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what was going on in his head that caused him to jeopardize everything he had for a sack full of money he didn’t need.”
    Lucien curled his lip. “Why’s everybody so fucking hung-up on the past?” He picked up his brush and slathered a thick stripe of carmine across the wet canvas. “What do you think of my new painting?”
    Baffled by his lack of sympathy but happy for a change of subject, she searched for meaning in the swirling shapes and drunken colors on the canvas. This was a radical departure from his usual work.
    “A monster? A red monster pointing a white stick?”
    “It’s a bone. You know about bone pointing?”
    “You know me, Lucien. Myths are my thing. Bone pointing is an Aboriginal hex. A way to kill somebody from a distance. I’ve read that some people believe the superstition so strongly that, if a shaman points the bone at them, they actually get sick and die. Mind over matter.”
    He applied another layer of red on top of the violent impasto. “I’ve been reading some Aboriginal myths myself. The deadliest of the bone pointers was a snake god called Taipan. If he got you in his sights, it was curtains.”
    “So that red blotchy thing is Taipan?”
    “You don’t sound impressed.”
    “Just puzzled by your change of style.”
    “When in Rome.” He leaned back and analyzed his handiwork. “It’s a little short on method, but I’ll get it. Anyhoo. This Taipan was a heavy-duty snake god. He could heal all kinds of ailments. He created blood and told it how to flow through the body so I painted him inside-out, all veins and raw meat.”
    “Lovely. What are those blue and green squiggles in the foreground?”
    “The wives. He had three of them, two water snakes and a death adder.”
    “Not too subtle.”
    He dipped a clean brush into a blob of white and scrawled a jagged Z pointing down from the Taipan’s other hand. “Maybe I’ve been possessed by the snake god. That’s how it is with a lot of Aboriginal artists. They don’t feel as if they’re physically doing the painting themselves, but some metaphysical force is moving their hands and speaking through them.”
    “Like a Ouija board.” She leaned back on the bed and propped on her elbows.
    “Could be. I’ve been reading a lot about Aboriginal art, too. Have you met Mack?”
    “No.”
    “Well, he’s got some pictures of snakes that’ll knock your eyes out. Speaking of snakes, there’s an actual snake called a taipan that’s fifty times as poisonous as a death adder. It would be a great way to snuff somebody.”
    “I hope your infatuation with snakes and death is a side effect of the meds you’re taking and will soon pass.”
    “Is that a comment about my character or my painting?”
    “It’s a comment on the climate. Everyone I’ve met today has been harping on murder.”
    “Murdah, murdah, murdah.” His voice rose to a girly falsetto. “Fiddle-de-dee, Miss Scarlett. This murdah talk is spoilin’ th’ fun at all th’ pahties this season.”
    She laughed and fell all the way back on the bed. The show of humor reassured her. “Not everyone’s obsessed. I met a hot bartender at the airport who bucked the trend.”
    “And are we meetin’ this hot bartendah again?”
    “Never you mind, big brother.”
    He grimaced. “Oh, I almost forgot. Nick called.”
    “Nick!” She sat up as if she’d been stung. “How’d he get your international cell number?”
    “Beats me, unless you gave it to him.”
    Shit. She must have left it in the apartment.
    “He says to call him back ASAP. How’s ol’ Nick doing? The last time we talked, things between you two sounded serious.”
    “They weren’t. They’re not. Nick and I are kaput. If he calls again, tell him I’m in the wind. No forwarding address.”
    “Another one bites the dust.”
    “None of your gibes about my checkered past, Dobbs. I walked in on this one banging a redhead. What was I supposed to do? Give him a medal?”
    “Gosh, I dunno. Upbraid him