"Just for a minute," Delaney said, moving to inspect the framed art on the walls. "You have some beautiful things here. You know all these artists?"

"All of them," Dukker said. "Lousy friends and rotten enemies. Take a look at that one. The drawing over by the window, the one in the thin gold frame. That should interest you."

Obediently, Delaney and Boone found the sketch and stood before it. It had been torn twice, the four pieces patched with transparent tape and pressed behind glass. In the corner, a scrawled but legible signature: Victor Maitland.

"An original Maitland," Delaney said.

It was a hard, quick sketch of a running woman. In profile. Bulge of naked breast and ass caught in one fast S-stroke, a single charcoal line. A suggestion of high-stepping knees, hair flaming, the whole bursting with life, motion, young charm, vigor, a bright gaiety.

"No, sir," Jake Dukker said. They turned to look at him. "A signed Maitland. An original Dukker!" Then when he saw their expressions, he showed his teeth again, a pirate. "Come over here," he commanded. "I'll explain."

They followed him to a corner of the studio, a three-sided closure lined with pegboard. Pinned to the walls were photographic prints and contact sheets, sketches, clippings from newspapers and magazines, sheets of type fonts, illustrations of photo distortions, and color samples of paper and fabric. The small room was dominated by a tilt-top drawing table with a long T-square, jars of pens, pencils, chalks, pastels, plastic triangles and French curves, liquid-cement pot, a battered watercolor tin, and overflowing ashtrays everywhere.

Behind the drawing table, facing a window, was a sturdy workbench. Clamped to the bench was a curious device, a prism at the end of a jointed chrome arm. It was positioned between a vertical and a horizontal drawing board.

"See that?" Dukker said. "It's called a camera lucida. Commonly known as a 'luci.' A kind of visual pantograph. Suppose you want to do a drawing of a nude. So you photograph a nude, the body and pose you want. Make an eight-by-ten print. Pin the print on the vertical board. Put your drawing paper flat on the horizontal board. Then you look through that prism at the end of the jointed arm. You see the photo image and at the same time you see the flat drawing paper. You can trace the photo with pen, pencil, chalk, charcoal, pastel stick, whatever. Absolute, realistic likeness."

They looked at him, and he laughed.

"Don't knock it," he said. "Takes too much time and work to do it the old-fashioned way, with sittings and all. Even if the artist or illustrator had the talent to do it. And most of them don't. Anyway, one night I was tracing a photo of a family group on my luci when Maitland shows up drunk as a skunk. He starts giving me a hard time about what a mechanic I am. I'm not an artist. I can't draw my way out of a wet paper bag. I'm a disgrace. And so forth and so on. Really laying it on me."

Dukker stopped suddenly, staring at the empty drawing board. His eyes squinched up, as if he was staring at something pinned there. Then he sighed and continued ...

"Finally I got fed up, and I said, 'You son of a bitch, I've had all the horseshit I'm going to take from you. I'm twice the draftsman you'll ever be, and to prove it, I'm going to do an original Victor Maitland that any art expert in the world will swear is genuine.' He laughed, but I grabbed a pad, a charcoal stick, and I knocked out that sketch you see there, the nude running. Victor was a fast worker, but I'm faster. I'm the best. It took me less than three minutes. Then I showed it to him. He looked at it, and I thought he was going to kill me. I really was scared. His face got pale as hell, and his hands started shaking. I really thought he was going to get physical; it never did take much to set him off. I started looking around for something to hit him with. I'd never go up against that crazy bastard with my bare fists; he'd cream me."

Dukker paused to scratch at the tight denim across his crotch, looking up thoughtfully at the ceiling.

"Then he tore my drawing in four pieces and threw them at me. Then I put some more booze into him, and later that night we patched my drawing together with tape, and he signed it. Then he thought it was a big joke. It really is my drawing, but he admitted he wasn't ashamed to put his name to it. Shit, it's better than a lot of things he did. And I didn't trace a photograph either. I just knocked it off. He wasn't so great. I could have been ... Everyone thinks ... Well, let's go upstairs and relax. I got another shooting in an hour or so. Got to keep going. Can't stop."

Before he led them up the spiral staircase, he grabbed up a maroon beret from the littered work table and jammed it rakishly over one eye. They watched him put it on, but said nothing. They were cops; human nuttiness didn't faze them.

Upstairs, he asked if they'd like a drink. When they declined, he insisted on making a fresh pot of coffee for them. He made it in an unusual glass container with a plunger arrangement that shoved a strainer of ground coffee down through hot water.

"You'll love this," he assured them. "Better than drip. And the coffee is my own blend of mocha, Java, and Columbian that I buy in the bean at this marvelous little place on the Lower East Side. I grind it fresh every morning. Full-bodied, with a subtle bouquet."

Chief Delaney thought it was possibly the worst cup of coffee he had ever drunk. And he could tell from Boone's expression that his opinion was shared. But they sipped politely.

They were seated somewhat nervously on a short crimson velvet couch shaped like human lips. Jake Dukker slouched opposite them in a soft leather chair shaped like a baseball mitt.

"So ..." he said. "What can I do for you?"

They took out their notebooks. Chief Delaney reviewed the record of the artist's activities on the Friday that Victor Maitland had been killed. Dukker's receptionist and assistants had come to work around 9:00 A.M. They had set up for the fashion assignment. The models appeared around 10:00, and shooting commenced about thirty minutes later. Belle Sarazen showed up around 11:30. At noon, she and Jake Dukker had come upstairs for lunch.

"A divine omelet," Dukker interjected.

They had gone back downstairs around 1:30, and Belle Sarazen left the studio about an hour later, maybe a little less. Shooting was completed slightly before 3:00 P.M., and the models departed. Dukker remained in his apartment until seven that evening, when he went to a dinner party with friends in Riverdale, driving up.

"Your own car?" Delaney asked.

Dukker nodded. "A waste of money really. I usually take cabs. Trying to park in midtown Manhattan is murder. Most of the time I keep it garaged. On West Fifty-eighth Street. Want the name and address of the garage?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Dukker," Delaney said. "We have that information. What about Belle Sarazen?"

"What about her?"

"Were you intimate with her?"

Dukker took a long swallow of his coffee and grimaced.

"Oh God, yes," he said. "Like half of New York. Belle distributes her favors regardless of race, creed, color, or national origin."

"She says you hated Victor Maitland," Delaney said tonelessly.

Dukker jerked erect, some of his drink slopping over onto his jeans.

"She said that?" he said. "I don't believe it."

"Oh yes," Delaney nodded. He looked down at his notebook. "Said you hated him because you envied Maitland's integrity. Her word-'integrity'-not mine."

"The bitch," Dukker said, relaxing back into the baseball mitt. "Envied maybe. Yes, I suppose I did. Hated? I don't think so. Certainly not enough to kill him. I cried when I heard he was dead. I didn't want him dead. You can believe that or not, but I really took it hard."

"Well, that's something different," Delaney said. "You're the first person we've talked to who was close to Maitland who's expressed any kind of sorrow. Except possibly his agent, Saul Geltman."

"His agent?" Dukker said. Unexpectedly he laughed. "Is that what you call him?"

"He was Maitland's agent, wasn't he?"

"Well ... yes, I suppose so," Dukker said, still smiling. "But they don't like to be called 'agents.' 'Art dealer' is the term they prefer."

"We had a long discussion with Geltman about art agents," Delaney said stubbornly. "How much they make, their duties and responsibilities, and so forth. Never once did Geltman object to being called Maitland's agent."

"Maybe he didn't want to rub you the wrong way," Dukker shrugged. "But I assure you that art dealer is what they want to be called. Like a garbageman likes the title of sanitation engineer."

"Do you have an agent, Mr. Dukker?" Sergeant Boone asked. "Or an art dealer?"

"Hell, no," Dukker said promptly. "What for? I sell directly. People come to me; I don't have to look for customers. Why should I pay thirty percent of my gross to some leech who can't do anything for me I can't do myself? Listen, my stuff sells itself. I'm the best."

"So you told us," Delaney murmured. "To get back to Belle Sarazen, can you tell us anything about her relationship with Victor Maitland?"

"Hated him," Dukker said immediately. He put his drink aside, half-finished. He slumped lower in his leather baseball mitt, laced his fingers across his pot belly. "Hated his guts. Vic hated phonies, you see. Hated sham and hypocrisy in any way, shape or form. And Belle is the biggest phony going."

"Is she?" Delaney said.

"You bet your sweet ass," Dukker said enthusiastically, nibbing his bristly jaw. "Listen, Vic Maitland was a rough guy. I mean, if he thought you were talking shit, he'd tell you so. Right out. No matter who was listening. I remember once Belle had a big party at her place. A lot of important people. Maitland showed up late. Maybe he hadn't been invited. Probably not. But he'd hear about parties and come anyway. He didn't care. He knew they really didn't want him there because he got into trouble all the time. I told you, he'd get physical. He'd deck art critics and throw things. Food. Drinks at people he didn't like. Stuff like that. Anyway, Belle was having this fancy party, and Vic showed up. Drunk, as usual. But keeping his mouth shut. Just glaring at all the beautiful people. Then Belle started talking about what a big shot she had been in Washington. You know, entertaining the President and dancing with ambassadors and playing tennis with Senators and teaching yoga to Congressmen's wives. All that crap. Everyone was listening to Belle brag, not wanting to interrupt. After all, she swings a lot of clout. Then Maitland broke in. In a loud voice. Everyone heard him. He called Belle the World's Greatest Blower. He said she had blown off her husband's head, had blown a fortune in Europe, and had ended up blowing the Supreme Court."

Delaney and Boone smiled down at their notebooks.

He broke up the place," Dukker grinned, remembering. "We couldn't stop laughing. He was such a foul-mouthed bastard, really dirty, but at the same time he was funny. Outrageous. Sometimes."

"How did Belle Sarazen take this?" Delaney asked.

"Tried to laugh it off," Dukker shrugged. "What else could she do? But she was burning, I could see. Hated him right then. Could have killed him. I knew she'd never forget it."

"Why did Maitland do it? Say those things?"

"Why? I told you why. Because he couldn't stand phonies. Couldn't stand sham and hypocrisy."

"Well ..." Delaney sighed, "sometimes people use complete honesty as an excuse for sadism."

Jake Dukker looked at him curiously.

"Right on, Chief," he said. "There was that, too. In Maitland's personality. He liked to hurt people. No doubt about it. He called it puncturing their ego-balloons, but there was more to it than that. At least I think there was. He could get vicious. Wouldn't leave anyone a shred of illusion or self-esteem. Like he did to Belle that night. You can hate someone like that, someone who strips all your pretense away and leaves you naked."

The two officers were busy scribbling in their notebooks.

"You said the Sarazen woman swings a lot of clout," Delaney said, not looking up. "What did you mean by that?"

"Well ... you know," Dukker said. "Political influence. She really does know some important people. Knows where the bodies are buried. Also, she's a powerhouse in the New York art world. She can promote a gallery show for some schlocky little cartoonist. Or get her rich friends to buy some guy's stuff. Great on publicity and promotion. Throws parties. Knows everyone. She can be valuable to artists. To dealers. To collectors."

"You think she knows what's good?" Delaney asked. "I mean, does she have good taste in art?"

Jake Dukker burst out laughing.

"Good taste?" he spluttered. "Belle Sarazen? Come on! She'll find some kid in the Village with a long schlong, and she'll bring his stuff to me and say, 'Isn't he fan-tas-tic? Isn't he great?' And I'll say, 'Belle, the kid just hasn't got it. He's from stinksville.' A month later the kid will have a show in a Madison Avenue gallery, and a month after that he'll be dead, gone, and no one will ever hear of him again. Which is all to the good because he didn't have anything in the first place. All Belle's doings. She picked the guy up, gave him a gallery show, and dropped him just as quick. After showing him a few positions even the Kama Sutra doesn't include. Then she's on to someone else, and the original guy is back in the Village, eating Twinkies, and wondering what the hell hit him. Art is just one big game to Belle."

"But you like her?" Delaney asked, staring at Dukker without expression. "You like Belle Sarazen?"

"Belle?" Dukker repeated. "Like her? Well ... maybe I do. Like goes to like. We're both a couple of phonies. I could have been ... well, what the hell's the use of talking about it. Belle and me, we know who we are, and what we are."

"But Victor Maitland wasn't a phony?" Abner Boone said softly.

"No," Dukker said defiantly. "He was a lot of rotten things, but he wasn't a phony. The miserable shit. He wasn't too happy, you know. He was driven, too. He was as greedy as all of us. But for different things."

"What things?" Delaney asked.

"Oh ... I don't know," Dukker said vaguely. "He was a hell of a painter. Not as good as me. Technically, I mean. But he had something I never had. Or maybe I had it and lost it. I'll never know. But he was never as good as he wanted to be. Maybe that's why he worked so hard, so fast. Like someone was driving him."

There was silence a few moments while Delaney and Boone flipped through their notebooks. From downstairs they heard voices and the clatter of props and equipment as Dukker's assistants set up for the next shooting.

"Mr. Dukker," Delaney said, "did you ever provide or suggest models for Maitland?"

"Models? Once or twice. Mostly he found his own. Big, muscular women. Not the type I dig."

"Did you suggest anyone to him recently? A very young girl? Puerto Rican or Latin-type?"

Dukker thought a moment.

"No," he shook his head. "No one like that. No one at all in the last six months or so. Maybe a year. Why?"

Chief Delaney told him of the sketches found in Maitland's studio. Dukker was interested.

"Bring them around," he suggested. "I'd like to see them. Maybe I can identify the girl. I use a lot of models. For photography and illustration. Painting, too, of course. Though I'm doing less and less of that. The big money's in advertising photography. And I'm beginning to get into film. Commercials. Lots of dinero there."

He lurched suddenly to his feet, the maroon beret jerking to the back of his head.

"Got to get downstairs," he said briskly. "Okay?"

The two cops looked at each other. Delaney nodded slightly. They snapped notebooks shut, stood up.

"Thank you for being so cooperative, Mr. Dukker," Delaney said. "We appreciate that."

"Any time at all," the artist said, waving, expansive. "You know, you've got an interesting face, Chief. Very heavy. I'd like to sketch it some time. Maybe I will-when you come back with those Maitland drawings."

Delaney nodded again, not smiling.

"Can we leave from up here?" Sergeant Boone asked casually. "Or do we have to go downstairs to get out?"

"Oh no," Dukker said, "you can leave from here. That door over there. Leads to the fifth-floor landing and elevator."

"Just one more thing," Chief Delaney said. "Belle Sarazen told us you were doing a painting of her. A nude on aluminum foil."

"Belle talks too much," Dukker said crossly. "It'll get around and everyone will be doing it before I'm finished."

"Could we see it?" Delaney asked. "We won't mention it to anyone."

"Sure. I guess so. Why not? Come on-it's downstairs."

They were waiting for Dukker in the studio-the receptionist with a sheaf of messages, the assistants behind their lights, a model perched on a high stool. She was wearing a sleazy flowered kimono, chewing gum, and flipping the pages of Harper's Bazaar. Behind her, on the stage, the assistants had put together a boudoir scene: a brocaded chaise longue, a tall pier glass on a swivel mount, a dresser covered with cosmetics, a brass bedstead with black satin sheets.

"Hi, Jake, honey," she called as Dukker came down the stairs. "Were you serious? Is this really for a deck of playing cards?"

Dukker didn't answer. The officers couldn't see his face. He led them to a stack of paintings leaning against a wall. He flipped through for the one he wanted, slid it out, set it on a nearby easel. They moved close to inspect it.

He had glued aluminum foil to a Masonite panel, and prepared the surface to take tempera. The background was ebony black, which lightened to a deep, deep Chinese red in the center, a red as glossy as old lacquer ware. Belle Sarazen was posed in the center portion, on hands and knees, on what appeared, dimly, to be a draped bench.

She had, Delaney thought, almost the position of a hound on point: back arched and rigid, head up and alert, arms stiff, thighs straining forward. The artist had not used skin tones, but had allowed the aluminum foil, unpainted, to delineate the flesh. Modeling and shadows of the body were suggested with quick slashes of violet, the sharp features of the face implied rather than detailed.

The painting was a startling tour de force. There was no questioning the artist's skill or the effectiveness of his novel technique. But there was something disquieting in the painting, something chill and spiritless. The woman's hard-muscled body hinted of corruption.

That effect, Delaney decided, was deliberately the artist's, achieved by tightly crumpling the foil. Dukker had then smoothed it out before gluing it to the board. But the skin, the unpainted foil, still bore a fine network of tiny wrinkles, hundreds of them, that gave the appearance of crackle, as if the flesh had been bruised by age, punished by use, damaged by too-frequent handling. He could not understand why Belle Sarazen was so proud of a portrait that seemed to show her a moment before she fell apart, splintered into a dusty pile of sharp-edged fragments.

"Very nice," he told Dukker. "Very nice indeed."

He and Boone walked slowly back to their parked car. They stared at the sidewalk, brooding ...

"The garage checked, Chief?" Boone asked.

"Yes," Delaney said. "The only record they had was when he took his car out at seven that evening. But check them again."