Blood on Canvas

Chapter 1: The Gallery After Dark

The call came at eleven forty-seven on a Thursday night, which meant trouble. Good news never arrived after midnight, and Rachel Hayes wasn't the type to phone about anything less than catastrophe.

"Jack, I need you at the Meridian Gallery. Now." Her voice held the particular steadiness of someone fighting panic. "Oliver Grant is dead."

I set down my whiskey and reached for my coat. Oliver Grant. The name meant something even to someone like me, who couldn't tell a Monet from a finger painting. Grant was the kind of artist whose work sold for more than most people's houses, whose exhibitions drew crowds from three continents, whose face appeared in magazines I'd never read.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said.

The Meridian Gallery occupied a converted warehouse in the arts district, all exposed brick and soaring ceilings designed to make visitors feel appropriately small before the greatness of the work inside. At this hour, the street was empty except for two patrol cars and an unmarked sedan I recognized as belonging to Detective Frank Holloway.

Rachel met me at the service entrance. She was a tall woman in her fifties, silver hair pulled back severely, wearing what I suspected was a designer dress now rumpled from stress. As the gallery's owner and Oliver Grant's exclusive dealer for the past fifteen years, she had more to lose tonight than most.

"Thank you for coming," she said, gripping my arm with surprising strength. "The police are already here, but I need someone who works for me. Someone who understands discretion."

"What happened?"

She led me through a back corridor lined with crated paintings awaiting installation. "Oliver was working late in his temporary studio—we set one up in the back for final preparations. The exhibition opens tomorrow night. His final show, Jack. He announced his retirement six months ago, and this was supposed to be his crowning achievement."

We stopped before a heavy door marked PRIVATE. Rachel's hand trembled slightly as she pushed it open.

The studio was a large, well-lit space that smelled of turpentine and something else—something metallic that made my stomach tighten. Oliver Grant lay sprawled across the concrete floor, surrounded by a spreading pool of dark liquid. A palette knife protruded from his chest, its wooden handle pointing accusingly at the ceiling.

Detective Holloway looked up from his notebook. We'd crossed paths enough times to have developed a grudging mutual respect, though he'd never admit it.

"Morgan. Should've known you'd show up."

"Mrs. Hayes called me."

"It's Ms.," Rachel corrected automatically. "I was never married."

Holloway grunted. "Well, you can look, but don't touch anything. We're still waiting on the medical examiner."

I circled the body carefully, taking in details. Oliver Grant had been a handsome man in his late sixties, with a leonine mane of gray hair and the kind of weathered face that suggested a life lived intensely. He wore paint-stained clothes—work clothes—and his right hand was curled as if he'd been reaching for something when he fell.

The palette knife was buried deep, positioned between the ribs with what looked like precision. Not a crime of passion, then, or at least not an impulsive one. Someone had known exactly where to strike.

"Who found him?" I asked.

"Security guard," Holloway said. "Name's Dennis Parker. Does rounds every two hours. Found the body at eleven-fifteen, called it in immediately."

"And before that?"

"Grant was seen alive at approximately eight-thirty, when he asked one of the caterers setting up for tomorrow to bring him coffee. That gives us a window of about two and a half hours."

I looked at Rachel. "Who had access to the gallery tonight?"

She pressed her fingers to her temples. "That's just it. We were preparing for the opening. There were people everywhere until about nine, and then most of them left. But several people stayed late or came back."

"How many?"

"Six," she said. "Six people besides Oliver who had access to this part of the building between eight-thirty and eleven-fifteen."

Holloway flipped a page in his notebook. "We've got them all in the main gallery. Nobody leaves until we've taken statements."

I nodded slowly, my mind already working through the implications. Six suspects, one dead artist, and an exhibition that was supposed to open in less than twenty-four hours.

"Ms. Hayes," I said, "what exactly do you want from me?"

"I want you to find out who did this before the press gets hold of it. Before scandal destroys everything Oliver worked for." She met my eyes with fierce determination. "This exhibition represents his entire legacy. Forty years of work, all culminating in tomorrow night. I won't let some murderer turn it into a circus."

"The police—"

"The police will do their job, and I respect that. But you can do things they can't. Ask questions they won't think to ask. I'm hiring you, Jack. Whatever your rate is, I'll double it."

I looked back at Oliver Grant's body, at the dark pool spreading beneath him like a shadow. Somewhere in this building were six people, one of whom had driven that blade into his chest. And I had until tomorrow night to figure out which one.

"All right," I said. "Let's meet your suspects."