was, and I decided I couldn’t afford that. So, eleven years ago, I stopped.”
“Aspirin?” Lucas asked. A little sarcasm.
“I still use aspirin and ibuprofen. I’m not a moron.” His tone of voice showed no reaction to the sarcasm, and somehow left Lucas feeling that the sarcasm had been juvenile. Plain was ahead on points.
“So what happened next?” Sloan asked.
At about midnight, Plain said, he left the party at Sallance Hanson’s and went back to his studio in St. Paul’s Lowertown with a friend, Sandy Smith, where they met an employee, James Graf, to look at scanned negatives from that morning’s photo shoot. After half an hour of looking at the negs, Smith left for his home while Plain and Graf continued to work with the negatives.
“What were the pictures of?” Lucas asked.
Plain tilted his head. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Some investigation,” he said to the brown-haired man. Then: “I spent all yesterday morning and the early part of the afternoon doing a fashion shoot with Alie’e.”
“Did you have a personal relationship with Alie’e?” Sloan asked.
“What do you mean, personal? You mean, was I fucking her?”
“Or anything else,” Lucas said.
“No. I wasn’t fucking her. I wasn’t interested in her. She was a dummy. She was like a toy that you plugged your dick into. Or, if you were a woman, that you stuck your tongue into. She was interested in feeling good, and that was about it,” he said.
“Your sister was involved with her?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah. They were gobbling each other, or whatever women do. Sticking heroin in their arms, putting coke up their noses.”
Sloan said, “Hmph,” and Lucas asked, “I was talking to some woman who was at the party, and she said you were so jealous of the relationship between Alie’e and your sister that you might kill Jael if you had the chance. Which suggests that Alie’e was more to you than just another model.”
Plain tipped his head, regarding Lucas with some curiosity, and said, “You’re lying. Nobody told you that. But that’s interesting. You apparently got hold of something, somewhere, and you don’t know quite what it is.”
“Get a lawyer,” his friend said from the corner.
Lucas grinned involuntarily. He’d been caught—and that made him curious. “Tell me why you think I’m lying.”
“Because you got it just backwards,” Plain said.
“What?”
“I wasn’t jealous because my sister took Alie’e away from me. I’m a little jealous—I admit it—because Alie’e took Jael away from me.”
In the immediate silence, the brown-haired friend said, “Oh shit,” and Lucas and Sloan looked at each other, trying to figure out what Plain had just said. Plain, picking on Sloan because he was the straighter-looking of the two cops, leaned toward him and said, “Yup. I was fucking my sister.”
“NOW, THAT WAS an interview and a half,” Sloan said when they’d finished and Plain and his friend had gone. They had an hour of tape.
Lucas rubbed his forehead. “I was feeling almost sympathetic there, toward the end. Two arty parents, rich dipshits, get divorced. Each one takes a kid. The kids don’t see or speak to each other for fifteen years, then they run into each other, virtual strangers, good-looking, one is a model and the other one is working in photography, both running with the same crowd. If they hadn’t been brother and sister, you’d expect them to fall in bed.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
Lucas nodded. “Then there’s the other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He says his sister quit modeling and now is a professional potter, big in the art world. I’ve met a couple of potters.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Sloan said. He had an exaggerated idea of Lucas’s love life.
“I’ll tell you one thing about potters,” Lucas continued. “They pick up this clay, and they throw it around, and they beat it and twist it and turn it. . . . a few years of that, and
“Aspirin?” Lucas asked. A little sarcasm.
“I still use aspirin and ibuprofen. I’m not a moron.” His tone of voice showed no reaction to the sarcasm, and somehow left Lucas feeling that the sarcasm had been juvenile. Plain was ahead on points.
“So what happened next?” Sloan asked.
At about midnight, Plain said, he left the party at Sallance Hanson’s and went back to his studio in St. Paul’s Lowertown with a friend, Sandy Smith, where they met an employee, James Graf, to look at scanned negatives from that morning’s photo shoot. After half an hour of looking at the negs, Smith left for his home while Plain and Graf continued to work with the negatives.
“What were the pictures of?” Lucas asked.
Plain tilted his head. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Some investigation,” he said to the brown-haired man. Then: “I spent all yesterday morning and the early part of the afternoon doing a fashion shoot with Alie’e.”
“Did you have a personal relationship with Alie’e?” Sloan asked.
“What do you mean, personal? You mean, was I fucking her?”
“Or anything else,” Lucas said.
“No. I wasn’t fucking her. I wasn’t interested in her. She was a dummy. She was like a toy that you plugged your dick into. Or, if you were a woman, that you stuck your tongue into. She was interested in feeling good, and that was about it,” he said.
“Your sister was involved with her?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah. They were gobbling each other, or whatever women do. Sticking heroin in their arms, putting coke up their noses.”
Sloan said, “Hmph,” and Lucas asked, “I was talking to some woman who was at the party, and she said you were so jealous of the relationship between Alie’e and your sister that you might kill Jael if you had the chance. Which suggests that Alie’e was more to you than just another model.”
Plain tipped his head, regarding Lucas with some curiosity, and said, “You’re lying. Nobody told you that. But that’s interesting. You apparently got hold of something, somewhere, and you don’t know quite what it is.”
“Get a lawyer,” his friend said from the corner.
Lucas grinned involuntarily. He’d been caught—and that made him curious. “Tell me why you think I’m lying.”
“Because you got it just backwards,” Plain said.
“What?”
“I wasn’t jealous because my sister took Alie’e away from me. I’m a little jealous—I admit it—because Alie’e took Jael away from me.”
In the immediate silence, the brown-haired friend said, “Oh shit,” and Lucas and Sloan looked at each other, trying to figure out what Plain had just said. Plain, picking on Sloan because he was the straighter-looking of the two cops, leaned toward him and said, “Yup. I was fucking my sister.”
“NOW, THAT WAS an interview and a half,” Sloan said when they’d finished and Plain and his friend had gone. They had an hour of tape.
Lucas rubbed his forehead. “I was feeling almost sympathetic there, toward the end. Two arty parents, rich dipshits, get divorced. Each one takes a kid. The kids don’t see or speak to each other for fifteen years, then they run into each other, virtual strangers, good-looking, one is a model and the other one is working in photography, both running with the same crowd. If they hadn’t been brother and sister, you’d expect them to fall in bed.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
Lucas nodded. “Then there’s the other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He says his sister quit modeling and now is a professional potter, big in the art world. I’ve met a couple of potters.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Sloan said. He had an exaggerated idea of Lucas’s love life.
“I’ll tell you one thing about potters,” Lucas continued. “They pick up this clay, and they throw it around, and they beat it and twist it and turn it. . . . a few years of that, and
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