Page 27 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

She left v- and e-mail for the retired gallery manager, then contacted Iona from the Midtown Gallery.

“I’m really vague on this, and it had to be last winter. Maybe January or February. I’m only remembering a little because you said oil on canvas, portraits, pedestrian, lifeless—according to the other gallery managers.”

“What do you remember?”

“An artist who brought in a portrait of a woman—and I’m not a hundred percent clear on that.

I only remember him coming in once, and he didn’t cause any sort of scene or get nasty, so I didn’t think about him this morning.

The painting, it just wasn’t good. I can’t even recall the details, but I remember he needed to work on adding light and life to his work.

It’s something I might say to any hopeful artist. I probably encouraged him to take some classes.

I can’t say that absolutely, but it’s something I often suggest.

“I am sure he never came back in, not with another piece.”

“Can you describe him at all?”

“I’m just not sure. White, and…” With a look of frustration, Iona pressed a hand to her head. “I wish I could be sure, but I’m just not sure. I think probably not over thirty. He didn’t make an impression, Lieutenant, not personally or professionally.”

“All right. If you remember any more, contact me. If you wouldn’t mind, you might ask your staff if they remember him.”

“I absolutely will. We’re all pretty shaken.”

Who wouldn’t be? Eve thought, and turned to her board just before she heard Peabody’s cowboy boot clump.

“Leonardo reports!”

“What?”

“None of the colleagues he contacted created those costumes. He has more to reach out to, but so far, none. He did try a few venues, but they locked him out mostly because he’s a designer.

The way he explains it is some in his business might try to poach clients this way, so they keep it zipped.

But he does bump up three fabric venues.

He’s also reaching out on the Irish lace.

He actually has a mother-daughter team who does lace for him when he wants it.

“Another thread? I left a message for my cousin. If she’s working, she shuts off her ’link. But she’s good at getting back to me.”

“Good.”

Eve filled her in on Iona.

“He left enough of an impression for her to remember he didn’t leave much of one.”

Eve leaned back, gave Peabody a nod. “That’s exactly right. Given some time, she might remember something else. But. She’s more sure she remembers telling him he needed more light and life in his work.”

“You think the way he decided to do that was to take lives.”

“I do.”

The more she considered it, the clearer, the louder it rang for her.

“If you want to punish the galleries for not recognizing your genius, you go after the galleries or the people in them who turned you down. But that’s not it. He’s using death to give his work life. And there’ll never be another portrait of that person again. Only his.”

“But they’re copies of others.”

“Which is something none of the managers who remember him at all said. Not one’s said he copied classic portraits. This is new for him. A new—what do they call it when an artist… it’s not era.”

“Period. This is his Death Period, I guess.”

“And he’ll show all of them how brilliant he is, how gifted. I’m going to finish up here, then give this damn paperwork an hour. I’ll hit a few galleries on the way home. You keep working the pigments and fabrics.”

“And yet another yippee.”

Eve considered it a bonus when an hour of paperwork didn’t make her eyes actually bleed. She checked the time, then calculated what she had left.

After casting her non-bleeding eyes to the ceiling, she got another cup of coffee. If she put in thirty more, she could finish. Be done. Have it over.

So she bore down, blocked everything else out, sucked it up, and attacked the last miserable, sticky bunch of it.

When she finished in twenty, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. Still no blood.

She’d emerged victorious. And she deserved a reward. Forget trophies, medals, cash prizes.

She wanted candy.

She got up, walked to her office door, listened. Yeah, still some activity in her bullpen. She eased the door shut, just in case.

After turning her desk chair over, she sat on the floor. With her penknife, she carefully unscrewed the wheeled base, lifted it.

Instead of the jumbo chocolate bar, she stared down at a jumbo smiley face sticker. A big yellow smiley face with googly eyes.

“Son of a bitch!”

Because it looked puffy, she pressed a finger on it.

As the googly eyes shook, it went: “Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha!”

“That’s not funny.”

Maybe a little funny, she admitted. But now the insidious Candy Thief mocked her. Stealing her candy stash wasn’t enough for them now?

She sat a moment, plotting revenge. Coating the next bar with liquid laxative before stashing it came to mind, and felt very satisfying.

But, as lieutenant, she couldn’t afford to have anyone in her bullpen suddenly shitting their pants while in the pursuit of justice.

And yet as she stared down at the smiley face, she seriously weighed serve and protect against vengeance.

She’d think about it.

She replaced the wheelbase, righted the chair. To comfort herself, she looked at her cleared desk and told herself good work required no reward.

When she went out to the bullpen, Peabody still manned her desk.

“I’m just waiting for McNab. They busted that major cyber case, so he’s pumped. We’re going to catch a brew with Callendar and some of the others. I’ve got what might be a line, I think, on some of the fabric, but it’s after hours in Europe.”

“Right. The wheelbase on my desk chair was loose.”

“Oh? Do you want me to call Maintenance?”

Innocence, Eve wondered, or caginess? Hard to tell.

“No, I fixed it. Ha ha ha.”

Peabody’s brow creased. “You okay, Dallas?”

“I’m dandy. Like candy. And I’m out.”

In more ways than one, she thought as she walked to the glides.

Remembering the Marriage Rules, she texted Roarke that she had a few stops to make on the way home.

Maybe she should backtrack on her candy hiding places. Try labeling it under something like broccoli in her office AC. No, she realized, reverse strategy. Put it under something tasty.

No one ever filched from her AC when she wasn’t there. Because, she understood, in her strange cop world, that would simply be wrong.

Tacos, she considered. Tacos were tasty.

She’d think about it.

As she jogged down the last level, Roarke texted her back.

Running a bit late myself. I’ve something to clear up before I leave. I’ll see you at home.

Satisfied the Marriage Rules held strong, she drove into the early evening insanity of Manhattan traffic.

She programmed in five addresses on the East Side, and wondered why the hell New York had so many art galleries.

On her start, stop, wait, walk journey, her choices started with the tiny, with its trio of narrow aisles covered with paintings of cats, dogs, turtles, fish in bowls or tanks, birds in cages or on perches, a snake that looked ready to swallow a whole human.

She learned the display was: A Celebration of Pets.

Her final stop hit the other end of the scale with a two-story space with art carefully spaced on its bright white walls or on sturdy white stands.

Even the floors and the open curve of stairs glittered white. She might have reached for her sunshades, but she’d left them in the car.

Somewhere.

Everyone spoke in hushed tones, as they might in a church. All the staff wore severe black, and if of any length, their hair was pulled tightly into a bun, twist, or knot at the back of their head.

The man in charge, about five-six, had a wide white streak through his ink-black hair. He took Eve’s hand, and when she realized he meant to lift it, kiss it, she gave his a hard squeeze and pulled hers back.

He blinked his nut-brown eyes, but kept his smile in place.

“Ms. Dallas.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Yes, of course. I’m Hale Vanderling. It’s a pleasure to meet you. We’re well aware your husband is an esteemed collector of art. Are you perhaps in search of a gift?”

“No. This is police business.”

“I see.” He might have wiped the smile away with a wet cloth. “Then perhaps we should adjourn to my office.”

Maybe she wanted to needle him, but Eve stood her ground. “This shouldn’t take long. This is a murder investigation with connection to art.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Yeah, you could say. We’re looking for a male, late twenties to early thirties. An artist, or one who hopes to be. Have you turned away a man in that age range bringing in paintings they hope you’ll display, take on commission, buy outright?”

As he stared at her, she wondered how he could breathe with his nostrils that pinched.

“We here at Fine Arts do not accept art brought in off the street. What we house is most carefully curated for the discerning collector. I believe our vision, and therefore our reputation, is unmatched, as we offer our clients art selected for their elevated tastes.”

“So that would be a no. Has anyone attempted to bring in their art for consideration?”

“If such a thing were to be attempted, security would immediately block their entrance. Accepted art is never delivered, hung, or set during open hours so as not to diminish the ambiance for our clients.”

“That would also be a no. Has anyone ever offered a large sum of money to get their paintings in the door?”

Somehow he breathed through the pinched nostrils in a long, audible and derisive sniff. “Our art is sacrosanct! Our reputation unblemished! We are not to be bribed ! We—”

Eve cut him off with a raised hand. “I got the no. Thanks for your time.”

The smile popped right back on his face. “If your official duties are complete, I would be delighted to show you through our current collection.”

“No thanks. My tastes aren’t especially elevated.”

Enough of that, she decided as she walked out. Just enough of that for tonight.