A Darkness More Than Night

she picked up right away. He asked if she had gotten anything back from the lab on the examination of the plastic owl.
    “Not yet. It’s only been a couple hours and one of them was lunch. I’m going to give it until tomorrow before I start knocking on their door.”
    “Do you have time to make a few calls and do me a favor?”
    “What calls?”
    He told her about the icon search Brass Doran had conducted but left out any mention of Hieronymus Bosch. He said that he wanted to talk with an expert on Northern Renaissance painting but thought the arrangements could be made more quickly and cooperation would be more forthcoming if the request came from an official homicide detective.
    “I’ll do it,” Winston said. “Where should I start?”
    “I’d try the Getty. I’m in Van Nuys now. If somebody will see me I could be there in a half hour.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. You talk to Harry Bosch?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Anything new?”
    “Not really.”
    “I didn’t think so. Hang tight. I’ll call you back.”
    McCaleb dumped what was left of his lunch into one of the trash barrels and headed back toward the courthouse, where he had left the Cherokee parked on a side street by the state parole offices. As he walked he thought about how he had lied by omission to Winston. He knew he should have told her about the Bosch connection or coincidence, whichever it was. He tried to understand what it was that made him hold it back. He found no answer.
    His phone chirped just as he got to the Cherokee. It was Winston.
    “You have an appointment at the Getty at two. Ask for Leigh Alasdair Scott. He’s an associate curator of paintings.”
    McCaleb got out his notes and wrote the name down, using the front hood of the Cherokee, after asking Winston to spell it.
    “That was quick, Jaye. Thanks.”
    “We aim to please. I spoke directly to Scott and he said if he couldn’t help you he would find someone who could.”
    “You mention the owl?”
    “No, it’s your interview.”
    “Right.”
    McCaleb knew he had another chance to tell her about Hieronymus Bosch. But again he let it pass.
    “I’ll call you later, okay?”
    “See ya.”
    He closed the phone and unlocked the car. He looked over the roof at the parole offices and saw a large white banner with blue lettering hanging across the facade above the building’s entrance.

    WELCOME BACK THELMA!

    He got into the car wondering whether the Thelma being welcomed back was a convict or an employee. He drove off in the direction of Victory Boulevard. He’d take it to the 405 and then head south.

Chapter 11
    As the freeway rose to cross the Santa Monica Mountains in the Sepulveda Pass, McCaleb saw the Getty rise in front of him on the hilltop. The structure of the museum itself was as impressive as any of the great artworks housed within. It looked like a castle sitting atop a medieval hill. He saw one of the double trams slowly working its way up the side of the hill, delivering another group to the altar of history and art.
    By the time he parked at the bottom of the hill and caught his own tram ride up, McCaleb was fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Leigh Alasdair Scott. After getting directions from a museum guard, McCaleb hurried across the travertine stone plaza to a security entrance. Having checked in at the counter he waited on a bench until Scott came for him.
    Scott was in his early fifties and spoke with an accent McCaleb placed as originating in either Australia or New Zealand. He was friendly and happy to oblige the L.A. County sheriff’s office.
    “We have had occasion to offer our help and expertise to detectives in the past. Usually in regard to authenticating artwork or offering historical background to specific pieces,” he said as they walked down a long hallway to his office. “Detective Winston indicated this would be different. You need some general information on the Northern Renaissance?”
    He opened a door and ushered McCaleb into a suite of offices. They stepped into the first office past the security counter. It was a small office with a view through a large window across the Sepulveda Pass to the hillside homes of Bel-Air. The office felt crowded because of the bookshelves lining two walls and the cluttered worktable. There was just room for two chairs. Scott pointed McCaleb to one while he took the other.
    “Actually, things have changed a bit since Detective Winston spoke to you,” McCaleb said. “I can be more