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“We better look into that as well. So that would mean that Morro’s death isn’t connected to the Careens.”

“According to Omar Wissinski, at least.”

“Pity Morro isn’t around anymore to confirm or deny.”

We’d arrived at the old factory building that had been turned into fancy lofts, and Odelia parked in front of the building. “Nicely done,” she said as we approached.

And they had indeed done a great job. They’d kept the red brick, but had completely remodeled the building, and added all the modern conveniences your homeowner likes, like a video intercom and a state-of-the-art elevator. It all looked very expensive.

“I wonder how much these lofts go for,” said Chase as we waited for Mr. Hanover to buzz us in.

“Why? Are you in the market for a loft?” asked Odelia.

Chase shrugged.“Just curious.” He frowned when no response came, and pressed the bell once more. “Looks like our Mr. Hanover isn’t home,” he finally announced. He pressed more bells, and finally someone buzzed us in, probably just to get rid of the noise.

We entered and the elevator soon whisked us up to the top floor, where the artist had taken up residence.

When we arrived, the steel door was ajar, and so we pushed our way inside. It was a spacious loft. In fact it looked as if it comprised the entire floor, which was enormous.

“Hello!” Chase called out, and his voice echoed in the vast space. Above us, slanted windows offered a view of a blue sky, and around us, large sculptures testified to the presence of the artist.

“They’re papier-m?ch?,” Odelia explained as we studied one. The work of art was bigger than Chase, and was very colorful. It also shone as if it had been freshly varnished. “It’s Dunc Hanover’s claim to fame. I once interviewed him, and he’s very proud of his work. Says it’s his ambition to create at least a thousand of these figures in his lifetime.”

There were dozens of them spread around the atelier, like sentinels standing guard. They reminded me of that army a Chinese emperor was once buried with, though they had been made of terracotta, and not papier-m?ch?, of course.

We ventured further into the artist’s space, and soon came upon what looked like a brand-new installation. Several half-finished figures stood at attention, and a few that were only in their initial stages and consisted of what looked like chicken wire sculpted into the shape of a human. As I understood, this was the framework thepaper was to be draped on.

And then I saw it: one of those chicken-wire figures was half-finished, with pieces of wet paper stuck to them. Only when I looked at the head, it looked very lifelike indeed. Too lifelike, in fact. For inside the frame, a real person was standing… and he looked very much dead to me!

“Odelia!” I cried, pointing to the figure.

“Oh, my God!” she said, and she and Chase quickly hurried over. But when Chase felt the man’s pulse by pressing his fingers into his neck, he shook his head.

“He’s gone,” he said as he stepped back.

Fifteen minutes later, the place was buzzing with activity. Abe Cornwall had arrived with his team, and they were dusting the area for prints, looking for DNA evidence, and checking the body.

“Well, he’s dead, all right,” said Abe finally. He removed his plastic gloves.

“How did he die?” asked Odelia.

“Too soon to tell. First we have to get him out of that… thing.” He frowned. “What is it?”

“One of his papier-m?ch? figures,” said Odelia. “He was famous for them.”

“Looks like the killer has a warped sense of humor,” said Abe. “He seems to have wanted to turn the artist into one of his works of art.”

Just then, a loud voice called out,“Oh, my God! What’s happened!”

We all turned, and found ourselves looking into the familiar face of Omar Wissinski.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Wissinski?” asked Chase, none too friendly.

“I just got a call from Dunc,” said Wissinski. “He said he was getting married!”

Chase and Odelia took the insurance broker aside, out of sight of his friend’s dead body. He looked very much stricken, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he hadn’t yet fully recovered from that thump on the head he’d received the day before.

“Dead?” asked Omar. “But I-I don’t understand.”

“We think he was killed,” said Chase, never afraid to be the bearer of bad news.

“Killed! But why? And by who?”

“We don’t know yet. So tell me, why are you here?”

“I told you. Dunc said he was getting married.”

“So you came to congratulate him? Suggest to be his best man? What?”

“No, of course not! I came here to stop him!”

Now we all stared at the man.

“He’s a little nutty, isn’t he, Max?” said Dooley.

“I’m not sure, Dooley,” I said. “Maybe there’s a method to his madness.”

“Look, I’m Dunc’s buddy,” Omar explained.

“Yes, I know. You were good friends with Dunc Hanover.”

Omar shook his head irritably.“Not just friends. I was also Dunc’s buddy.”

“You mean like in the AA?” asked Chase.