Page 2 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“I knew it. I knew you were perfect. Here, have some wine while I arrange the scarves. I want this deep, rich blue next to your face, a wide band of color with a sharp demarcation to the old gold of the rest, and the lighter blue in the ends a touch against the gold of the jacket.”

“You know what you want. This wine’s really good. I never had anything like it.”

“You can have another glass a little later. Yes, the blue low on the forehead and over the top of the ears, the gold—almost like a turban with the ends trailing.”

“Where’d you get the idea for all this?”

“Who knows where ideas come from? I need you to take off your earrings, and put these on.”

She frowned at what he offered. “Those are like old lady deals.”

“Trust me, they’re just right.”

“You’re the boss.”

He took a long look at her, nodded. “Wonderful. Amazing.”

He led her to a stool. “I’m going to turn your body so your shoulder’s facing me. Then your head turned toward me. Like three-quarter profile. Tip your chin a little—yeah, that’s it. Just hold that, okay?”

He stepped back, picked up a camera.

“Why do you need that?”

“It’ll help me work when you’re not here. Now, without moving your head or your body, turn your eyes toward me. Just your eyes. Fabulous eyes. And part your lips. Not a smile, no, don’t smile. It’s like, like you’re taking a breath. Better, good, a little less.”

He took three photos, then set the camera down. “You can relax while I mix some paints. Then I need you to get into the pose and hold it.”

“This sure isn’t what I figured to be doing tonight.”

He didn’t want to talk to her—she was only an image—but he needed her to stay. Needed her relaxed.

“Do you like sex work?”

“It’s a living. I’m going to work my way up to top level. Do you really think I could maybe make a living doing this?”

He smiled at her, and the hunger he heard in her voice. “I bet you could. Let’s get you back in pose.”

He helped her find it, then walked to the canvas. “Eyes on me, just your eyes.”

Her eyes weren’t as compelling as the original, and her nose not as elegant. But this would be his.

He worked an hour and a half, then let her break the pose, let her walk around the studio before he set her again.

“This is kind of interesting and boring at the same time. You’ve got some of the naked women paintings. I could do that. I look good naked.”

“No doubt about it.”

He worked on the blue now, the light and the shadows, the subtle folds, and found himself pleased with the contrast to her skin.

He worked another hour, a little more, and had to stop himself from snapping at her when she shifted.

So he stepped back. “It’s tiring just to sit, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I’m getting kind of stiff.”

“I’ve got a really good start. More than. You’ve been terrific. We’ll take a break. You can have another glass of wine.”

“I could use it.”

“Get up, walk around a little. Loosen up.”

He poured the wine, added the powder he’d made to hers.

“You sure got a view here. It must be nice, being rich and all.”

“Here you go. Have some wine, then maybe we can do another half hour. After that, I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

“You’ll take me?”

“Sure.”

“You’re really nice.” Holding the wine in one hand, she skimmed the index finger of her other down his shirt. “I could do this for you again tomorrow. And maybe a little extra.”

She pressed her body to his, ran her hand down, stroked him.

Though he felt nothing, he brushed his lips to hers.

“The extra’s tempting. But art first. It has to be for me. Maybe you want to see what I’ve done.”

“Okay, sure.”

Sipping her wine, she walked around the easel. Then she smiled, let out a quick, surprised laugh.

“I look good. Mysterious. Kind of plain, but pretty, too, and mysterious.”

“That’s the idea. Why don’t you finish your wine, and we’ll try for that half an hour more?”

“Sure. Can I see the rest of this place after? I bet it’s really frosty.”

“We can take the stairs down.” He guided her back to the stool. “Drink up.” The hunger gnawing inside him slid into his eyes as he tipped the glass to her mouth. “Then just a few minutes more.”

“I feel sort of…”

He caught her when she slid off the stool.

“That’s okay, sleep now. Why don’t you sleep now? I’ve got all I need to finish.”

He’d considered poisoning her, or giving her enough of the drug to kill her. But those were passive ways, and for it all to matter, really matter, it had to be active.

Death had to come from him to bring the life.

He put his hands around her throat. Squeezed, squeezed. Her eyelids fluttered; her body convulsed. He hadn’t known that would happen, and found it thrilling.

He felt, oh God, he felt it. Her life slipping from her and into his hands. The power of life, hers into him.

He’d use that life and power and pour it into the painting.

When it was done, he used thin wire, dabs of glue to adjust her head back into the pose. It took time, precision, but masterful art couldn’t be rushed.

Satisfied, he picked her up. He carried her to the elevator and down to the all-terrain.

He knew just where she needed to go.

When Lieutenant Eve Dallas woke before the sun, the first thought on her mind was: Fucking paperwork.

She lay a moment, the tubby cat curled against her back. She imagined Roarke, always up before the sun, dressed in one of his king-of-all-he-surveyed suits, sitting at his desk wheeling and dealing.

And that’s how the Dublin street rat became a gazillionaire. Not counting his years as a master in the art of thievery.

As a cop married to that past master, she tried to overlook it.

And she had to admit, lying here thinking about it didn’t address the fucking paperwork.

She’d dumped all she could on Jenkinson. The price he paid for making detective sergeant. She’d pushed a little onto her partner, and that was the price Peabody paid just because.

But as lieutenant, the bulk of it fell to her. She’d promised herself she’d get up early, go in early, and get it the hell done.

But… did it really count if you broke a promise to yourself?

She spent about thirty seconds debating that, then gave up and rolled out of bed.

“Lights on full.” She cursed when the bedroom lights assaulted her eyes. In bed, Galahad muttered what sounded like a curse and rolled over.

She hit the AutoChef for coffee, black and strong, and gulped it down like medicine. Her brain cleared, and she decided to fill it with the positive.

She was drinking real coffee, wasn’t she? And Roarke’s blend was as good as you could get. She had a loyal cat currently winding his pudgy body around her legs.

She ordered him breakfast, and when she set it down for him, he pounced as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

After downing some more coffee, she headed to the shower.

More positive. She had a big-ass shower with a dozen jets pummeling her awake from every direction with water as hot as she wanted.

More hot in the drying tube with air swirling all around her.

A robe waited. Since Roarke seemed to delight in buying her robes, she couldn’t be sure if she’d worn this one before. She just wrapped on the silky and rich purple, then went out to explore her closet.

The positive wobbled, nearly dropped with a thud when she faced the dense forest of The Closet.

She could swear the clothes had multiplied overnight, and didn’t put that mystery out of Roarke’s reach.

Then positive occurred to her. If she actually spent some time choosing, matching or whatever, it put off the paperwork a little longer. Procrastination, sure. But positive procrastination.

Somehow.

And she wouldn’t take the easy way with black. Bracing herself, she turned a circle; she faced the line of gray pants that ranged from the palest pearl to the deepest charcoal. Since charcoal came close to her default of black, she grabbed a pair in that shade.

Handily, they had some leather piping in navy, and navy belt loops. So she turned to the line of navy jackets, let out an Aha! when she spotted one in leather.

Shirts. Could she go with white? Was that right? How was she supposed to know? How did people just know this shit? And why did white have so many variations anyway?

Since summer kept its sweaty grip on September, she pulled out a sleeveless white shirt, started to turn toward the dizzying wall of boots.

She didn’t yelp, but came damn close when she saw Roarke leaning against the closet door.

“Jesus! Why can’t you make some noise?”

“Habit. You did get up early.”

“I said I would. If I grab an hour before shift, I can knock out the damn paperwork.” Then she let out a long breath. “Paperwork’s necessary. It’s part of the job. It keeps things organized and efficient. I’m approaching it with a positive attitude.”

“Well now, that’s interesting.”

Ireland whispered through his voice like a warm breeze.

Eve studied him a moment, that glorious face, the impossibly blue eyes, the perfectly carved mouth, the black silk of his hair.

A definite positive.

And he smiled at her in a way that still brought a quick flutter to her heart.

He’d also chosen gray, more slate than charcoal, in his perfect and elegant suit, and paired it with a shirt in that pearly gray, a tie in what she thought was, maybe, maroon with subtle gray diagonal stripes.

“How did you pick that outfit?” She gestured at him. “I mean, do you wake up in the morning—or basically in the middle of the night for you—and think: Ah well, today’s the day for the slate-gray suit, I’m thinking, and won’t it look grand with the pearl-gray shirt and the maroon tie then.”

“Your Irish accent needs some work, darling, but thanks for trying.”

He moved into the closet, kissed her.

Another positive.

“The clothes are image, and image is part of the job. You’ve gone classic, with a bit of an edge with the leather. Finish it out with the navy leather boots there and the same with the belt.”

“Which navy leather boots?” Frustration smothered the positive. When she reached for a pair, he just shook his head.

“Not those, no. They’re too heavy for the outfit.” He chose a pair himself. “These. More streamlined, as you are, darling Eve.”

“Ha. Fine. And that’s enough positive procrastination.”

“Then I’ll see to our early breakfast.”

She took another breath, said, “Thanks.”

“Just how long do you think your positive attitude will last?”

“I’m figuring until I get to Central and start on the paperwork. I already fed the cat. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

She dressed, a tall—and yes, streamlined—woman with a choppy cap of brown hair that held shades as varied as the line of brown pants in her closet.

She had long, whiskey-colored eyes in a face of sharp angles. Those eyes scanned the selection of belts before she grabbed one.

She stepped out, set the jacket aside as she walked over to pick up her weapon harness. As she hooked it on, Roarke poured her another cup of coffee.

He sat, PPC in hand, while the wall screen scrolled the early stock reports, and the cat sprawled on his belly on the floor. Hoping, Eve knew, the humans would be distracted enough, at some point, to let him at whatever was under the domes on the table.

“I thought to meet you at Central.”

“Why? When?”

“Eve.” He shook his head as he removed the dome on—yay!—pancakes. “It’s the official move-in. The Great House Project is finished. We’re to have dinner there tonight.”

“I didn’t forget. It’s just…” She waved a hand at the back of her head. “Compartmentalized. Anyway, they all moved in over the weekend.”

“A project of its own, no doubt. Now they’re fairly settled, and dinner with us tonight makes it official for them.”

“Everything got there, right? You said the stuff we picked out for them got there, so we don’t have to take anything else.”

“We’re taking champagne.”

“Okay, good. That’s good. We said we’d give them a hand with it over the weekend, but they nixed that.”

“They wanted, in their way, to present the house to us. Obviously we’ve seen it in progress.”

“But this is different. I get it.”

She started to walk over to pancakes, and her communicator signaled.

She picked it up. “Dallas.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to 17 King Street. Possible homicide, female victim. Officers on scene.

“Copy that. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”

She shoved the communicator in her pocket.

“Now you’re stuck, aren’t you then? Between regret at a death, the pancakes you won’t eat, and the relief at the further, and necessary, procrastination of your paperwork.”

Though she couldn’t drown it in butter and syrup, she plucked up a pancake, folded it, ate it. “One less regret.” She grabbed her jacket, swung it on, then loaded pockets with her ’link, her badge, and everything else.

“And positive? I’m already up and dressed. I’ll see you at Central later, unless.”

“Understood.” He gave the cat a hard, warning look, then stood, crossed to Eve. “Take care of my well-dressed cop.”

“That’s the plan.” She stroked her knuckles over Roarke’s cheek.

“He’s making his move,” she said.

At their unified stares, Galahad stopped his belly crawl toward the table and rolled over as if to study the ceiling.

She gave Roarke another quick kiss, and as she headed out, heard him speak to the cat.

“And don’t think because she’s called to duty you’ll get her share.”