Page 3 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

She drove downtown in that strange hour when night and day met, and neither dominated.

The early hour offered light traffic, maxibuses carting commuters home after the night shift or to work for the early shift, a few cabs—night revelers finally calling it, travelers heading out for an early flight.

Shops and restaurants remained closed but for the occasional twenty-four/seven or round-the-clock café. Pedestrian traffic consisted of a couple of street-level LCs hoping for one more score before breakfast, and a couple of guys, obviously drunk, weaving their way toward one of the cafés.

Lights flickered in the occasional window in darkened buildings, but for the most part, the city slept. Not all of it, Eve knew. There were sectors where the party never quit, where the music would bang and boom in clubs and joints and dives until well after dawn broke.

However, along her route, her city held quiet. But like a breath caught, when it exhaled, life began another day.

Unfortunately, as a murder cop she knew, too well, the dawn didn’t break for everyone.

King Street, she mused. Kind of arty on its edge between SoHo and Greenwich Village. Some buildings thrown up after the Urbans, but more old ones, condos, single-family (if you had the scratch for it), lofts, cafés, art shops, boutiques.

She rated the general neighborhood as solid, established, and the sort of place frequented by people who liked to discuss art or other intellectual themes as they downed shit coffee or organic teas while someone recited poetry or played an acoustic guitar.

But then, people killed people everywhere from the hell of the underground to the loftiest penthouse.

It was her job to find out who, how, and why, and she felt it her duty to build a case that brought justice to the victims and those who mourned them.

She spotted the pair of police cruisers, pulled in behind them. She took out her badge as she approached the yellow tape blocking off a pre-Urban, three-story brownstone currently lit up like Christmas.

“Lieutenant.” The female uniform gave her a nod. “Officer Cyril.”

“What’ve you got, Officer Cyril?”

“My partner—Officer Stowe—and I responded to a nine-one-one at approximately oh-five-fifty. The wit resides here. Seventeen, snuck out last night, and was sneaking back in when she saw the body.”

As Eve ducked under the tape, Cyril gestured. “The wit—Fiona Whittier—has the basement apartment. The body’s at the bottom of the stairs in front of the secured door.”

“So I see. I also see a door cam.”

“Sir, the witness admitted to deactivating that camera at about midnight. Intending to reactivate when she got back inside.”

“Great.”

“We have two officers inside with the family. Ah, we asked for the backup, as the wit and her family—mother, father, younger brother—were argumentative, mostly with each other—and hell, sir, damn near hysterical.”

“Got it. Detective Peabody will be here shortly. She’s good at dealing with civilian hysteria, if necessary. I’ll take the body. Stand by.”

Eve took Seal-It out of her field kit, coated her shoes, her hands, then turned on her recorder.

She walked down the concrete steps to the small, flagstoned area in front of the door.

“The victim’s female, Caucasian, early twenties. She’s been placed—posed—with her right side and shoulder against the door of the basement apartment of the residence. Her head’s turned as if looking over her left shoulder. There’s some wire here.”

She pulled out her microgoggles.

“There’s wire holding her head in this position. The vic’s wearing what appears to be a costume, with a head scarf—no, looks like two scarves wound together—covering her hair, a long tunic and skirt, both gold, a white shirt—no, like a collar or scarf—under the tunic. Big pearl earrings.”

She took the left hand lying over the right in the victim’s lap, and pressed a finger to her Identi-pad.

“Victim is identified as Leesa Culver, age twenty-two. Licensed companion, street level. Resides 215 Tenth Avenue, apartment 403.”

Eve eased closer, angled her head. “Bruising on neck consistent with strangulation, as are the broken vessels in the eyes. ME to determine.

“Something about the eyes…” Carefully, Eve touched a fingertip to an eyelid. “The victim’s eyes are held open, likely with some sort of adhesive. Glue, tape.”

She sat back on her heels. “The killer wanted her eyes open. Wanted her head at this angle. Wanted it enough to use wire and adhesive to leave her in this pose.”

Pulling out her gauges she established time of death.

“TOD, oh-two-fifty-three. Was she already wearing the outfit? I’m going to say most probable given the need to wire and glue her up, the need to transport to this location, then wire her to the door. But… three hours between TOD and the nine-one-one, so enough to dress her up.”

Unlike Roarke, Peabody made noise. Eve heard the distinctive clomp.

“You’re already on the body?” Peabody started down the steps. “You got here fast.”

“I was already up and dressed. Paperwork.”

“Oh, right. Those are beautiful scarves, and she’s wearing earrings so it doesn’t look like a mugging. I… wait. Can you move over so I can get a better look?”

“Do you know her?”

“No, no.” Peabody, black, red-streaked hair in a jaunty tail, khaki jacket and pants offset with a shirt in bold pink-and-white stripes, studied the body. “The outfit. It’s something. It’s like I recognize the outfit, and how she’s sitting. Like she’s posing.”

She shook her head, rapped her fingers against her temple as if to knock something loose. “It’s… I think it’s like a painting, but I can’t place it exactly.”

“A painting? If it is, I know who can.”

Eve pulled out her ’link, tagged Roarke.

He gave her a puzzled smile when his face filled the screen. “Lieutenant.”

“I’m going to show you the vic. Tell me if what she’s wearing, how she looks reminds you of anything.”

“All right then.”

She turned so the body came on his screen. It took him under two seconds.

“ Girl with a Pearl Earring , Johannes Vermeer. The original’s in The Hague.”

“Yes,” Peabody said, and rapped her temple again. “That’s the one.”

“You got that in about one second.”

“It’s a very famous painting, arguably Vermeer’s most well-known. Your victim’s face isn’t quite right—the features—but the eyes are close in shape.”

“Who was she, the model for the painting? Was she a prostitute?”

“Unknown, but unlikely. She’s what the Dutch—he was Dutch—call a tronie.

A character type,” he explained. “Vermeer, by and large, painted people at their work, their daily routine or chores. She’s not meant to represent a specific person, but simply a young woman in rather exotic dress.

It’s a study of her face, her expression, of light. ”

“Okay. That’s helpful.”

“She’s very young, isn’t she? Wasn’t she?” Roarke corrected.

“Yeah.”

“How did the killer hold her in that specific pose after death?”

“Wire and adhesive.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Yeah, it earns an ‘ah.’ Thanks for the help. I need to get back to it.”

“Good hunting.”

Eve slipped the ’link back in her pocket. “So he poses her, very specific, dresses her, very specific—to mimic a painting.”

“It’s a really beautiful painting.” Peabody held out her PPC, where she’d brought the image up.

“Roarke’s right, the face isn’t there, but the eyes are close. So they were important enough. Hold on.”

She crouched down again, used her penlight to shine in the victim’s mouth. “He’s glued inside her mouth to hold her lips like the painting—really fucking specific.”

“Maybe an art student, art historian, struggling or failed artist. She might have modeled for him.”

“She was an LC, street level. But yeah, he had to see her to kill her, had to see her as this—what did Roarke call it?—tronie to go through all this to replicate. The outfit, the earring, the angle of the body. He wired her to the doorknob. He had to do that here, on-site, take that time.”

“So it was important. It’s part of the kill. COD?”

“She was strangled. Morris will confirm, but it looks like manual strangulation from my visual. Let’s call in the morgue team, the sweepers.”

She straightened. “Teenage daughter sneaking back into the house after a night of partying—I assume—found her. Officer on scene states she and her family got into it, lot of arguing and hysteria. If that’s not cooled by now, you’ll need to smooth it out. Or I’ll cut it off. Whichever works.”

“I’ll try the smooth first.”

Eve walked back up the stairs to talk to the uniforms. “Stay on the body. My partner’s calling in the dead wagon and the sweepers. We’ll go talk to the wit and her family.”

Day had begun to push back the night so the air was a soft, filmy gray when Eve walked up the steps to the front door of the brownstone.

She noted good security.

So did Peabody. “We should get something from the security feed on the basement door cam.”

“Deactivated by the kid when she slipped out.”

“Well, yeah, of course.”

Eve hit the buzzer. A uniform answered, and one Eve recognized.

“Hey, LT, Detective.”

“LaValle, what’s the status in here?”

“Détente. Things were pretty, let’s say fraught, but my trainee—he’s only been on six weeks—got them smooth. He’s got a way, I gotta give it to him. Plus, he’s damn good-looking, and that helps. Officer Freemont, Jerry Freemont’s boy.”

“Sure, I know Sergeant Freemont. Peabody and I will take it from here. Appreciate your assist.”

“No worries. Some place, huh?”

The foyer impressed with what looked like marble floors as white as the Alps, walls of the pearl gray of Roarke’s shirt, and a three-tier chandelier of silver rings.

Art, too, that looked important.