Page 1 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

Death was his art.

For too long he’d waited for recognition of his gift, even—yes—the adulation his extraordinary talent deserved. He wanted his due, and had worked and suffered to share his vision, his genius with the world, only to see lesser talents rewarded while he faced rejection.

Rejection, criticism, and worse, tepid, patronizing, infuriating advice.

He took some comfort knowing so many of the great masters had faced the same ignorance, the same blindness during their lifetimes, only to be lauded after death.

At times he fantasized about sacrificing himself on the altar of his art as others had before him.

Van Gogh, Maurer, Goetz, and more.

He wrote long, vituperative suicide notes, placing the blame for his death on the cruelty of art critics, gallery owners, art patrons, and collectors.

He considered hanging, swallowing pills, a leap from the rooftop. He considered, most seriously, slicing his wrists, then using his own blood to paint his final self-portrait.

It would serve them right, all of them.

The drama of it spoke to him. And oh, the copious tears that would fall over the tragedy. He envisioned that last, stunning portrait in a place of honor and wonder in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Millions would gaze at it, and weep for the incalculable loss.

But he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want fame and recognition after his death.

He wanted it now. He wanted to bask in it, bathe in it, luxuriate in it.

He would wait no longer.

Not his death, no, not that. But death and art would merge in their ultimate beauty and mystery. And he would give to others the gift of that beauty, others who found themselves ignored, overlooked, devalued.

He would, with his genius, immortalize them.

So he planned, and he planned, and he spent months on every detail of what would be his new period. And at last, with all in place, with all perfection, the time had come.

Wandering his studio, admiring paintings he’d created, he took a pill for energy, for clarity. He often wondered how anyone could create without that lovely boost.

Riding on it, he prepped his canvas.

He’d acquired all the costumes for his models, and now painted the background for the first, created the negative space for her head, her shoulders, the trail of the scarf from her headpiece.

By re-creating a masterpiece, improving on it, he would prove himself a master without peer. And the model he chose would become, fortunate girl, immortal. She would live on well beyond a September night in 2061.

Indeed, she would live forever.

Pleased, he cleaned his brushes.

He dressed carefully and without his usual flair. It wouldn’t do to stand out. He chose black to blend with the night, and worked his fall of golden brown hair into a braid, then wound the braid into a tight circle at the base of his neck.

He studied himself in the triple mirror on the bedroom level of his home and imagined what she would see.

While the glass reflected an ordinary face, a man of small stature and slim build, he saw a young, beautiful man with a poetically pale, perfectly symmetrical face. He saw deep blue eyes he’d trained, when younger still, to telegraph innocence.

She, he thought, would see the beauty, and the opportunity.

He’d spotted her when he’d scouted the streets for the right one among the poor, the unfortunate, the ones who worked to eat, those who worked to simply survive another day.

He often wondered why they didn’t just kill themselves and be done with it.

He’d never known that drudgery. But he had known despair. A despair pushed on him again and again by ignorance. He was an artist who used his innate talents to bring beauty to this dull, often dreary world.

He’d been born into wealth and privilege, and that afforded him the means to focus all on his art, and not have to fracture that focus on some mindless, miserable job.

He understood the power of money.

Tonight, he’d offer the one he’d chosen the kind of money she couldn’t resist.

He took the elevator down to the garage, where he kept two vehicles. He thought the sleek black sports car would serve as another lure for her. He’d bring her to his studio in that.

When he took her out, he’d need the all-terrain.

Though the area she worked was several blocks away, he didn’t want to draw too much attention.

So he cruised by it. Sometimes the street-level licensed companions gathered in groups, other times they spread out.

He spotted her, the short red skirt, the low-cut top with spangles that glittered in the streetlights.

He drove another two blocks to an automated lot where he flicked on the jammer that would prevent the scanner from reading his car.

He meandered his way down to her, made eye contact, then stopped as if unsure.

He watched her slow smile, and thought again: Perfect.

Hips swaying, she walked to him.

“Looking for a date?”

“Actually, I was just going to… You have wonderful eyes.”

“The rest of me’s even better. Standard rates, and I’ll prove it.”

“I… would you walk with me?”

“I’m working, handsome.”

“I’ll pay you.” He reached in his pocket, took out a fifty. Bait for the hook.

“Fifty to take a walk?”

“Yeah, for that.” He gestured the way he’d come. “And more if you agree to pose for me.”

“What kind of poses are you into?” She took the fifty, then fell into step with him.

“I’m an artist.”

“Yeah, what kind?”

“I paint. I’m working on a show for next spring. I don’t actually know the standard rates for what you do, but if you’d pose for me tonight—and tomorrow night. At least two sessions? I’ll pay you double. You’ve got the face I want for this portrait.”

Her eyes narrowed. He wanted her eyes on canvas.

“Double?”

“It’s important to me. It could be the centerpiece of my show. My car’s in the lot right over there. My studio’s not far.”

She wasn’t ready to buy it, he thought, so he offered what he believed would tip her over the edge.

“I can give you a thousand a session. It’s probably going to take three, maybe four. Up to four hours each. After that a model, especially if she’s not a professional, can get stale.”

“Four hours?”

He could see her calculate. Yes, those who needed money often calculated.

“And any sex work’s extra—standard rates.”

“That’s fine.”

“Half now.”

As they were nearly to the lot, he took out his wallet, made the payment.

“This is great. I’m right over here. I was just going to walk around, do some people watching, maybe hit a coffee shop or club, and there you were.”

“This is your car?”

“Yes.” He opened the door for her, and felt the next step click into place when she slid in.

“Some ride,” she said when he got in the driver’s side.

“Thanks.” He used the jammer again, and drove out of the lot. Glancing at her, he tried for mildly embarrassed. “It’s family money. I’m trying to prove myself outside the businesses. Art is, well, it’s everything for me.”

“Uh-huh. I’m going to need the rest of the money when we get to your studio.”

“No problem. I just can’t believe my luck.”

“So is this a naked deal?”

“Oh, no. It’s a portrait. Your face, some shoulder. It’s a classic-style portrait. I have what you’ll wear for it. It’s all about your face, and especially your eyes.”

Which wore far too much makeup. But he’d take care of that.

She gaped when he turned toward the building and the attached garage.

“You’ve got a studio in here?”

“Yeah.” He pulled into the garage and felt that click again. “Actually, it’s my place. The building. It used to be a warehouse.”

“The whole fucking building?”

He hunched his shoulders as if embarrassed again. “Family money.”

She got out, looked at the all-terrain. “I should’ve asked for more of that family money.”

“Well, if this works out, I’d love to use you again. And I could recommend you as a model.”

As she got in the elevator, she studied him. “This is no bullshit?”

“It’s not. We’ll go straight up to my studio. You know, sorry, I never asked your name.”

“Leesa, no i , two e ’s.”

“Leesa. I’m Jonathan.”

The elevator opened at his studio with its wide windows, its domed skylight. And the paintings.

“Wow, guess you’re not starving in a garret—whatever that is. All of these are yours?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know anything about art, but these are really nice. I figured you might be stringing me along, and they’d probably suck, but they’re really nice.”

Considering the source, he deemed that high praise.

“I have to ask you for something.”

She rolled the eyes that had doomed her.

“And here it comes.”

“No, no.” As he spoke, he peeled off the rest of the money. “It’s just, I need you to take off your makeup.”

“Why?”

“The vision I have. A young woman, her pure beauty. There’s a bathroom right there. Makeup remover, whatever you need. And the wardrobe’s in there, too. I’ll arrange the headpiece when you’re done with the rest. The scarves.”

He walked over, picked them up.

“To cover your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing.” If you liked spiky, streaky brass and pink. “But for this study, again, it’s the face. The scarf will highlight your face.”

“Whatever. It’s your money.”

He just smiled. “I already know it’s well spent. Do you want a drink? Maybe a glass of wine? Since you’re new to modeling, it could help relax you?”

“Sure, pour away, Johnny.”

He bristled at the “Johnny” as she walked into the bathroom. But he opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé as she called out from behind the door.

“You want me to wear all this? It sure won’t show off my talents. Really pretty color though. Classy.”

He sipped some wine. He rarely drank when working, but he had to admit to nerves. This marked the beginning of a new era for him, and one he absolutely believed would bring him the notoriety he deserved.

When she stepped out, those nerves evaporated.