Wylie Nolan fingered flakes of char beneath a picture frame labeled Process. There were similar black clusters under the other four frames in the gallery. Each frame bore a different bronze plaque. The titles of the pictures were: Germination, Creation, Destruction, and Chaos.
Wylie rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the powdery residue of Process.
Wylie Nolan was long and lean, and there was a lackadaisical gauntness about his face that suggested shoot-outs, showdowns, and gunfights at high noon. He had big ears that stuck out from his head, and dark, marble blue eyes that had the sharp, hard, almost beautiful glint of a man who’s tried to stare down the sun a few too many times without blinking. As he hunkered down in his worn jeans and battered jacket, he looked more like a trapper or hunter puzzling out the clues at a campsite, than a New York City-based private arson investigator studying the remnants of a fire.
As soon as Max Bramble had hung up on Luis Cabrarra that morning, he’d called the museum’s insurer to get Wylie Nolan assigned to the case.
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