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any other New Orleans victims?” he asks.
    â€œNo. But I never studied the photos of those beyond number six.”
    â€œYou’re one hundred percent sure it was your sister’s face in that painting?”
    â€œAre you kidding? It’s my face, Baxter. My body, naked to the world.”
    â€œOkay . . . I believe you.”
    â€œHave you ever heard of these paintings?”
    â€œNo. I’ll talk to our fine arts people in D.C. as soon as we get off. And we’ll start taking this Christopher Wingate’s life apart. When will you be in New York?”
    â€œNineteen hours. Around five P.M. New York time.”
    â€œTry to get some sleep on the plane. I’m going to book you a flight here from JFK. American Airlines. It’ll be an e-ticket, just show your license or passport. I’ll drive up to Washington and meet you at the Hoover Building. I have to be up there tomorrow anyway, and that’s more convenient for you than Quantico. In fact, I’ll have an agent pick you up at Reagan Airport. Do you have any problem with that?”
    â€œYes. I think they should have left it Washington National.”
    â€œMs. Glass, are you all right?”
    â€œI’m great.”
    â€œYou sound upset.”
    â€œNothing pharmacological therapy won’t cure. Mixed with a little of Scotland’s finest.” A hysterical laugh escapes my lips. “I need to take the edge off. It’s been a tough day.”
    â€œI understand. But leave a little edge in place, okay? I need you sharp and thinking.”
    â€œIt’s nice to be needed.” I terminate the connection and replace the Airfone in the armrest.
    You didn’t need me thirteen months ago, I say silently. But that was then. Now things have changed. Now they’ll want me around until they get a handle on the significance of the paintings. Then they’ll cut me off again. Exclusion is the worst fate for a journalist, and a living hell for a victim’s family. Better not to think about that right now. Better to sleep. I’ve practically lived in the air for twenty years, and sleeping on planes was effortless until Jane disappeared. Now it takes a little help from my friends.
    As the chemical fog descends over my eyes, a last cogent spark flashes in my brain, and I take out the phone again. I’m in no state to hassle with directory assistance, so I plug into an entirely different connection. Ron Epstein works Page Six at the New York Post; he’s a human who’s who of the city. Like Daniel Baxter, he’s addicted to his work, which means he’s probably there now, despite the early hour in New York. When the Post operator puts me through to his section, he answers.
    â€œRon? It’s Jordan Glass.”
    â€œJordan! Where are you?”
    â€œOn my way to New York.”
    He responds with a giggle. “I thought you were off in the hinterlands, taking pictures of clouds or something.”
    â€œI was.”
    â€œYou must need something. You never call just to kibitz.”
    â€œChristopher Wingate. Ever heard of him?”
    â€œ Naturellement. Very chic, very cool. He’s made Fifteenth Street the envy of SoHo. The old dealers kiss his ass now, and the more they do, the more he treats them like shit. Everyone wants Wingate to handle their stuff, but he’s very picky.”
    â€œWhat about the Sleeping Women?”
    A coo of admiration. “Aren’t you in the circle. Not many American collectors know about them yet.”
    â€œI want to see him. Wingate, I mean.”
    â€œTo photograph him?”
    â€œI just want to talk to him.”
    â€œI’d say you have to stand in line, but he might just be intrigued enough to talk to you.”
    â€œCan you get me his phone number?”
    â€œIf I can’t, no one can. But it may take a while. I know he’s not listed. He lives above his gallery, but I don’t think the gallery’s listed