Page 151 of Homeport

“If that were all, you wouldn’t look so worried.”

“I’m not worried.” Or he hadn’t been until she’d sneaked into his head again. “It’s just complicated.”

Michael made a “hmm” of agreement and decided he was going to enjoy telling his wife that Ryan was well and truly hooked on a redheaded Ph.D. from Maine. “You’ve always been able to work your way out of complications.”

“Yeah.” Since it made him feel better to think so, Ryan nodded. “In any case, that’s only part of the reason I’m here. I’m looking for a young artist. I’ve got an address, but I thought I’d see if you knew him. Harrison Mathers? Sculptor.”

“Mathers.” Michael’s forehead creased. “Doesn’t ring a bell right off. I can check, look through the files to see if we’ve taken any of his work.”

“We’ll do that. I don’t know if he’s still at this address.”

“If he’s in San Francisco and looking to sell art, we’ll find him. Have you seen his work?”

“I believe I have,” Ryan murmured, thinking of the bronze David.

Mathers’s last known address was a third-floor walk-up apartment on the wrong side of downtown. Light rain was falling as Ryan approached Mathers’s building. A small group of young men huddled in a doorway, their eyes scanning the street, looking for trouble.

On the line of pitifully narrow mailboxes built into the wall of the dank foyer, Ryan saw “H. Mathers” in 3B.

He headed up the stairs into the faint smell of urine and stale vomit.

On the door of 3B someone had painted an excellent study of a medieval castle, complete with turrets and drawbridge. It resembled a fairy tale, a dark one, Ryan thought, when you noticed the single face in the top window gazing out in screaming horror.

Harry, he mused, had talent and an excellent sense of his current circumstances. His home might be his castle, but he was a terrified prisoner in it.

He knocked and waited. Almost immediately the door behind him opened. Ryan shifted to the balls of his feet, and turned.

The woman was young, and might have been attractive if she hadn’t already dressed her face for the night’s work. It was a whore’s makeup, heavy on the lips and eyes. The eyes, under the weight of shadow and lashes, were hard as Arctic ice. Her hair was plain brown and cut short as a boy’s. He imagined she used a wig during working hours.

Though he took all this in, as well as the lush body carelessly displayed in a short, flowered robe, his attention centered on the big, black .45 in her hand. Its muzzle was as wide as the Pacific and pointed dead-center at his chest.

He decided it was best to keep his eyes on hers, his hands in plain view, and his explanation simple.

“I’m not a cop. I’m not selling anything. I’m just looking for Harry.”

“I thought you were the other guy.” Her voice was straight out of the Bronx, but didn’t make him feel any more secure.

“Let me just say, under the circumstances, I’m glad I’m not. Could you point that cannon somewhere else?”

She studied him another moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” She lowered it, and leaned against the doorjamb. “I didn’t like the look of the other guy. Didn’t like his attitude neither.”

“As long as you’re holding that gun, I’ll adjust my attitude any way you like.”

She grinned at that, a quick flash that nearly overcame the sex doll makeup. “You’re okay, Slick. What do you want with Rembrandt?”

“A conversation.”

“Well, he ain’t there, and ain’t been around for a few days. That’s what I told the other guy.”

“I see. Do you know where Harry is?”

“I mind my own business.”

“I’m sure you do.” Ryan held one hand palm out, moved the other slowly to his wallet. He saw her lips purse in consideration as he took out a fifty. “Got a few minutes?”

“I might. Another fifty’d buy you an hour.” But she shook her head. “Slick, you don’t look like the type who pays to party.”

“Conversation,” he said again, and held out the fifty.

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