The Guest Room by Chris Bohjalian Page A

Please.”
    “Okay.”
    Almost as one, the two of them glanced at the painting, the wannabe Bierstadt, which had also been sprayed with the bodyguard’s blood. A great swash went across the trees and the Wedgwood sky and the small cliff that slid gracefully into the smoky blue of the Hudson. An idea came to him and he said, “When I was at the police station, someone gave me a card for a cleaning service. Any suggestions for someone who restores paintings?”
    “Professionally? No. But my cousin teaches in the art history department at NYU. She’ll know someone.”
    “Think it’s salvageable?”
    “My cousin would know. I don’t. But maybe.”
    “Thanks.”
    He glanced down at the rug where earlier that evening his brother—his engaged brother—had had sex with the blond whore. Sonja? Yes, that was what she had said her name was. He couldn’t decide if he should tell the detective that they should look for traces of the woman’s skin or hair there. They would find his brother’s DNA; God, they would find his fucking semen. But it’s not like his brother was a suspect in the two murders. When they had been at the police station, the principal thing the detectives there had wanted to know was the name of the escort service that Philip’s pal, Spencer, had used in Manhattan. Spencer was, in fact, the only one they had really grilled about anything.
    Nevertheless, his brother was going to have an awful lot to explain to his fiancée, Nicole. (Of course, Nicole’s own brother was not innocent either. Eric had been among the men who, separately, had disappeared into some dark corner of the house with the blonde for God knew what sort of carnal satisfactions.) He wondered if their engagement would survive this. He wondered if his own marriage would survive this. He told himself it would because Kristin’s heart was forgiving and big, and they had over a decade and a half together—because, pure and simple, they loved each other—but he had screwed up. All the men had. And, when he thought about the reactions of grown women such as Kristin and Nicole, his mind couldn’t help but wander to Melissa’s response. How in the world was he ever going to explain this to his nine-year-old daughter? He and Kristin had sometimes joked about how politicians described their sexual misconduct to their children. If you were Bill Clinton, how did you justify Monica Lewinsky to Chelsea? What did you say about the cigar and the beret and the little blue dress? If you were Anthony Weiner, how in the world did you explain to your daughter your apparently insatiable need to text pictures of your junk to strange women?
    “You’re welcome,” Patricia said. Then: “What do you do for a living? Someone said banker.”
    “Investment banker, yes. Franklin McCoy.”
    “And your brother?”
    “Hotelier.”
    She raised an eyebrow good-naturedly at the pretentiousness of the word.
    “He’s a manager at the Cravat. The rooms executive.”
    “Hip place in Chelsea?”
    “That’s the one.”
    She folded her arms across her chest and sighed. “You seem like a nice enough guy,” she began. “I’m sure you never expected this level of madness in your living room.”
    “Nope. Never did.”
    “It really is—pardon my French—a shitstorm. Can I ask you something?”
    “Of course.”
    “You ever hang with girls like this before?”
    Girls like this.
He tried to decide what the detective meant. He couldn’t, so he said simply, “No.”
    “Don’t go to strip clubs after work?”
    “I don’t.”
    “Good for you.”
    “Thank you. I guess.”
    “Lots of men do.”
    He nodded. He knew his brother did.
    “And—not judging, just asking—no escort service under some secret code in your phone?”
    “Again, no.”
    She glanced at the spot on the floor where a few hours ago a buffed Russian pimp had bled out. “Where were you when the first dude was stabbed?”
    He pointed at the nailhead chest—a polished mahogany—where