He opened a door and ushered McCaleb into a suite of offices. They stepped into the first office past the security counter. It was a small office with a view through a large window across the Sepulveda Pass to the hillside homes of Bel-Air. The office felt crowded because of the bookshelves lining two walls and the cluttered worktable. There was just room for two chairs. Scott pointed McCaleb to one 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 brush completed his work and placed the brush on the glass top of the worktable to his left. He then leaned back toward the painting to study his work. Scott cleared his throat. Only the woman turned around.

“Penelope Fitzgerald, this is Detective McCaleb. He is involved in an investigation and needs to ask about Hieronymus Bosch.”

He gestured toward the painting.

“I told him you would be the most appropriate member of staff to speak with.”

McCaleb watched her eyes register surprise and concern, a normal response to a sudden introduction to the police. The seated man did not even turn around. This was not a normal response. Instead he picked up his brush and went back to work on the painting. McCaleb held his hand out to the woman.

“Actually, I’m not officially a detective. I’ve been asked by the sheriff’s department to help out with an investigation.”

They shook hands.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Has a Bosch painting been stolen?”

“No, nothing like that. This is a Bosch?”

He gestured toward the painting.

“Not quite. It may be a copy of one of his pieces. If so, then the original is lost and this is all we have. The style and design are his. But it’s generally agreed to be the work of a student from his workshop. It was probably painted after Bosch was dead.”

As she spoke her eyes never left the painting. They were sharp and friendly eyes that easily betrayed her passion for Bosch. He guessed that she was about sixty and had probably dedicated her life to the study and love of art. She had surprised him. Scott’s brief description of her as an assistant working on a catalog of Bosch’s work had made McCaleb think she would be a young art student. He silently chastised himself for making the assumption.

The seated man put his brush down again and picked up a clean white cloth off the worktable to wipe his hands. He swiveled in his chair and looked up when he noticed McCaleb and Scott. It was then that McCaleb knew he had made a second error of assumption. The man had not been ignoring them. He just hadn’t heard them.

The man flipped the magnifiers up to the top of his head while reaching beneath the apron to his chest and adjusted a hearing aid control.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know we had visitors.”

He spoke with a hard German accent.

“Dr. Derek Vosskuhler, this is Mr. McCaleb,” Scott said. “He’s an investigator and he needs to steal Mrs. Fitzgerald away from you for a short while.”

“I understand. This is fine.”

“Dr. Vosskuhler is one of our restoration experts,” Scott volunteered.

Vosskuhler nodded and looked up at McCaleb and studied him in the way he might study a painting. He made no move to extend his hand.

“An investigation? In regard to Hieronymus Bosch, is it?”

“In a peripheral way. I just want to learn what I can about him. I’m told Mrs. Fitzgerald is the expert.”

McCaleb smiled.

“No one is an expert on Bosch,” Vosskuhler said without a smile. “Tortured soul, tormented genius… how will we ever know what is truly in a man’s heart?”

McCaleb just nodded. Vosskuhler turned and appraised the painting.

“What do you see, Mr. McCaleb?”

McCaleb looked at the painting and didn’t answer for a long moment.

“A lot of pain.”

Vosskuhler nodded approvingly. Then he stood and looked closely at the painting, flipping the glasses down and leaning close to the upper quarter panel, his lenses just inches from the night sky above the burning village.