The criminalists arrived ten minutes later. I was giving them instructions to call if they turned up anything when Kimiko Binx emerged from her bedroom in jeans, Nike running shoes, and a short-sleeved green blouse.
“Ready, Dr. Cross?” she said, coming toward me and then stumbling over a loose cord and losing her balance.
I reached out before she could fall. Binx grabbed onto my left hand and right forearm and got her balance.
She turned from me, looking back, puzzled. “What was that?”
“You should put your cords under rugs,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went downstairs to my car.
Binx got in the front seat, said, “Where’s the siren?”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “Where am I going?”
“Toward the Anacostia Bridge. It’s an old tool and die factory by the river.”
I drove in silence until I realized she was studying me again.
“What are you looking at?”
“The object of Gary’s obsession,” she said.
“Soneji’s sole obsession?” I asked.
“Well,” Binx said, and turned to look out the windshield. “One of them.”
She was so blithe and relaxed in her manner that I wondered if she was on some kind of medication. And yet, she made me feel strange, scrutinized by a cultist.
“How did you meet Claude Watkins?” I asked.
“At a party in Baltimore,” she said. “Have you met him?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
Binx smiled. “It is, you know. A pleasure to see his paintings and his performances.”
“A real Picasso, then.”
She caught the sarcasm, turned cooler, and said, “You’ll see, Dr. Cross.”
Binx navigated me toward a derelict light industrial area north of the bridge, and an abandoned brick-faced factory with a FOR SALE sign on the gate, which was unlocked.
“This is where the great painter and performance artist works?” I said.
“Correct,” Binx said. “Claude moves around, takes month-to-month leases on abandoned buildings, where he’s free to do his art without worrying about making a mess. When the building and the art’s sold, he moves on. It’s a win-win for everyone involved. He learned the tactic in Detroit.”
It made sense, actually. I parked the car outside the gate, and felt odd, a little woozy, the way you do if you haven’t eaten enough or stayed well hydrated. And my tongue felt thick, and my throat dry.
I heard Binx release her seat belt. It sounded louder than it should have. So did the key in the ignition beeping when I opened the door. I took the key out, stood up, felt the warm spring breeze, and felt almost immediately better.
I called up Google Maps on my phone, pinned my location, and texted the pin to Bree along with a message that said, “Send patrol for backup when you get the chance.”
Then I drew my service weapon.
“Sorry to do this, Ms. Binx,” I said. “But I need you in handcuffs.”
“What? Why?”