Page 13 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

In Tribeca, Eve had to settle for a lot, then a two-block hike.

Martin Martin lived in an old, weathered brick building that clung to its dignity. Since he lived on the floor above a women’s boutique, Peabody felt it unworthy of her loose-pants chant.

A woman in her mid-twenties dressed in black skin pants and a flowy, hip-swinging white shirt shifted the red bag on her shoulder.

“Asshole—I mean Martin-Squared’s not there.”

“Would you know where he is?”

“No, and I’d be thrilled if he stays there. He went out about this time on Friday, with a weekender rolly. As far as I know, he hasn’t been back.

“If you’re thinking of modeling for him,” she added, “do yourselves a favor. Don’t. Because asshole.”

“You’ve modeled for him?”

“Once. It started out fine, then he’s yelling at me, calling me a stupid bitch and more.

I don’t have to take that, so I got up. He grabs me, shoves me back.

I had bruises with his fingerprints on them for a week.

He had worse, since I kneed him in the balls.

I told him if he ever put his hands on me again, I’d slice them off. ”

She shifted the bag on her shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to rehearsal, but I’m saying the modeling fee’s not worth it.”

When the woman left, Eve nodded. “Okay, he’s been physically abusive to models more than once. Maybe a pattern of it. Left here with a suitcase, so maybe he has another place. More private.”

“I’ll see if I can contact him.”

“Yeah, do that. We’ll head back. Try the contact from Central. We want him to come in. Say there’s been a complaint about physical assault.”

“Well, the neighbor did complain.”

“Yeah, and I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t meditate.”

Back at Central, Eve had time to update her board and book. Then took more time to do a deeper dive on Martin-Squared.

The only child of an upper middle-class family. He got his art degree from Pratt, did a year touring Europe, another year living in Paris before settling in New York.

He’d had a couple of shows, and Eve thought the word for the reviews she read would be tepid .

At twenty-nine, no day job for him. Ever. He had a small but adequate trust fund to live on while he pursued his art. And sold the occasional piece.

After checking the time, she left her office for Mira’s.

Peabody signaled. “Martin’s in Philadelphia. He was one of the artists featured in an exhibition that opened yesterday. He’s heading back tonight, and with a lot of whining will come in tomorrow if we need him to deal with—I quote—‘some hysterical woman’s overreaction.’”

“New York to Philadelphia and back. An easy trip. Go there, check in, come back, hire the victim, dress her, kill her, dump her, then go back in plenty of time for the exhibition.”

“He rented a car, so he’s got private transpo.”

“Even better. I’m with Mira.”

Eve took the glides to Mira, and because she’d timed it, arrived two minutes early. Only to find, in her admirable promptness, the dragon not at Mira’s gates, and the gates open.

Eve stepped to the door, rapped knuckles against the jamb as Mira sat at her desk working with a keyboard.

She glanced up, smiled. “Come in, sit. Just give me another minute.”

Rather than sit, Eve stood, looked around.

Mira had a couple of thriving plants—one bursting with purple blooms—some family photos, a few well-chosen dust catchers.

Disc files, of course, tidy paperwork, everything calm and organized.

As was the woman.

Today she’d chosen a pale blue dress paired with a deeper blue jacket. She wore neck chains with little stones of both blues interspersed with stones of pale and deep pink.

Eve took a personal bet that Mira wore skyscraper heels that somehow picked up all four colors.

“There!” Mira sat back in her chair. “There’s no real end to the reports and paperwork in our world, is there?”

“No, there is not. I was coming in early today to deal with paperwork. Then.”

“Yes, I read the file. Very odd and disturbing.”

Mira rose to walk to the AC, and Eve congratulated herself on winning the bet.

Long, fluid swirls of all four colors covered Mira’s tall, skinny heels. Eve caught the floral scent of the tea before Mira took out the pair of delicate cups.

She passed one to Eve, then sat in one of her blue scoop chairs. And crossed her excellent legs.

“You have an organized killer, one who prepared by obtaining the scarves, the jacket, and so on.”

“I’ve got searches going for where those could be obtained. There are a couple of costume shops in New York that have that sort of thing, and in Chicago, in the East Washington area, and so on. When I get Harvo’s input, I may be able to narrow that part down.”

“From what I could see, both the costume and the pose were very carefully replicated. He’s precise.

I agree with your notes. The dump spot was also carefully chosen.

Art gallery owners. None of this was random or impulsive.

He’d certainly seen the victim before last night.

She fit the general parameters. Her coloring, her youth, her eyes, and her size. ”

Mira sipped some tea. “I believe his choice of an LC, street level, was also planned and precise.”

“Hire a professional model, she’s likely to have an appointment book, maybe tell someone. Hire some woman you spot otherwise—if you can talk her into coming to your studio—she’s also likely to tell someone. A street-level LC? It’s part of the job to go with a customer.

“He probably gave her half up front, maybe promised a bonus if she did a good job. He gave her wine, a vintage a street level doesn’t get. And if he took any time to find out about her, he’d have known she lives alone, isn’t especially friendly, has no close family. Perfect target.”

“I’ve no doubt he’d have done some basic research on her. Precise,” Mira repeated. “Organized. And certainly a risk taker, as he took the time to pose her in front of a residential door, the door of a well-secured home.”

“He’s going to have a connection to the Whittiers, to their gallery.”

“Yes. The Vermeer? He greatly admires it, and deeply despises it. It’s a bar of talent, achievement, and recognition he can’t reach.

I’ve no doubt he believes he has scaled the bar of talent, but the recognition eludes him.

He may have contemplated suicide, even attempted it.

But as the idea of death for his art rooted, it twisted into causing the death of another. ”

Eve held out her hands. “With his own hands. The intimacy of that.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re profiling him as an artist, a painter.”

“I am. Haven’t you?”

“It’s highest probability for me. But if it’s a hit directly at the Whittiers, that opens up other possibilities.”

“There will always be other possibilities, but. An artist creates what he sees. Whether with the eyes or the mind. The killer re-created, and with great care and precision, what he saw. Why bother with the costume, the pose? He used wire and glue on the victim because she wasn’t a person to him.

She wasn’t a human being but a kind of mannequin to be turned and adjusted to represent his image. ”

“We’re looking into people who restore art.”

“Yes.” Lips pursed, Mira nodded. “Yes. He may earn his living through that skill—because he can’t earn it with his own work. Restoring isn’t creating on a blank canvas. He’s duplicating, true, but that isn’t a restoration.”

“All right. I ask myself what he gains by doing this. I come up with two things. His own sick artistic satisfaction, and notoriety. We don’t know his name, but—”

“We know his work. We’re studying it, talking about it. He may have failed as an artist. When he paints now, it could be under the cover of a hobby as he works for the Whittiers in another capacity.”

“And that would burn.”

“Yes, it would. Art, his art, is his reason to live. His failure at receiving accolades for it, his greatest pain. But one he shares with many great artists who weren’t recognized during their lifetimes. With this? He’s created a masterpiece, and one he believes superior to the original.”

“If an artist paints or creates that masterpiece, wouldn’t he want to do it again?”

“Yes. And more than want, Eve, need.”

She’d already gone there, so just nodded.

“But not the same one—why do the same reproduction again?”

Mira considered. “I could see that if, for whatever reason, he felt he hadn’t achieved the level he wanted. If he felt the model had been the reason.”

“If he plans to do another, he’d already have the painting selected. The costume or wardrobe, he’d need that. He’d have scouted for the model, or already targeted one.”

“I believe he’s done that, yes. He sees himself as a perfectionist. He’s exacting.

You’ll find his living and working space very organized.

He lives alone. He has no time to waste with others.

Sex? Secondary to art. He’d hired an LC, a young, attractive woman.

He could have had sex with her first, but apparently didn’t. ”

“Because the art was the reason. And, she wasn’t a person. She represented someone long dead,” Eve said slowly. “Once he had what he needed from her, she had to die or the painting couldn’t live.”

In silent approval, Mira angled her head.

“As I see it? Perfectly put. He may be gifted, but he wants more, much more than simple success. He wants immortality, and before immortality comes that notoriety. He may consider or attempt suicide to gain immortality, but not before he gains the notoriety. Not until he’s created enough masterpieces, as many as he’s planned. ”

“Okay. I appreciate it. He’s not the sort who’d smash his hand through a wall?”

“Oh, no. He’s too controlled for that, and it could interfere with his painting.”

“Yeah, that was my take. He’s got money. You don’t waste a high-dollar bottle of wine on a street LC you’re going to kill anyway. A private space for his work, and private transpo.”

Eve pushed to her feet. “This all gives me more to work with.”