Angel With a Bullet Read Online Free Page A

celebrity and gained a following, but his star was fading. Hollywood’s nouveau riche are a fickle bunch. One week you’re a must-have, the next, not so much. In another year, he could easily be forgotten, replaced by the next great discovery. Bottom line, he was too self-centered to let that happen. I don’t believe he would check out without a fight. His ego wouldn’t let him.”
    â€œMaybe he ran out of ideas,” Frank reasons. “And legends are born when they die young.”
    â€œCould be, but the indefinable thing that makes a true artist is soul. Peel back the layers and you find an unquenchable desire to leave a mark, create a kind of immortality.”
    â€œYou’re making a strong case for suicide,” Frank says.
    I shake my head. “There’s also the ego factor. Making a mark is important but totally pointless if you’re not around to bask in the glory. Diego didn’t want to be Van Gogh, dying a pauper with nothing but rejection to show for a life’s work. He wanted to be Picasso, Dali, Warhol—worshipped while he walked the earth. That’s why his limited-edition prints were practically limitless. And that’s why he was letting his art be used on ties for rich businessmen and on print ads for perfume. Pretty soon he would be doing Converse shoes and Christmas wrap.”
    â€œEveryone’s a critic.” Frank rubs his temples.
    â€œTrue, but I know what I’m talking about. We used to argue into the small hours—”
    â€œWhat a minute,” Frank says. “You know the victim?”
    I’m not big into kissing and telling to friends who happen to be colleagues. Or colleagues who happen to be friends. Whatever.
    â€œBefore he became a name.”
    Frank has the kind of disapproving smile that makes children cry.
    He sighs heavily. “OK. Let’s suppose you’re right. If it’s not suicide, what’s the motive for murder?”
    â€œBeats the hell out of me.”
    Frank guffaws so loudly that the two officers turn to stare.
    â€œExcuse me, then,” he says. “While I look for a note.”
    _____
    â€œPlease don’t touchthat,” cries a nasally voice from the doorway.
    Frank looks up from the bloodied canvas as a smartly dressed man, a gaily colored ascot swirling wildly around his throat, trots in from the hall.
    â€œStop right where you are!” Frank yells, a finger the size of a small truncheon stabbing the air.
    The magic finger seems to do the trick as the man stops stock still, every part of him frozen except for rapidly blinking eyes and a creepy caterpillar moustache that squirms beneath a long, hooked nose.
    A silver-haired officer with a face the color of boiled beets and a gut the size of a vodka-infused watermelon arrives close behind. His lungs are expanding and contracting so rapidly he looks about to have a coronary.
    â€œIf you’re going to die, do it outside,” Frank warns the officer. “My crime scene is busy enough.”
    Ascot man chances a look over his shoulder at the gasping officer.
    â€œWho are you?” Frank demands.
    The man’s neck snaps back around so quickly, I imagine chiropractors wincing in their sleep.
    â€œMy name is unimportant, but I implore you not to touch that painting.” The man lifts a white handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth.
    Until the handkerchief raises the issue, I can’t say I noticed an unpleasant smell. Some crime scenes are nasty, especially if the bodies have been lying around for a while or the victims really went to town on a greasy last meal. But this one isn’t bad at all, which makes me wonder why.
    â€œYour name,” Frank growls. “And how’d you get up here?”
    This last question is directed at the officer in the hallway who is still a noticeably unhealthy color.
    The thin man stiffens, but one hand still manages to snake into a jacket pocket to produce a plain