Page 30 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

Ansel shrugged, but Eve saw grief rush into his eyes.

“I don’t know the time. Just passed by him a couple times, I guess.

It was a good night, and I figure he was as busy as me.

I hit two women who both wanted full service.

They paid for a room. I know I wasn’t done there until after midnight.

I only know that because I made enough to take a break, and Bobby wasn’t out, so I figured he was working inside. ”

“Did you see him after that?”

“No. The customers were a block south, and the hotel another block. If I had to guess, we made the date about ten, ten-thirty. But I’m guessing.”

Roarke brought back the drinks.

“How do you get to be a consultant?” Ansel asked him.

“Try to be useful.”

“You said you saw Bobby.” Eve shifted to Luce.

“Several times, yeah.” She took a tentative sip of her drink. “We were going to have breakfast.” She looked at Ansel, gripped his hand. “But he didn’t show. We tried tagging him, but it didn’t go through. I mean at all.”

“Figured his ’link died. Didn’t think any more about it.” The grief deepened on his face, in his voice. “I should’ve gone by his place.”

“We didn’t know.” A tear slid down Luce’s cheek. She took another small sip.

“It wouldn’t have helped him.”

Ansel stared at Eve. “We heard somebody painted him fucking blue before they killed him.”

“That’s not accurate. When did you see him last?” she asked Luce.

“Well, I don’t know when exactly. You’re going to work till about sunup, so what’s the difference?

I passed him on my stroll, then he wasn’t there, then he was.

Then I saw him walking up toward the breakfast place.

I figured he wanted a break. I thought maybe I’d take one, since he was.

But he wasn’t in there, so I went back to work. ”

“You saw him walking north.”

“Ah yeah, I guess.”

“With someone?”

“I didn’t think so, but maybe.”

“Another man?”

“Maybe. There’s always a lot of people. It’s why we work here.”

“If Bobby left his spot,” Ansel put in, “and it wasn’t for a quick break, it was with a customer. And they’d have to make it worth his while. He’s got the prime spot on the block. And he could handle himself, okay? You have to be able to handle yourself.”

Ansel stared hard into his brew, then took a long drink. “He’d’ve left some marks on whoever did him. He’d have made the bastard bleed first.”

“Maybe he was with somebody,” Luce murmured. “I didn’t think of it, but maybe there was a guy with him.”

“Do you remember anything about the person with him?”

“I think, yeah, Bobby looked over at him, like they were talking. He was taller than Bobby, but not by much, and Bobby’s kind of short. Long hair, I think. Longer than yours,” she said to Roarke.

“But there were a lot of people, and I’m quite short, so I didn’t really keep track of Bobby. I just thought he was going to grab some coffee.

“But he wasn’t.”

She looked over at Eve with drenched eyes. “What’s going to happen to Bobby now?”

“His mother’s making arrangements for him.”

“He loved his mom. We never met her, but he really loved her, and his sister, too. Are they doing like a funeral?”

“I can’t give you her contact, but if you give me yours, I’ll check with her. If she okays it, I’ll let you know the arrangements.”

Luce looked at Ansel, who nodded.

“You can have mine.” Luce gave Eve her ’link number. “It’s Lucille Mulligan and…” Ansel nodded again. “Ansel Porter. Can you tell Bobby’s mom we loved him, too? We really did. And we’re sorry?”

“Yes.” Eve slid one of her cards onto the table. “If you think of anything else, contact me.”

“They shouldn’t get away with it,” Luce said. “They shouldn’t get away with killing Bobby.”

“No, they shouldn’t. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure they don’t.”

Luce read the card, then, blue eyes wide, stared at Eve. “Eve Dallas? Like in the vid?”

“Eve Dallas, like with the NYPSD.”

She nudged Roarke. He slid out, then laid two hundred on the table in front of each of them.

Ansel looked at him. “Why?”

“I’ve lost friends.”

When he stepped out with Eve, she said, “I’m not even going to bother.”

“Good. They did love him. Clearly.”

“We’re going to work our way north. Maybe somebody saw more, saw them get into a vehicle.”

She tried more LCs, street vendors, the annoying hawkers. And finally hit on one that thought, possibly, they’d seen Bobby turn at Forty-Fifth Street, maybe with some dude.

Since some dude turned out to be the best description, she turned on Forty-Fifth.

“Could’ve parked along here, or shit, somewhere on Eighth.”

“I’m happy to walk as long as you like, but.”

“Yeah, but. Party’s over down this far out, and the odds of anyone taking note of a couple of guys walking this way or getting into a parked car are slim to none. I’ll have uniforms canvass tomorrow. Let’s head back.”

“You can’t feel this was a waste of time.”

“It’s never a waste. And no. He walked this way with his killer. Killer taller than him—she didn’t say tall. Bobby was five-seven. The other LC said around five-eight or -nine. I’m going with about five-eight. Long hair, Luce said. So I’m going with long brown hair.

“And I’m hoping Yancy can get something more solid from the gallery manager. Get enough pieces, you get a picture.”

As they headed back to the car, the noise level rose.

Eve saw a man in swim trunks, face mask, and snorkel mime swimming along Broadway for a crowd that found it absolutely hilarious.

“Do you have extreme soundproofing in that hotel of yours?”

“We do have excellent soundproofing. We also have windows that open a few inches. You’d be amazed at how many prefer the noise.”

“That’s because they probably live on some prairie somewhere and never hear anything but… whatever else lives on prairies somewhere.”

“Gophers?”

“Okay. Do gophers make sounds?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever actually heard one, but mammals tend to.”

“They’re like big, fat squirrels, right? They probably make squirrel sounds, but bigger.”

“Well, now I’m curious.”

As they walked, he pulled out his PPC, did a search. And came up with a kind of squeaking.

“See, like a rat, and squirrels are furry rats, so gophers are big squirrels.” She scrubbed her hands over her face.

“I’m punchy. I’m having my ears assaulted by crazy people everywhere and talking about gophers, so I’m punchy.”

They turned into the hotel parking. “But I’m driving.”

And while she did, Jonathan Harper Ebersole walked up First Avenue. He felt excited, vindicated, prepared.

He knew the two portraits he’d begun—and he considered the first nearly finished—were his best work. The blind-to-true-talent gallery managers, the ignorant art critics, the shortsighted art collectors would all eat their words.

Galleries would soon vie to show his work. They’d beg. They’d grovel. The critics would shower him with praise, and the collectors would pay—oh, they would pay—for the privilege of owning a J. H. Ebersole.

He could see it. He could feel it. He could taste it.

Tonight, he would begin a third portrait. He’d thought to wait, to complete the first two before beginning another.

But he simply couldn’t. Nothing, he understood now, could replace that energy, that flood of power when he squeezed the life out of the model and into his hands.

Then onto the canvas.

It was that energy that propelled him, that life that streamed into his art.

No, he couldn’t wait to begin the next.

And because he couldn’t wait, he’d come earlier in the evening than before. But he saw her, the one he’d chosen for a kind of immortality. The shape of her face worked for him, with its softly rounded chin and the slightly bowed mouth.

He could see her with her face cleaned of the layers of makeup, and the luxurious wig covering the ridiculous blue hair. While her skin tone was deeper than he wanted, he could overlook that because she had the long, slender neck he needed.

He caught her eye, and as he’d hoped, she strutted toward him, farther away from the others who worked her trade.

“Looking for some fun, sweet cheeks?”

He shifted so she blocked him from any of her coworkers’ prying eyes.

“I’d like to hire you.”

“That’s what I’m here for, sweets. You pay, we play.”

“I want to paint you.”

She grinned, ticked her shoulders back and forth. “What color?”

“No, I want to paint your portrait. In my studio.”

“If you want me to leave the stroll, it’ll cost you.”

“I’ll give you a thousand now, and another thousand when it’s done. It’ll take a few hours, and I’ll compensate you.”

He knew he had her by the way her eyes widened. “Let’s see the money.”

He had it ready, folded in his pocket. “If you wouldn’t mind not counting it here. You could check—discreetly—as we walk to my car.”

She ignored that, annoying him, and flipped through the bills. “Where’s the car?”

“It’s not far. A couple of blocks.”

They were standing in one spot too long, so he tried something else.

“If you don’t want to do it, I understand. I’ll find another model.”

“I didn’t say no, did I?” She tucked the bills in a little black purse chained around her waist. And began to walk. “So you’re an artist or something.”

“I’m an artist.” He kept the conversation going as they walked. “I’m working on a series of period pieces. The costume you’ll wear is lovely. It’s a re-creation of a chemise en gaulle from the eighteenth century.”

She snorted a laugh. “Listen to you! You’re hiring me to wear a costume? You’re one strange dude. Not my strangest, but up there. But you’re paying me two thousand, so be as strange as you want.”

When they reached the lot and his car, she widened her eyes again. “Woo-wee! I guess you can afford the two grand. Guess it pays to paint people.”

He relaxed when he had her in the car, and smiled.

“It can, but you have to paint for the love of it first and last. For the love, and the life. You’ll help bring this portrait to life.”

She settled back as he drove. “For two thousand, honey, I’ll give it all the life you want.”

Oh, yes, he thought. You’ll give me all the life I want.

“I’m Chablis, by the way,” she told him.

He had to bite back a laugh at that absurdity, and when a little bubbled out, he added a smile.

“As fate would have it, I have a very nice bottle of Chablis at home. You’ll have a glass, if you like, to relax you. It can be tedious to hold a pose. If you hold it well, I’ll add a five-hundred-dollar bonus.

“I’m Jonathan.”

“Well, Johnny, for five hundred extra, I’ll stand on my head.”

He laughed as if amused. And could hardly wait to kill her.

She gave him the expected reaction to his home, his studio, and with it, he caught some calculation. No doubt she’d try to squeeze more cash out of him.

He could let her believe she’d succeeded there. After all, it cost him nothing.

She complained about removing her makeup, but complied. She had more cleavage than he wanted, but he’d deal with that, he thought as he adjusted the white silk tie of the frilly white collar.

She smiled at him. “Sure you don’t want to have some fun, Johnny?”

“Art first.”

“Yeah, you’re a strange one all right.”

He drew a long curl of the wig down her left shoulder, added the props, set the angle of her arms, her hands.

“Look straight at me,” he told her as he began mixing the paint on the palette. “The slightest smile. No, a little less. There, that’s fine.”

To his pleasure, she held the pose very well. Better, in fact, than either of the others. When she whined for food, he buried his impatience and gave her cheese and flatbread, a little more wine.

And with that got another full hour.

Though he could have worked on, he knew timing mattered. So a last glass of wine, an invitation to sit and relax.

When he squeezed life out of her unconscious body, he felt that thrill, that indescribable power pour into him.

He used it to put her back in the pose with wire and glue. He’d planned to put her on a board, like the second, but he’d discovered that method was cumbersome.

And since it wasn’t a full-length, he dispensed with it.

He drove her back across town, then carried her inside the useless gate of a tiny courtyard of a dignified brownstone.

Working in silence, he propped her against a wall of the house, took time to fluff at the shawl, the white collar.

Then, still riding on the thrill, he drove home to paint.