Page 25 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“Start looking for the twelve best lace makers in Ireland. Or, shit—who use the Irish method, threads, tools.”

“Got it. Where are we going first?”

“We’re going to start in Tribeca, work our way to SoHo. Both areas are loaded with art galleries. If we get through there, we hit the Village.”

To Eve’s mind, no angle explored equaled a true waste of time. Though it could and did often feel like one.

If an exploration didn’t harvest any solid answers, that was an answer. When you ended up with a basket of mixed, conflicting, and multiple answers, you had more to pick from.

Though Harlee Prince ranked high on the cooperative scale, her responses hit typical for most. As manager of House of Art in Tribeca, she proved knowledgeable about every artist represented in the gallery.

She stood about six feet in her towering heels with a crown of russet curls adding another inch or two. In her sleek black dress, she showed them through various rooms where others browsed.

“As you can see, we offer a variety of styles, methods, mediums.”

“How do you select the art, the artists?”

“We work mostly through an agent, or a trusted patron.”

“No walk-ins?”

“You mean unrepresented or unsolicited work? Yes.” Smiling, she gestured Eve and Peabody into another section, then to a painting of a dancer en pointe, the one beside it of another in mid-leap, and a third caught in a pirouette.

“These were brought in by what you might call a hopeful. Ankha Haversnell. As many artists don’t have representation, we at the very least try to look, evaluate. For the most part, the work doesn’t suit, but every now and again, you find something wonderful.”

“They really are wonderful,” Peabody said. “You see the grace, the movement, but you can see the effort and focus.”

“Yes, exactly.” Harlee beamed at Peabody. “Do you paint, Detective?”

“No, not really. I just admire.”

“As do I. We’ve only had these on display for a few days, and already had considerable interest.”

“What about the ones you turn down?” Eve pressed.

“Reactions vary. Rejection’s painful. Our standard response to work we find unsuitable is we work through agents. Of course, not every represented artist is accepted.”

“Either way, represented or not, does anyone stand out? A negative reaction that concerned you.”

“Oh my goodness, Lieutenant, they run the gamut. Tears, despair, anger, insults, even threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Self-harm, or threats to bring violence. For instance, I should have my eyes gouged out, as I’m already blind, or they’d see the gallery burned to the ground before they’d allow their art to be displayed here.”

“Have you reported the threats?”

With a head shake that had the curls dancing, she smiled.

“Lieutenant, it’s a momentary and passionate response. Most of them make a dramatic exit, and a good many of them come back again with new work. Or they make the rounds of other galleries. A few come back to tell me they’ve had their work accepted elsewhere. I wish them all the best.”

“Let’s go back to repeaters. Someone who comes back, is turned down again. A male, someone who strikes you as having enough money to indulge himself.”

Harlee pursed her lips. “We do get hobbyists—as I think of them—who can afford to devote their time to their hobby.”

“Who think they’re the next big deal.”

She smiled again. “Of course. We had a woman who’d taken up watercolor in her eighties.

And they were pleasant enough paintings.

She was, obviously, very used to getting her way.

She offered me five thousand dollars to accept her work, and became quite irate when I refused.

The next visit, she offered ten thousand.

And on the third, she threatened to buy the gallery and have me fired. ”

Harlee lifted her shoulders. “I’m still here. I did hear that another gallery accepted her work. I expect they were… compensated.”

“Anyone else like that? A man who tried bribes, threats, or intimidation?”

Harlee pursed her lips again.

“Now that you mention it…”

And they got their first buzz.

“There was someone, very persistent. It’s been some months since he’s come in. As I recall, he said he could buy this excuse for an art gallery ten times over. I didn’t take that seriously, of course, but if I remember correctly, he dressed very well.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. His work… what was it?” Now she squeezed her eyes shut. “Oil on canvas—I’m reasonably sure. I do remember it was, at best, pedestrian. As I said, it’s been some months. It might be close to a year since he’s come in. I honestly hadn’t given him a thought until you asked.”

“Give him a thought now. What did he paint?”

“What did he paint?” Harlee repeated. “Portraits. Yes, I remember that, as he didn’t have the talent for portraits. His paintings lacked life. And he had no real style of his own. Stagnant is the best way I can describe them. I think he came in three, possibly four times.

“I didn’t like him,” she added. “I don’t suppose that applies.”

“It does. Why didn’t you like him?”

“He was rude, arrogant right from the start, as if doing us a favor by offering his art. You will have this, but… I honestly can’t tell you exactly why, but if he’d said I should have my eyes gouged out, I would’ve reported it. I found him disturbing.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Oh my goodness, it’s been some time. I…

I’d say he was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties.

Very slim, very pale complexion. I remember his eyes were a very, very dark blue.

I remember his eyes because I found them…

I’ll say disturbing again. It’s what I remember most. I can’t quite see his face, if you understand me. But I remember his eyes.”

“Would you work with a police artist?”

“Oh, well…”

“It’s very important.”

“I do have a meeting in…” She checked her wrist unit. “Well, I’ll be a bit late for that. And an event this evening I can’t miss. I could make some time tomorrow, if you think it would help.”

“I think it could. I’ll have the police artist contact you, and you can work out the best time. Meanwhile, is there anything else you remember about him—or anyone like him?”

“I suppose he stands out or I wouldn’t have remembered him at all. And I’d say, like the watercolorist I mentioned, he struck me as someone used to getting whatever he wanted. I promise you I’ll think about it, try to jog my memory. But I really am going to be late.”

“We very much appreciate your time, Ms. Prince. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You want Yancy,” Peabody said when they walked outside.

“Yeah, I do. This guy fits several slots, so we push there.”

“I’ll contact him.”

“If anyone can pull more descriptive details from her memory, Yancy can. We’re going to hit a few more, see if anyone else remembers a well-dressed, very white male in the age range with dark blue eyes and a bad attitude.”

“There’s a glide-cart down there, and I’m empty. You may not feel it, but you’ve got to be empty, too.”

“Crap. Fine.”

When they got to the cart, Eve had to admit there was something about the smell of soy dogs, boiled up just right, that reminded the system food was a good thing.

And a cart dog on a warm afternoon was a very good thing.

“I’m going for the dog, too,” Peabody decided. “Veggie hash just won’t fill the hole.”

Eve dug in her pocket. “Shit. I need a cash machine.”

“Oh, I can cover it.”

“I’ve got it, but I borrowed most of what I’ve got from Roarke. I have to pay him back.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Eve heard the edge of surprise.

“It’s a thing we do. Avoids conflict.”

As they started back, eating dogs on the way, Eve shrugged.

“His money can be annoying.”

Obviously amused, Peabody licked some mustard off her finger. “I think I could live with it. Somehow.”

“I do live with it. I just don’t like him handing me cash when I’m tapped like it’s nothing. And I don’t want to ever get to the point where I feel like it’s nothing.”

On another bite of dog, Peabody nodded. “Okay. I get that. I can absolutely get that.”

“You can?”

“Yeah, I can, and do. If you treated the money like it was nothing, it’s like saying hell, he doesn’t need a few hundred back from me. And sure, he doesn’t. But paying it back is respect, for him and for yourself.”

“Exactly.” Pleased, even vindicated, she gave Peabody a light punch in the biceps. “Exactly. So I need a machine.”

She found one before she finished the soy dog. Took out the cash and stuffed it in another pocket.

As they got back in the car, Peabody ordered them both cold drinks from the in-dash. “McNab and I split expenses. I mean we worked it out—the rent and all that. When we go out, sometimes he treats, sometimes I do. It just depends. But the monthly expenses, we split.”

“It’s respect, and avoids conflict.”

“It’s love, too. You can respect somebody without loving them, but if you don’t respect somebody you love, it’s never going to hold up.”

“I’m going to use that one if he gets pissy about the payback.” Tucking it away, Eve headed for the next gallery.

Though the level of cooperation dipped considerably, and the details blurred, they got a hit at another gallery in SoHo.

They found another in the Village, and another nibble of information.

Though the manager had only come on three months before and had no recollection, one of the staff did.

“I didn’t really deal with him myself.”

Mark Egbe cruised into his sixties with a round, pleasant face. He wore a black three-piece suit with a poppy-red bow tie.

“Brendita—she retired a few months ago—said he told her he’d had a brilliantly successful showing upstate.”

“You never saw or spoke to him yourself, Mr. Egbe?”

“Not to speak to, no. I imagine I saw him at some point. I believe he came in two or three times, but would only speak with Brendita—Ms. Klein—and if I remember correctly, they spoke in her office.