Dead Sleep by Greg Iles Read Free Book Online Page B

through the mail?”
    â€œSometimes. Other times they’re left downstairs, in the gallery. It’s like spy novels—what do they call that? A blind drop?”
    â€œWhat legitimate reason could there be for that kind of arrangement?”
    â€œWell, I thought it might be the Helga syndrome.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThe Helga syndrome. You know Andrew Wyeth, surely?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWhile everyone thought all he could do was rural American realism, Wyeth was secretly painting this woman from a neighboring farm. In the nude. Helga. Wyeth kept the paintings secret, and they were only revealed years later. The first Sleeping Woman I got was simply left here. It wasn’t one of the early ones. It was from his Nabi period. As soon as I saw it, I recognized the talent. I thought it might be by an established artist, one who didn’t want it known that he was experiment ing in that way. Not until it was successful, at least.”
    â€œHow do you pay him? You can’t leave millions in train station lockers. Do you wire the money to a bank account somewhere?”
    A languid expression comes over Wingate’s features. “Look, I sympathize with you. But I don’t see how this part of my business is your business, okay? If what you say is true, the police will be asking me all this soon enough. Maybe you’d better talk to them. And I better talk to my lawyer.”
    â€œForget I asked that, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you. All I care about is my sister. All these women disappeared from New Orleans. Not one has been found, alive or dead. Now suddenly I discover these paintings in Hong Kong. Everyone assumes the women are dead. But what if they’re not? I have to find the man who painted these pictures.”
    He shrugs. “Like I said, we’ll just have to wait for the police to sort it out.”
    A buzz of alarm begins in the back of my brain. Christopher Wingate does not look like a man who would welcome the attention of police. Yet he is stalling me by claiming he wants to wait until they become involved. It’s time to get out of here.
    â€œWho knows about all this?” he asks suddenly. “Who else have you told?”
    I’m wishing my hand was in my pocket, wrapped around the Mace can, but he’s watching me closely, and the hammer is within his reach. “A few people.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œThe FBI.”
    Wingate bites his bottom lip like a man weighing options. Then a half-smile appears. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
    He picks up the claw hammer, and I jump back. He laughs at my skittishness, then grabs a handful of nails, puts a few in his mouth, and begins hammering the side panel back onto the crate, like a man taking maximum precautions to protect his treasure.
    â€œEvery cloud has a silver lining, right?” The nails between his lips make him answer out of one side of his mouth. “The FBI starts investigating these paintings in a murder case, they become worldwide news. Like the guy in Spain who murdered women and posed them like Salvador Dalí paintings. That means money, lady.”
    â€œYou are a bastard, aren’t you?”
    â€œIt’s not illegal, is it? Yes, I’m going to make a lot more money on this painting than I thought. Maybe double the bid.”
    â€œWhat’s your commission?” I ask, stepping out of range of the hammer and sliding my hand into my pocket.
    â€œThat’s my business.”
    â€œWhat’s a standard commission?”
    â€œFifty percent.”
    â€œSo this one painting could land you a million dollars.”
    â€œYou’re quick at math. You should work for me.”
    The crate is nearly sealed. When he’s finished, he’ll tell me to leave, then get on the phone and start promoting his newly appreciated asset.
    â€œWhy are you selling these paintings in Asia rather than America? Were you trying to delay