*****057:

Murdock was slightly put out after he found out what we wanted, but he let us in because Kareem had already apprised him of the situation. He was a tall, mostly balding man, with a full upper lip, that perched outward in continual skepticism, as if the world and everything in it exasperated him to no end. So, maybe I misread his hesitancy to have us. He couldn't do anything about his lip, right?

But he didn't speak to us either, or wait for us to catch up with him as he high footed it along the huge tiled hallway, more reminiscent of a bank, or a university entrance. All marbled and wainscoting, carvings, and profusions of colored flowers and gold lamiae. I smelled curry somewhere deep in another part of the house.

We rounded three corners, feeling like we were possibly walking down the halls of a very spacious doctor's office or something. Oh, I forgot to mention, my kids never took their eyes off Murdock--- he was dressed only in flowing beige linen pants with a tie waist, and he had this very long, smooth, dark abdomen--- truly the smoothest skin I had ever seen. Pretty sure, if he stopped walking--- which his stride was long enough that running to keep up with him would have been an option if I wasn't busy looking at each and every painting we passed. If he stopped, Felicity would reach out and pet him. Those pants were so loose, they looked like they'd fall off any minute.

The gallery was on the main floor. He stopped outside the door, which wasn't even a real door, but some kind of arched entrance, carved and polished. His hand indicated we should proceed, but both kids stopped, still staring at him.

He stared at them back.

His black eyes were so black, almost no whites, and so intense, even I felt uncomfortable.

"Are you a black man?" Virgil asked abruptly.

Murdock only moved his eyes, he did not tilt his head, and he did not smile. "I am Nubian, South Sahara. I was born in Africa." When he finally tilted his bald head his eyes pierced Virgil and Felicity, who both shrank against my legs and Lissie reached for my hand. "Are you Latino?"

Virgil, normally unflustered, was speechless. I had a hand on him too, wondering why Murdock, who I had met numerous times and knew to be a very sensitive artsy fartsy soul, was acting like this to children.

"They are my children." I said lightly, catching his eye again as he cocked his body for best advantage. Not sure what was up with that.

"We're adopted." Virgil found his voice, and I felt him square his little shoulders. He'd faced enough intimidaters. He wasn't about to let this one get away with it.

Suddenly, Murdock let loose this gigantic white-toothed smile, so powerful and charismatic it sparkled like the ice at the North Pole. He squatted in front of us. "Your accent is Mexican, south of the border. But you've never been there, am I correct?"

Virgil digested this change in attitude, instantly deciding he didn't trust this guy, and not afraid to dismiss him. That was Virgil. Obviously, Murdock saw this, and realized his mistake, for he turned his attention to Felicity.

"Tell me your name child."

"Felicity." She buried her face in my jeans, and twisted her hair with the hand that wasn't clutching mine.

"And your daddy calls you Lissie?"

She shook her head. "Only Rafe calls me Lissie. Papa calls me Pollito."

Murdock reared back and laughed, our eyes met and held a little too long. "She speaks well for her age."

I nodded, swallowed against the slight annoyance his stalling and self-aggrandizement caused me. He was posturing---- for who? Me?

"Yeah, she does." I let the boredom creep in. "So, we were hoping to see the galleria."

"I must warn you, some of the paintings are explicit, not meant for little ones."

"That's art, right?" I pushed the kids into the airy room, looking much more like an eighteenth-century ballroom than a home in Hollywood Hills. The reds and golds caught the eye, and each and every wall was adorned high and low with paintings.

Virgil kept his eyes trained on Murdock, pretty sure his early behavior had tripped the wire for my son's anxiety antenna. But Felicity turned to me and raised her hands to be picked up. I obliged and we started the tour. I watched her eyes as she took in her new surroundings.

Murdock began to illuminate our walk around the hall.

"These are by Ed Ruscha--- they depict Life in Los Angeles, and remind us of the billboards we see on the freeway." He was obviously toning it down to kid level.

Felicity fingered her necklace from her perch atop my chest, one arm around my shoulders. I felt her long black hair cloyingly against my neck. This room was kept at a certain temperature, and although it was likely meant to be cool, it felt too warm to me.

We walked past the Ruschas, not particularly interesting to kids, as they weren't actually pictures of something, but rather symbols of the times we lived in. Murdock showed us the collages by Muniz, and glassed by one really naughty one of the lower half of a naked woman. My attention betrayed my interest a little more than I could have liked. I had to drag my eyes away. Not that it was porn, it was hard to tell at first what it was--- and that was what drew my eye. Keep telling yourself that, bucko.

The advent of Gerard Richter, a very famous artist in the early 1970's and on, really captivated and drew us in. Couldn't help it, the colors were vibrant, and blurred, still making up an interesting depiction of something else. I could see both of the kids looking at each of these six paintings with a little more than the cursory glance afforded the others. They were getting that the reason we were here was because I wanted them to notice the artwork.

Virgil always did his best to be compliant. He was not a normal child, and he had not had a normal childhood up to this point. But as he gazed at the Richter's, beautiful and scintillating colors, I could see his face soften.

And then Felicity squealed and wriggled to get down. I let her go and she ran across the room. Murdock watched her intently and with no little surprise as she climbed up on the velvet settle beneath a very large portrait type painting obviously from the 1700's or early 1800's. I happened to know the artist was Fransisco de Goya and that this particular framed beauty of a 'couple de boyeurs'--- drunken couple, in muted tones, with the woman's breast being squeezed lasciviously in the man's hand as they toasted--- was a print. The original had been sold at auction, and Kareem had wanted it badly—and lost.

This is the moment I had hoped for. And just like I thought might happen, Felicity actually pulled on the corner of the frame. Murdock jumped across the room in alarm, but I was suitably vindicated.

"Lissie! Don't touch the painting." I said drolly--- obviously not too worried about it, and even Murdock caught my lack of concern with a surprised inflection in his eye. She continued to tug at the corner.

The painting was held fairly securely---- however--- like I knew it would be--- and because it is a print and can actually be handled, it alone in this room was where my dear friend kept his safe.

"No, no, darling." Murdock was trying to lift her. I could have warned him against touching Felicity when she wanted something.

"It is in my Grandpa's too-dee." She exclaimed and the painting gave way to her grip and swung wide to reveal the wall safe beneath. She scrambled back as it slid on its hinges, and I stopped her fall off the settle.

Of course, she was saying the word, Abuelo--- and I knew her paternal Abuelo had passed away. I also knew that the villa in Tapeapulco where her paternal grandparents had lived, or still did live--- at least the grandmother--- was probably adorned with just such artwork--- maybe even a Goya print or two, and definitely a wall safe beneath as we'd just proven.

She was even fingering her necklace again, as if unseen hands could take it off and open the safe.

"The papers in the too-dee." Felicity said, and I smiled and nodded benignly, finally understanding what my hunch had been correct about. I knew who had the actual necklace, and I knew how the safe opened, and I pretty much had an idea where the painting was. In the too-dee---- the estudia. The Study.

Now I could call John Crimmons and the team and have something real and concrete to go on. Now I could let Eli know--- or at least suspect---

Why hadn't they checked there already? Maybe they had.

But it was certain from all the different last names of these half-brothers, that they'd not been raised with their father--- and therefore weren't as aware of his safe places. They must have been raised with their mothers. Perhaps the grandfather had had mistresses--- not unheard of.

I felt a rush of adrenaline. Instinct made me want to rush out and catch a plane to Mexico City.

I had my phone out, and realized as I did that someone was calling me.

Of course, Aubrey.

******