Page 23 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“No crowns till we bag him. Get us that list, and whatever you can when you can. We appreciate the quick and solid work, Harvo.”

“That’s how I roll, and how I rule.”

Eve agreed with a “Check it” before they wound their way back through the lab.

“Get a hold of Leonardo, see if he has time to consult.”

“That’s a mag idea. He’ll know a lot more than me.”

“You can speak the language. If he’s in his studio place and can take some time, I’m going to dump you. Go home, ask the questions, get some answers. I’ll take the morgue.”

“Best deal of the day for me.”

By the time they got to the car, Peabody put her ’link away.

“I’m officially dumped. I’ll subway home, consult, meet you back at Central.

“I want his take on designers—or design houses—who’d take a commission like this.”

“I got it, Dallas. Estimated cost, estimated time from order, approval of design, delivery. Venues that have the fabrics and all of it. I got it.”

They split, and Eve made her way to the dead house for the second morning running.

Morris played the blues, and she supposed it apt enough on a couple of levels. But his suit today hit green notes, rich ones so the tie of deep rosy pink, the shirt with thin green-and-pink stripes played harmony.

He wore the clear protective cape over it with his hair coiled in a braided knot at the nape of his neck. Behind the microgoggles, his eyes magnified as they met Eve’s.

“Another young life ended. A healthy one, though he shared careless eating habits with his predecessor.”

“The contents of his friggie? A brew and a Coke Plus!”

“Ah, those were the days. Barbiturates again, ingested with wine—a Malbec this time, and an excellent one—shortly before death by manual strangulation. He’d had six ounces of the wine three to three and a half hours before death. And two more, dosed, roughly ten minutes before death.

“His last meal, about nine last night, a soy burger with cheese substitute, fries, and eight ounces of Coke Plus!”

Eve studied the body. “Sexual activity?”

“None that show. He did, however, thoroughly cleanse, all expected areas, with an antiseptic liquid, followed by a moisturizing lotion.

“He took care of his body,” Morris continued.

“Healthy weight, good muscle tone. And his face, his hair. The mark here?” Morris laid a gentle finger on the forehead.

“From the glue used to hold the wig in place, and the solvent I used to remove it. More slight damage from the removal of the glue used to hold his lips and eyelids in place, his right palm and fingers, glue to hold the hat.”

“Dickhead says it’s Grip All glue.”

“Strong—very strong, and not meant for skin. Easily accessible. I have some myself, and seal up or wear gloves before using it.”

“If it runs like Culver, the killer had him three to four hours before he dosed and strangled him.”

“If there was sexual penetration within that time frame, it would most probably be evident. It’s not.”

“No, it’s not about sex. It’s… ego,” she decided.

“Basically it’s about ego. Ren was no more than a vase of flowers to him, or a doll to dress up.

Peabody suggested it might be about the costumes, the making of them.

They’re all custom-made, high-quality materials, high-quality workmanship.

Maybe the art angle isn’t painting. Maybe it’s design. ”

“Ah. And where is our Peabody?”

“Talking to Leonardo about just that.”

“An excellent source.”

He walked to the sink, washed his hands, then got them each a cold tube.

“Thanks.” She cracked it, drank. “The guy who managed the porn theater he used said Ren wanted to move into the business end of sex work.”

“He had an ambition.”

“Yeah, and he has a mother who gives a shit. She’s in the Bronx, and wants to see him, make arrangements. Probably with his sister.”

“He’ll be ready for them to visit by one this afternoon.”

“I’ll let her know.”

She studied the body again. Even in death, Bobby Ren looked about sixteen.

“He moved fast. He had everything ready for both him and Culver. Knew when and where to scoop them up, had the transportation, the place, the drugs, the costume, all of it. The costumes have to take time, the scoping out who you’ll put in them takes time.

He’s been planning this for a while. A good long while. ”

“And if he’s taken that good long while for two, he very likely has a third painting, costume, and model selected.”

Eve’s eyes went hard, went flat.

“I know he does. I have more to work with now. It’s all about who gets there first.”

She tagged Peabody on the way out. She heard voices, saw swirls of color in the background.

“I’m heading to Central.”

“Give me another fifteen, maybe twenty here. I’ll walk in.” She flashed a grin. “I live really close.”

“Oral report before you write it up. Later.”

New York wasn’t just wide-awake now, but just bitchy enough to entertain her.

A delivery truck blocking a side street received a chorus of blasting horns and inventive, shouted curses. On the next corner pedestrians risked life and limb trying to beat the Walk sign by a few seconds.

A woman in boots up to her crotch, blond hair down to her ass, and a red dress barely covering either body part strode along the sidewalk. A man trying to one-eighty his head on his neck to keep her in view walked hard into a recycler.

Another woman leaned out a fifth-story window and heaved out piles of clothes while a man below shouted: “Come on, Doris, goddamn it! It was one time!”

An emergency vehicle screamed in the distance, and somewhere closer an airjack hammered stone and thundered the air.

God, she loved New York.

She pulled into the garage, and her slot.

She managed three floors in the elevator in peace before it opened.

Two uniforms escorted a woman in who looked more impatient than worried.

“You’re a woman.”

Eve gave her a wary look. “I am.”

“Wearing a ring, so you married?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, lemme ask you. You’re married to a guy for seventeen years, shove a couple kids out of your body along the way.

Work your ass off for a couple other men while you’re dealing with kids, now teenage kids who’ll bring their own kind of hell, and on one more morning when you’re shoving teenagers out the damn door for school, trying to get yourself cleaned up to go work, the man you married says: ‘Damn it, Cath, where’s my breakfast? ’ What do you do?”

“It’s difficult to say, as I’ve never been in that specific situation.”

“I’ll tell you what you’d do, you’d do just like I did. I said: ‘Here’s your breakfast, Charlie,’ and gave him a good smack with a frypan.

“Then what happens?”

Cath shifted with the uniforms to let more cops on, and maneuvered Eve into the corner.

“I’ll tell you what happens. He’s yelling I tried to kill him.

If I wanted to kill him, I’d’ve kept smacking that pan over his stupid head instead of giving him one little tap.

And he’s carrying on like I stabbed him, not even bleeding, but carrying on like I stabbed him in the guts.

Got the lump he deserved is all. And one of the nosy neighbors calls the cops on me!

Now I’m arrested and late for work. Where’s the justice? ”

“Ma’am.” One of the uniforms rolled his eyes at Eve. “We have to get off here.”

“Breakfast, my ass,” she said as they escorted her off. “You’d do the same!” she shouted back at Eve.

Eve thought, no. Why would she use a frypan when she had a perfectly good fist?

She got off at Homicide and walked into the bullpen.

And, Peabody excluded, a full complement of detectives.

“Has murder taken a day off?”

Baxter, feet on his desk, gestured at the board. “Closed.”

Carmichael gestured with her coffee. “Closed.”

Jenkinson jerked a thumb. “And closed.”

Today’s tie, God help her, featured the Empire State Building with the backdrop of a virulent red-and-gold sunrise. And King Kong, eyes laser red, beating his massive chest at the top.

“Before you say anything,” Jenkinson began, “the squad unanimously approves this one.”

“It’s iconic,” Santiago said.

“So’s your hat.”

Eve turned and went to her office.

She grabbed coffee, then updated her board. Then sat, updated her book.

When she brought up Harvo’s list of possible venues for the costumes, she blew out a breath.

More than she’d figured, but Harvo had gone global. And that was the right call.

It seemed logical to start in New York, so she tried the first. And listened to the off-hours message.

“Okay, shit. What the hell time is it in France? Damn it, computer, what the hell time is it in Paris, France?

Working… The current time in Paris, France, is fifteen-twenty-three and six seconds.

“Great.” She highlighted Costumes Historiques Authentiques, engaged the translator, and started there.

She bounced from reception to a low-level assistant, bounced from there to someone in public relations, and finally hit the assistant to the assistant of accounts.

The way the woman had her zebra-striped hair piled reminded Eve of Trina. Her back went immediately stiff.

“And how may I assist you this afternoon, Mademoiselle Dallas?”

“Lieutenant Dallas, New York Police and Security Department.”

The smug smile hit Trina notes. Eve’s ears began to buzz.

“Of course. How can I help you?”

“There have been two murders in New York—”

“Ah, that is very unfortunate.”

“Right. The first victim was dressed to replicate Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring .”

“How interesting.”

“I have the breakdown of fabrics used and the organic dye.”

“So very thorough.”

Even translated, the words dripped sarcasm.

“The second victim was dressed to replicate Gainsborough’s The Blue Boy . We also have the fabrics and dyes analyzed.”

“Well done.”

Suddenly, Eve wanted to use her perfectly good fist to punch the condescending smile off the woman’s face.

“I need to know if you have a client who placed orders for these two costumes, with these fabrics and dyes used to create them.”

“I’m sorry to inform you, mademoiselle, I’m unable to assist you in this matter. Our client information is strictly private. You also have laws for privacy in New York, do you not?”

“The individual who had these costumes made has murdered two people, and I believe he’ll kill again.”

“Of course, this is tragic, yes, but I am unable to share any client information.”

Eve took a breath, signaled Peabody to wait when her partner came to the door. “You could check, see if you do have a client who ordered these two costumes. Then you could tell me yes or no. You have such a client, or you don’t.”

There came that damn Trina smile again.

“I believe this is—how do you say—skirting a line? We at Costumes Historiques Authentiques take our responsibilities very seriously.”

“So do I. I can get an international warrant for the information.”

“Please feel free to do so. We will, of course, consult our attorneys and cooperate fully if advised to do so. Please enjoy the rest of your day. I wish you goodbye.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“She sounded like the bitch somebody’s a son of.”

“Tell me you had better luck with Leonardo.”

“I had better luck. I’m not risking my marginally-smaller-than-it-used-to-be ass in that chair.”

Instead, Peabody eased some of it on the corner of Eve’s desk.

“First, no one approached him or his company for the costumes. He hasn’t heard about another designer taking them on, but he’s going to check around.”

“Appreciated.”

“He gave me a few places where, if he had gotten the order, he’d have sourced the fabrics.

He also said that since historical accuracy was so important, he’d have consulted with an art expert.

Without a specific model to fit, he’d have either taken the measurements given him by the client, or would’ve run a program to determine the measurements of the models in the paintings. Whichever the client wanted.”

“Okay, you definitely got more.”

“And a little more yet. Can I get coffee since I think I’m going to be spending a lot of time at my desk on the ’link after this?”

“Get it. Get me more. It’s doubtful the killer knew the exact sizes of his victims when he ordered the costumes.

But he’d know what he was looking for. For the Girl, it’s the face.

It didn’t matter if the outfit was a little too big, which it was.

The Boy, that had to be closer, so he had to look for somebody who’d fit.

The face wasn’t as important. Youth was, but not specific features. ”

“Can’t argue that.” Peabody handed Eve fresh coffee, eased her ass down again while she sampled her own.

“Leonardo took a really good look at the painting details, at Harvo’s analysis of fabrics, yardage, all of it.

Then he did some sort of program—so it took a little longer than I expected.

But he said if he’d done these orders, the Girl would’ve taken six to eight weeks, if the materials were available.

It could take twice that if they had to be manufactured to order.

And considering the fabrics, the need for exact replication, he’d charge one-seventy-five.

That’s thousand, which would include the consult fee for the art expert.

For the Boy—double the time and the fee. ”

“That’s even more than Harvo estimated.”

“Yeah. He couldn’t say absolutely, but he thought a company that specialized in historical costumes would probably come closer to Harvo’s take on moolah and time.”

“Like the French Trina’s place.”

“Her name was Trina?”

“No. She just reminded me of Trina. Okay, let’s start with placing the order three months ago.

No, go back six months. You start with the fabric venues.

Looking for the specific fabrics, the yardage, ordered going back six months and up to three months.

He could have used more than one costume place or designer, so factor that. ”

“What if I go back a year? It’s so much detail work, Dallas. It’ll take longer, but we’ll cover more ground.”

“Do that. I’m going to try this place in London. At least they speak English even if it’s not American, and I won’t need the translator.

She ran into the same wall in London, another in Milan, then an excruciatingly polite wall in Tokyo.

Frustrated, she got up and paced.

International warrants, she thought, would be a major pain in the ass for everyone involved. She might as well give a friend a pain in the ass first.

She contacted APA Cher Reo.