 inches of warm colors, swirling around in a vortex that gave the illusion of drawing the viewer into a portal towards a dark and fiery nether region straight out of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Reds and oranges and yellows danced in the spiral, but the reds dominated the composition. When Shirokov was six paces away he felt the lighting was just right. He stood with a ceramic palette and a wet brush in hand and spoke to the lawyer.
“What do you sink?”
Avi Solomon was sitting off to the side of the studio, going through a ream of papers from the real estate agent’s office. The A-list attorney was an expert in many things but art was not one of them. Absently, Solomon looked up for a moment and then went back to his work.
“I don’t know. I think maybe it needs more red.”
The irony was not lost on Shirokov and he allowed himself a chuckle, but when he returned his gaze to the canvas he thought about it.
“Maybe you are right. Maybe you might have eye for painting after all.”
“That’s possible. But right now my eye is a little preoccupied with your trial. Have you made any progress on getting to a juror?”
Shirokov’s glowing amber eyes rolled in his head as he sat down and propped his walking boot up on a divan. His freedom may have been on the line but the subject of his trial had become an intolerable bore to him. The paintings were suffering with his mind distracted as such.
“Do not concern yourself with jury. Tell me about property.”
“There’s no new news I’m afraid. We have been over this. Finding a buyer after what happened out there on your front lawn is going to be extraordinarily difficult.”
With a shrug Shirokov turned his head toward the tall window. A breeze caught the curtain and he glimpsed a sliver of green.
“Difficult yes. Impossible no.”
“Impossible quite very possible I’m afraid. I don’t care how many bathrooms you’ve got nobody wants to live on an estate where eleven people got killed. At least consider bringing down your asking price.”
Shirokov rubbed at his temples.
“Your negativity. It is tiring. Surely there must be one buyer who is not unnerved by ghosts and superstition.”
“There might be, but snagging him at what you’re asking is like praying for a miracle.”
“Miracles do happen, counselor. Miracles happen often. Now. What has happened to Alexei and Timur?”
Avi Solomon swallowed hard and set the stack of papers off to the side. His fingers formed a steeple and he tapped his shoe nervously.
“I received word from our source last night.”
Shirokov waited and eyed the lawyer with a cold patience.
“They have both agreed to cooperate with the police. You’re going to have to get that family out of that warehouse, along with everything else you’ve got there. The feds will be crawling all over it by this time tomorrow.”
Exhaling sadly, Shirokov signaled that it would be done. With some effort Shirokov got up from the divan. He picked up his brush and palette, then slowly clopped his way back to the enormous painting, as of
Bollier reached to grab his arm but Agent Clemons quietly shook his head and said no.
Chapter Four
Vladimir Shirokov took two steps back and looked at the canvas, but it was not quite the right angle, so Shirokov stepped back several more. He had shed off the heavy cast and ditched the crutches the week before but still had to wear a walking boot on his right foot where the army man had shot him. The boot was better than the crutches but moving around was still an ordeal.
The canvas was 48 by 60 inches of warm colors, swirling around in a vortex that gave the illusion of drawing the viewer into a portal towards a dark and fiery nether region straight out of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Reds and oranges and yellows danced in the spiral, but the reds dominated the composition. When Shirokov was six paces away he felt the lighting was just right. He stood with a ceramic palette and a wet brush in hand and spoke to the lawyer.
“What do you sink?”
Avi Solomon was sitting off to the side of the studio, going through a ream of papers from the real estate agent’s office. The A-list attorney was an expert in many things but art was not one of them. Absently, Solomon looked up for a moment and then went back to his work.
“I don’t know. I think maybe it needs more red.”
The irony was not lost on Shirokov and he allowed himself a chuckle, but when he returned his gaze to the canvas he thought about it.
“Maybe you are right. Maybe you might have eye for painting after all.”
“That’s possible. But right now my eye is a little preoccupied with your trial. Have you made any progress on getting to a juror?”
Shirokov’s glowing amber eyes rolled in his head as he sat down and propped his walking boot up on a divan. His freedom may have been on the line but the subject of his trial had become an intolerable bore to him. The paintings were suffering with his mind distracted as such.
“Do not concern yourself with jury. Tell me about property.”
“There’s no new news I’m afraid. We have been over this. Finding a buyer after what happened out there on your front lawn is going to be extraordinarily difficult.”
With a shrug Shirokov turned his head toward the tall window. A breeze caught the curtain and he glimpsed a sliver of green.
“Difficult yes. Impossible no.”
“Impossible quite very possible I’m afraid. I don’t care how many bathrooms you’ve got nobody wants to live on an estate where eleven people got killed. At least consider bringing down your asking price.”
Shirokov rubbed at his temples.
“Your negativity. It is tiring. Surely there must be one buyer who is not unnerved by ghosts and superstition.”
“There might be, but snagging him at what you’re asking is like praying for a miracle.”
“Miracles do happen, counselor. Miracles happen often. Now. What has happened to Alexei and Timur?”
Avi Solomon swallowed hard and set the stack of papers off to the side. His fingers formed a steeple and he tapped his shoe nervously.
“I received word from our source last night.”
Shirokov waited and eyed the lawyer with a cold patience.
“They have both agreed to cooperate with the police. You’re going to have to get that family out of that warehouse, along with everything else you’ve got there. The feds will be crawling all over it by this time tomorrow.”
Exhaling sadly, Shirokov signaled that it would be done. With some effort Shirokov got up from the divan. He picked up his brush and palette, then slowly clopped his way back to the enormous painting, as of
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