Page 32 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“I see it as a man who knows his cop,” he corrected. “You dream of living paintings. You see the killer as taking lives to create them.”

“I’ll let you pass with that.” She got up to face her closet.

“He might even think it works, and add when this type kills, it brings a sense of power, sexual gratification, a thrill they crave to feel again. But whatever he thinks, killing doesn’t make him—who’s another one?

—like a Rembrandt or whoever. His work’s still going to be that word. Pedestrian .

“Why does that mean like average anyway? Pedestrians walk. The sidewalks are loaded with pedestrians, and some of them are either way over or way under average.”

“Language is fascinating, isn’t it?”

She turned because he stood in the doorway of her closet. “Did you forget the cat?”

“I didn’t, no. I banished him. Since he refuses to behave in a civilized manner, I put him out of the room and shut the door.”

“Yeah, that’ll teach him.”

She pulled on black trousers, but now with Roarke’s judgment looming, went for a jacket in some sort of bluish green, or greenish blue.

“Lovely color,” he said easily, and plucked out a shirt in the same color blend, but a couple of shades deeper. “To spare you the anxiety.”

“I never had wardrobe anxiety before you.”

He just smiled. “You never had real coffee either.”

“Okay, that’s definitely your point.” Since she apparently had a belt the same color as the shirt, she put it on. But went for simple black boots. “Then there’s the sex,” she added. “It’s pretty good.”

With the jacket in one hand, she tugged on his tie that perfectly melded the pale blue of his shirt with the deep midnight of his suit.

“Maybe I’ll pick out your wardrobe one morning.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

“But that would mean I’d have to get up at zero-Christ-knows-thirty, so you’re probably safe. What solar system did you buy before dawn?”

“Oh, only a minute speck on planet Earth. A rather intriguing castle in County Waterford.”

She stopped as she reached for her badge. “You bought a castle?”

“One being run as a hotel and in dire need of a good infusion of cash for updates and repair. We should have a look next time we’re in Ireland.”

“He bought a castle,” she muttered.

“And since that deal went smoothly, I was able to contact the costume company in Paris. None of the European venues open before noon—their time, darling. I’ll try the others later today. But I can tell you to cross that one off your list.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very. They were cooperative. While they have created The Blue Boy costume twice in the last eighteen months, both were for clients living in Paris—one an actual boy of twelve. And for the Vermeer, they’ve done one this year, but the client chose a different fabric than what you’ve got for the jacket, and both different fabrics and colors for the skirt. ”

“Why couldn’t they have just told me that? Never mind. Thanks.”

As she hooked on her weapon harness, her communicator signaled.

“Well, fuck and fuck again.” She pulled it out of her pocket. “Dallas.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to residence, 212 East Fifth Street. Possible Homicide. Officers on scene.

“Copy. Notify Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“What?” Eve swung on her jacket. “Why?”

“Because I have the time, and will, most likely, be able to identify the painting and artist. I’ll get myself to Midtown afterward. I have an early meeting in any case.”

“Fine. Let’s move.”

As she opened the door, the cat sat outside it. As she’d learned before, cats could definitely scowl.

“Don’t look at me. He did it.”

And Roarke closed the door behind them. “And he did it again, so take your complaints down to Summerset.”

“Don’t think he won’t. Unless he figures out how to open the door first.”

“Bloody hell. I wouldn’t put it beyond him.”

“Another costume,” she said as they jogged downstairs.

“I’m thinking he may not, probably didn’t, have them all made at the same place.

They have to have or order the specific fabrics, then…

Maybe I’m wrong on the costume first. How and why would he choose the size, even more or less, unless he had specific models already picked out? ”

“If you don’t accuse me of thinking like a cop, I’ll tell you what occurs to me. As a consultant.”

“Deal. What?”

“You’ve said he’s meticulous, and details matter very much to him. He could calculate the size—height, weight—at least a close approximation of the original models. Using the paintings for his guide. There are programs that would calculate that approximation.”

“I like that. I like that,” Eve repeated as he drove through the open gates. “It sounds exactly like something he’d do. He can’t use the original models, but he needs to get as close as possible. In the end, the people he uses, he kills, are just fillers for the costumes, the canvas.

“And that’s how we’ll get him. Through the costumes, the paints he uses—because they’re going to be what the original artist used, or as close as possible.”

“You may have his face later today, from Yancy.”

“Yeah, and I’m hoping we do. I was looking for mistakes, and I couldn’t really find any. But it was right there, all along. His need to make himself great, by copying the great. Down to shoe ribbons and pearl earrings. That’s the mistake.

“We’ll track it. We will. Three people are dead, and if we don’t track it in time, there’ll be another. But we’re going to track it, and track him.”

“At some point, the LCs on the street will start paying attention, will pass the word on what he’s doing and how.”

“Some will still fall for it because he flashes enough money. It’s not just LCs working for tricks. It’s people who have to pay the rent. You wouldn’t have fallen for it.” She shifted to him. “Back in Dublin. You’re too smart, too cagey to fall for it. But plenty would. We’ve already got three.”

She leaned back. “And he might not stick with LCs. He could pick out a sidewalk sleeper, a street thief, a grifter.”

“But you think he will, stick with LCs.”

One is one, she thought. Two is a repeat. But three?

Three was a pattern.

“Most street levels have a territory, and stay inside it. They’ve got routines, basic hours. And you pay for the service. So yeah, they’re the easiest to lure.”

The day had dawned with a sky so blue, so clear, the buildings looked etched on it. A painting of its own, Eve thought, alive, too, with people walking dogs, or jogging their mile. The street LCs would’ve called it a night. Some would grab some breakfast, others would go home to sleep.

Some at that level worked by day, maybe taking a shift in Times Square, or haunting dive bars.

The one on East Fifth hadn’t, she thought. They’d embraced the night as most did. The night paid better.

When he turned onto East Fifth, Eve saw the squad car.

And noted that the first on scene had had the time and the forethought to put a shield around the body in this nice, quiet neighborhood.

From the position of the shield, the body had been propped or placed inside a small courtyard, against the front wall of the house, on the right-hand side of a set of stairs.

A woman, mixed race, about forty, dark hair clipped up in a messy knot at the back of her head, sat on the steps. She wore blue yoga pants and a sports bra on a well-toned body, with an unzipped hoodie over it.

The two uniforms nodded as Eve held up her badge, and the woman looked up. Eve noted relief when she spotted the badge, then surprise and a gleam of tears when her gaze skipped over to Roarke.

“Roarke.” She rose, rushed over and threw her arms around him. “Oh God.”

“Natalie. Where are the kids?”

“Sleeping. They’re still sleeping. I have to get them up for school, but… Carter’s coming back from Chicago this afternoon, so I have to… God, God.”

Pulling back, she swiped at her face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re Eve Dallas, and I’m so glad you’re here. Both of you. There’s a woman, and she’s dead. She’s right over there, just sitting over there.”

And shuddering, Natalie looked away from the shield.

“I was going to do some yoga, sun salutations. It gives me a better outlook on the day. And I wanted to water the pots out here first because the sprinklers don’t reach them. And when I came out, I saw her. I thought—I don’t know what.”

She took one quick breath before more words tumbled out.

“I shouted because I was so surprised. I went down, and I saw. I saw she was dead. She had a little smile on her face, she’s all dressed up in an old-fashioned pink dress, but she was dead.

“I ran back in to check on the kids. I don’t know why, I just did. Then I called the police.”

“Did you recognize her, Ms.…”

“Natalie Hornesby,” Roarke provided. “She works for me. A top-flight mechanical engineer.”

“Hello. It’s good to meet you.” Natalie brought a hand to her face. “Oh Jesus, that sounds so wrong. No, no, I don’t know her. I don’t know what to do. She has terrible bruises on her throat. I could see them.”

Eve glanced back as she heard Peabody’s hurried clump and, yes, McNab’s quick prance along the sidewalk.

“Ms. Hornesby, I see you have security cameras.”

“Yes, yes. We bought the house last year, and it came with them.”

“Why don’t you go inside with my partner, Detective Peabody? You can give her your statement. And show Detective McNab from EDD where you locate your security feed.”

“The security feed.” Natalie pressed a hand to her temple, rubbed as if at an ache. “Of course. God, of course. I didn’t even think.”

“Peabody. Take Ms. Hornesby inside, and get her statement. McNab, check the security feed.”

“The kids. I don’t want them to see…”

“Let me know when they have to leave for school. If we’re not finished, we’ll make sure the shield’s in place.”

“Thank you. Thanks.”

“Ms. Hornesby, what’s your connection to the art world?”