Dead Sleep by Greg Iles Read Free Book Online

frame inside it.
    â€œThere,” he says. “You can see it now.”
    I’m torn between wanting to step around the crate and wanting to stay right where I am. But I have to look. I might recognize one of the victims who was taken before Jane.
    The instant I see the woman’s face, I know she’s a stranger to me. But I could easily have known her. She looks like ten thousand women in New Orleans, a mixture of French blood with some fraction of African, resulting in a degree of natural beauty rarely seen elsewhere in America. But this woman is not in her natural state. Her skin should be café au lait; here it’s the color of bone china. And her eyes are fully open and fixed. Of course, the eyes in any painting are fixed; it’s the talent of the artist that brings life to them. But in these eyes there is no life. Not even a hint of it.
    â€œSleeping Woman Number Twenty,” says Wingate.
    â€œDo you like it better than the paintings downstairs?”
    Only now do I see the rest of the painting. The artist has posed his subject against a wall, knees drawn up to her chest as though she’s sitting. But she is not sitting. She is merely leaning there, her head lolling on her marbled shoulder, while around her swirls a storm of color. Brightly printed curtains, a blue carpet, a shaft of light from an unseen window. Even the wall she leans on is the product of thousands of tiny strokes of different colors. Only the woman is presented with startling realism. She could have been cut from a Rembrandt and set in this whirlwind of color.
    â€œI don’t like it. But I feel . . . I feel whoever painted it is very talented.”
    â€œEnormously.” Genuine excitement lights Wingate’s black eyes. “He’s capturing something that no one else working today is even close to. All the arrogant kids that come in here, trying to be edgy, painting with blood and making sculpture with gun parts . . . they’re a fucking joke. This is the edge. You’re looking over it right now.”
    â€œIs he an important artist?”
    â€œWe won’t know that for fifty years.”
    â€œWhat do you call this style?”
    Wingate sighs thoughtfully. “Hard to say. He’s not static. He began with almost pure Impressionism, which is dead. Anyone can do it. But the vision was there. Between the fifth and twelfth paintings, he began to evolve something much more fascinating. Are you familiar with the Nabis?”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œNabis. It means ‘prophets.’ Bonnard, Denis, Vuil lard?”
    â€œWhat I know about art wouldn’t fill a postcard.”
    â€œDon’t blame yourself. That’s the American educational system. They simply don’t teach it. Not unless you beg for it. Not even in university.”
    â€œI didn’t go to college.”
    â€œHow refreshing. And why would you? American institutions worship technology. Technology and money.”
    â€œAre you American?”
    A bemused smile. “What do you think?”
    â€œI can’t tell. Where are you from?”
    â€œI usually lie when someone asks that question. I don’t want to insult your intelligence, so we’ll skip the biography.”
    â€œHiding a dark secret?”
    â€œA little mystery keeps me interesting. Collectors like to buy from interesting dealers. People think I’m a big bad wolf. They think I have mob connections, criminal clients all over.”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œI’m a businessman. But doing business in New York, that kind of reputation doesn’t hurt.”
    â€œDo you have prints of other Sleeping Women I can see?”
    â€œThere are no prints. I guarantee that to the purchaser.”
    â€œWhat about photographs? You must have photos.”
    He shakes his head. “No photos. No copies of any kind.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œRarity is the rarest commodity.”
    â€œHow long have you had this