A Darkness More Than Night by Michael Connelly Page B

while he took the other.
    “Actually, things have changed a bit since Detective Winston spoke to you,” McCaleb said. “I can be more specific about what I need now. I’ve been able to narrow down my questions to a specific painter of that period. If you can tell me about him and maybe show me some of his work, that would be a big help.”
    “And what is his name?”
    “I’ll show it to you.”
    McCaleb took out his folded notes and showed him. Scott read the name aloud with obvious familiarity. He pronounced the first name Her-ron-i-mus.
    “I thought that was how you said it.”
    “Rhymes with anonymous. His work is actually quite well known. You are not familiar with it?”
    “No. I never did much studying of art. Does the museum have any of his paintings?”
    “None of his works are in the Getty collection but there is a descendant piece in the conservation studio. It is undergoing heavy restoration. Most of his verified works are in Europe, the most significant representations in the Prado. Others scattered about. I am not the one you should be talking to, however.”
    McCaleb raised his eyebrows in way of a question.
    “Since you have narrowed your query to Bosch specifically, there is someone here you would be better advised to talk to. She is a curatorial assistant. She also happens to be working on a catalogue raisonné on Bosch — a rather long-term project for her. A labor of love, perhaps.”
    “Is she here? Can I speak to her?”
    Scott reached for his phone and pushed the speaker button. He then consulted an extensions list taped to the table next to it and punched in three digits. A woman answered after three rings.
    “Lola Walter, can I help you?”
    “Lola, it’s Mr. Scott. Is Penelope available?”
    “She’s working on Hell this morning.”
    “Oh, I see. We’ll go to her there.”
    Scott hit the speaker button, disconnecting the call, and headed toward the door.
    “You’re in luck,” he said.
    “Hell?” McCaleb asked.
    “It’s the descendant painting. If you’ll come with me please.”
    Scott led the way to an elevator and they went down one floor. Along the way Scott explained that the museum had one of the finest conservation studios in the world. Consequently, works of art from other museums and private collections were often shipped to the Getty for repair and restoration. At the moment a painting believed to have come from a student of Bosch’s or a painter from his studio was being restored for a private collector. The painting was called
Hell.
    The conservation studio was a huge room partitioned into two main sections. One section was a workshop where frames were restored. The other section was dedicated to the restoration of paintings and was broken into a series of work bays that ran along a glass wall with the same views Scott had in his office.
    McCaleb was led to the second bay, where there was a woman standing behind a man seated before a painting attached to a large easel. The man wore an apron over a dress shirt and tie and a pair of what looked like jeweler’s magnifying glasses. He was leaning toward the painting and using a paintbrush with a tiny brush head to apply what looked like silver paint to the surface.
    Neither the man nor the woman looked at McCaleb and Scott. Scott held his hands up in a
Hold here
gesture while the seated man completed his paint stroke. McCaleb looked at the painting. It was about four feet high and six feet wide. It was a dark landscape depicting a village being burned to the ground in the night while its inhabitants were being tortured and executed by a variety of otherworldly creatures. The upper panels of the painting, primarily depicting the swirling night sky, were spotted with small patches of damage and missing paint. McCaleb’s eyes caught on one segment of the painting below this which depicted a nude and blindfolded man being forced up a ladder to a gallows by a group of birdlike creatures with spears.
    The man with the