Page 28 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

She walked back to her car and headed west in vicious crosstown traffic she liked a lot better than Hale Vanderling.

When she finally reached the gates, and those gates opened, the magic happened. The weight of the day, and those to come, didn’t drop away, but it lessened. She could take a breath now, be at home now. Be at home with someone who understood her, and that weight, and wanted her anyway.

So when she stopped the car in front of the house, she took that breath.

Summerset and the cat waited when she stepped inside, but she’d expected that. Galahad padded over to ribbon between her legs.

Then stopped, arched his back.

“Look, pal, the fuzzy dog belonged to a wit, and it was before dawn. Deal with it.”

He dealt with it by turning his back and ignoring her.

“Late,” Summerset observed, “but apparently undamaged.”

She gave him a long look, not unlike what the cat had given her.

“I met a guy today who could out-snoot you. So be careful. He could yank your championship belt right off your skinny ass.”

“Perhaps I should call the cops.”

“Don’t look at me.” She headed for the stairs. “I’m over my quota of snoot for one day.”

And exhausted with it, he thought as the cat ran up the stairs at her heels. He trusted Roarke, and the cat, would tend to that.

When she turned into her office, Roarke stepped out of his.

“I see I beat you home after all.”

“Yeah.”

And looking at him, just looking at him, cut the remaining weight in half.

She walked over, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her face to his shoulder.

“My darling Eve.” He pulled her closer, brushed his lips over her hair. “What’s all this now?”

“Nothing. Nothing really. I’m just glad to be home. I’m glad you’re here, and we’re home. Even though I have to go out again later.”

“Do we?”

“I need to talk to some of the victim’s associates once they hit the stroll. Somebody might have seen him with the suspect.”

“Of course.” He stroked a hand down her back. “Well, we’ve time before that.” He drew her back to study her face. “Had a day of it, haven’t you, Lieutenant?”

“It’s like pushing a big-ass boulder up a really steep hill. You’re making progress, but it’s by inches, and you can’t see the top yet.”

“We’ll take a walk then, out to the pond. A walk and some wine, and you’ll tell me about it.”

She looked over at her board. “I really need to—”

He used a finger to turn her face back to his. “Will it make a difference if you take a half hour?”

“No. No, it won’t make any difference. Someone’s going to die tonight, and nothing I do here can stop it.”

Now he cupped her face in his hands, kissed her. “Don’t carry that, Eve.”

“I can’t not. I can know, absolutely, it’s on him, not me. But I just can’t not. So yeah, a walk is good, and wine.”

He chose a bottle, pulled the cork. Then handed Eve two glasses.

“Why were you late?” she asked him.

“Ah, some of this, some of that. A couple of boulders reached the top of the hill this afternoon. A company I acquired a few months ago is now successfully restructured. We’ve broken ground on some new construction on Olympus.

And you’ll be pleased we’ve expanded by several acres our coffee plantation in South America.

I’ve my eye on a small enterprise in Costa Rica. ”

And that, Roarke thought as they walked outside through the atrium, should have given her time to get her thoughts back in order.

“How do you keep it all straight? Coffee here, off-planet stuff there, restructuring somewhere else. I mean, don’t you ever get the plantation mixed up with the resort with the company with all the rest?”

“I’d best not. For whatever reason, I was born with a head for, and an instinct for, business—legitimate and otherwise. Just as you were born with a head and instinct for police work.”

He lifted her hand, kissed her fingers.

“And so here we are, a ghrá , together, never having had to put your head and instincts up against mine.”

“So we can walk through an orchard in New York.”

“Summerset tells me he made jam from the last of the peaches.”

“You make jam from peaches?”

“You can, yes. I believe it’s called peach jam.”

“I don’t mean that, smart-ass. I mean how do you… No, I don’t want to know how. That can remain a mystery.”

When they crossed over to the pond, sat on the bench, Roarke poured the wine.

“Now then, tell me where your head and instincts took you today.”

“Well, there was the porn theater, then the naked guy in the vic’s flop before the morgue and the lab, then a conversation with some snotty Frenchwoman about fancy costumes.”

“And I thought my day was interesting.”

“This is good.” She sipped some wine, leaned against him a little. “This is good.”

And wound back to the beginning to tell him.

“Clever to consult with Leonardo,” Roarke said. “Who—well, other than Harvo—knows fabric better?”

“Peabody’s having yippees out of working on that end. And pigment. I thought, if he’s so detailed on the costumes, on reproducing them exactly like the ones in the paintings, maybe he’s using the same kind of paints. And back when they made their own.”

“Clever girl,” he murmured. “Vermeer used lapis lazuli for his ultramarine, and quite liberally, though it was very expensive.”

“Why the hell didn’t I consult with you on this part?”

“I’m no expert on how it’s all done. I just know some trivia. Such as finely ground cinnabar made vermillion. Plants and so forth, made different colors. When one’s acquiring a painting, however one acquires it, it’s helpful to know a bit about it.”

“Peabody’s got a cousin who paints—natural paints, like from rocks and grass and stuff.”

“I’m not a bit surprised, and that should be helpful.

I also, hearing all this, agree with your head and instincts.

He has the financial resources, it seems, the obsession with details.

Why wouldn’t he want to replicate using the same paints used by the master?

Using commercial products would mean he wasn’t as good. ”

“And he needs to be better, not just as good. I got one more potential hit from a gallery on the Lower East Side. The manager only remembered because he called her a fucking plebeian before he stormed out. But she said it was probably last fall, and she doesn’t really remember him well at all—except she thought, maybe, he had long brown hair.

Past his shoulders. But, she admits, that could’ve been someone else. ”

“Frustrating for you.”

“It is all that. The last stop was this asshole who hoped I’d come in to buy a painting for you.”

Roarke sipped some wine. “Why would you?”

“Well, yeah. Anyway, that was a bust.” She tipped her head to his shoulder. “A lot of it dropped off just getting home. Then more when you were right there. And this was good. But the fucking boulder, Roarke. It’s just stuck.

“I know he’s a white male. I know his approximate age.

He’s got dark blue eyes and maybe long brown hair.

He’s got plenty of time—to paint, to scope out his victims. He’s got money, and doesn’t likely work in the real world.

He’s got a vehicle, a place of his own. He’s not going to be close to anyone.

He doesn’t care about people. He’s a—what was the word—pedestrian painter who thinks he’s a genius.

“And he has a connection upstate.”

“You think that because he said he had a show, a successful one, there?”

“That could be bullshit. But why upstate? He could’ve said anywhere, but he said upstate, so that means something to him. He could’ve said Paris or East Washington or anywhere. He’s got a connection in upstate New York. And maybe he, or someone, paid for him to show his art.”

“Another avenue to pursue.”

“Yeah, one more.” She rose. “I need to get back to the avenues. They make up a damn city at this point.”

He rose, walked with her.

“Fabrics, designers, costume places for rich people, galleries, pigments, LCs, and now wealthy areas—it’s going to be—upstate.”

“I might be able to help with the costume places for rich people.”

“How?”

“Perhaps I’m contemplating holding a fancy dress ball, and I’m considering various venues for my own costume, and of course, my lovely wife’s. Naturally, I want absolute authenticity. I want guarantees there, and I require recommendations from previous clients.”

She stopped a moment, just stopped and stared at him.

“Jesus, that could work. It could work because it’s you.”

He gave an easy shrug. “It could be fun as well. I haven’t had any fun on this one as yet. Not a single finance search for me.”

“It could be fun for you to bullshit snotty Frenchwomen, and their ilk, by pretending you’re going to have a costume party?”

“Or.”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh, no. No way in hell I’m ever wearing some dopey costume.”

“Darling, I would never want or expect you to wear the dopey. But.”

“Come on.” She gave him a light elbow jab. “Just lie. That can be fun for you.”

“That’s true. It’ll have to be tomorrow, of course.”

“Tomorrow’s good.”

She glanced over as they went back inside. “What costume are you going to lie about?”

“Hmm. I might be a dashing highwayman with sword and pistol. Stand and deliver! And you?”

“It’d have to be somebody who kicked ass, and I’m never doing it anyway.”

“You’d make a brilliant Grace O’Malley.”

She gave him the side-eye. “The Irish pirate?”

“Pirate queen and warrior. You’d wear a sword.”

“A sword.” It took her a couple of beats, then she shook her head. “No.”

Laughing, he gave her hair a tug. “But I had you there for a moment, didn’t I then? The warrior and the thief would suit us well enough. But…” He kissed her hand again. “We hardly need costumes for that.”

“Just lie,” Eve repeated as they walked back into her office.

“Let’s call it prevaricate.”

“Whatever works.”

“Now you’ll see to your updates. I’ll see to a meal.”

Once she updated her board, she sat at her command center to write up the interviews she’d conducted on the way home.

As she worked, Roarke set out domed plates. He opened the balcony doors to the evening air, then walked over to study her board.

“The costumes are certainly precise replications. There’s considerable skill there, I’d think. And Harvo’s list… those materials? Both costly and exclusive.”

“They had to be. He needs exact.”

“With the clothing, yes. But not the faces. Those he settled for a type.”

She glanced over before she finished and shut down. “That’s right.”

“For the girl, it’s the eyes, the youth, and fair skin. For the boy, it’s the size, the look of youth, and the confidence. But he needed them, needed live models for whatever reason. Otherwise, he could have simply copied from the paintings themselves.”

“His paintings needed life.” She crossed to stand beside him. “Their lives.”

“So at the bottom, they’re a sacrifice to his art. Here now, sit and eat. And you can handle another glass of wine with dinner.”

He stepped over, removed the domes.

She saw spaghetti and meatballs. For the second time that evening, she went to him, wrapped around him.

“It’s the little things. It’s just noodles and balls of meat, but…”

“It’s comfort.”

“It’s that.” She remembered what Peabody had said. “And it’s love. Which reminds me.” She stepped back, took the cash out of her pocket. “Thanks for the loan.”

He looked at it, at her, then put it in his own pocket. “No problem at all.”

Now she laughed, then grabbed his face and kissed him. “Yes, it is. For both of us. But we did it. And now, I’m hungry. I wanted a damn candy bar after I finished the godforsaken paperwork, but I lost it.”

“In a bet?”

She gave a: Ha! “I’m no Santiago. To the damn Candy Thief.” She wound some pasta, stuffed it in. Yes, comfort and love, she thought. And really, really good.

“I hid it inside the wheelbase of my desk chair. It was a prime spot. I mean, who the hell is going to unscrew the wheelbase of a chair for a candy bar?”

“Obviously you.”

“Yeah.” She forked into a meatball, then studied him. “You’re not sneaking into my office and stealing my candy just to keep your hand in, are you?”

“Darling Eve, I’d never deny you candy, now would I?”

“Probably not. And you’re too slick to taunt me.” She ate, gestured with her fork. “They put a big yellow smiley face in there, with those googly eyes. You know the shaky eyes? It laughed when you pressed it. ‘Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha.’”

He laughed—not a mocking ha ha ha , but a warm, appreciative roll of it. “You can’t deny, it’s clever.”

“I call it escalation. What do you think about coating the next bar with liquid laxative?”

Wincing, he picked up his wine. “That seems a bit extreme.”

“Maybe. Yeah. Probably.” She wound more pasta. “I’ll think of something.”

“No doubt.” He passed her some garlic bread. “You could stop hiding candy in your office and just keep some in your pocket.”

She just shook her head. “It’s a matter of principle. Anyway. A street thief tried to pick my pocket today. How stupid is that?”

Roarke smiled at her. “I’m sure they’re sitting on a cot behind bars asking themselves that very question.”

“You ever lift from a cop?”

“Of course.” He ate some pasta. “It was a matter of principle.”