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an actual piece of the man.”
    “Do you think he wants only pretty pictures to hang on his walls? Tommy Smallwood is a cannibal, Patrick, a flesh-eater. When he sees something he wants he has a violent biological response to it. His heart rate and blood pressure skyrocket, and his brain releases neurotransmitters called serotonin and norepinephrine. They induce in him a sexual response, and he begins to feel good all over. He can’t control himself—he’s a slave to desire. His appetite swells and his penis becomes engorged.”
    “It does what?” Patrick said, seeming alarmed.
    “Look, earliest man performed two basic activities that neither time nor evolution has erased from the gene pool: he hunted, then he went out and collected his kill. A caveman like Smallwood won’t be content until he’s bagged everything there is to get.”
    The room was quiet and I flashed to an old picture of my father’s hat slowly turning on the museum floor.
    “How can you be certain it’s by Levette?” Patrick said.
    “Several ways,” Rhys answered. “My staff and I worked on one of the Asmores that belong to the Historic New Orleans Collection. And there are strong similarities between that painting and this one.”
    “Such as?”
    I scooted closer for a better look. Rhys gave me a nod and I said, “Asmore didn’t have a whole lot of money, so he often had no choice but to use inferior materials, such as burlap and house paint, which are what he appears to have used in this case. To finish his paintings Asmore almost always used shellac instead of varnish, because he could get it for nothing at the shipyards. Rhys will have to confirm this, but this surface glaze looks like marine shellac, the kind you’d cover the hull of a boat with. It’s the same texture, and it’s orange, thecolor marine shellac would be at this age. You probably have some incredibly vibrant colors underneath this awful stuff. Asmore was known for his bold, inventive use of color.”
    Rhys stopped running her fingers over the surface and faced me again. “Looks like the discovery of this painting is only the first of the night’s surprises. Who are you really, Jack?”
    “Just the son of a guy who liked Levette,” I answered.
    Her mouth was open a crack and in the candlelight you could see her tongue tracing over the inside of her teeth. “The surface is so filthy you can barely make out the subject matter,” she said, “but it looks like a young woman. This is good, Patrick. Levette Asmore was the classic romantic bad boy, and apparently irresistible to women. He laid waste to whoever came in his path, or so legend has it. At his funeral several of his female admirers threw themselves at his empty coffin. He’d painted some of these women in a series of portraits that art historians today refer to as his
Beloved
paintings.
Beloved Marie, Beloved Claire.
All of his paintings are valuable, but the real trophies are his
Beloved
girls.”
    “Beloved Rhys,”
Patrick said. “Now how does that one sound?”
    “I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Rhys said. “In this condition it’s impossible to tell who she is. See how badly the paint is cupping? See how it’s lifting off the burlap? Asmore’s paintings often have this condition problem. He rarely primed his surface with gesso, and in all likelihood he painted this image directly on top of another painting—or on top of several others. This baby will start flaking and losing paint if we don’t do something soon. It’s already pretty sick.”
    “Sick, did you say?” said Patrick.
    “Critical condition, barely hanging on, in need of emergency surgery.”
    “I was afraid you were going to say that. Maybe I should’ve left the thing in the closet. I’d ask for an estimate but the night has gone so well I’d hate to ruin it now.”
    “Ask her what she thinks it’s worth,” I said to Patrick.
    “I would do that, Jack, but I can’t seem to get up the nerve.”
    “Rhys, tell