Page 33 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

She sent Eve a puzzled look. “That’s so strange you’d ask. I don’t know much of anything about it, but my husband—well, his family—owns the Morganstern Gallery on Third Avenue. Carter, my husband, he’s in Chicago now looking at an emerging artist.

“I need to contact him. He needs to know… He could get an earlier shuttle home.”

“He acquires the art for the gallery?”

“Primarily, yes. I don’t understand.”

“Detective, if you’d take Ms. Hornesby inside for her statement, and explain what’s relevant.”

“Yes, sir.”

While Peabody and McNab led Natalie inside, Eve walked over to the shield.

“You be the judge, Lieutenant,” the first officer began. “We were to be on the lookout for something like this. She sure fits.”

He lifted the shield.

She did fit.

“The victim,” Eve said for the record as she sealed up, “is a mixed-race female of about thirty. She’s been posed to sit with her back against the wall of the residence.

Due to visible bruising around the neck, strangulation is apparent cause of death.

As the victim’s clothing is relevant, she is dressed in a pink gown belted at the waist by what appears to be a scarf that trails down her right hip.

The low V of the bodice has a white frilled collar tied with a bow, and white cuffs at the wrists.

There is a black—shit, what’s it?—shawl draped just below the shoulders. ”

Eve slid a finger along the hairline. “A light brown wig is glued in place at the ears, and a straw-colored hat is glued to the wig. The hat has flowers around the crown and a large feather curved over the left side of the wide brim.

“The eyes are glued open, and the mouth glued into a subtle smile. A brown artist’s palette with blobs of paint has been wired to the victim’s left forearm, and…

” She counted. “Seven artist’s brushes are in her left hand, wired and glued to hold them in place.

Her right hand is posed in a downward position with the fingers slightly curled. ”

Pausing, she looked up at Roarke. “Do you know what painting she’s been mocked up to replicate?”

“I do, yes. It’s Vigée Le Brun’s Self-Portrait in a Straw Hat .”

“Who was he?”

“She. élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, eighteenth-century France. You’d appreciate that in a field dominated by men, she became the most successful portraitist of her era.

From what I can see, the costume is exact, as are the props, down to the color of the daubs of paint on the palette.

But, in the portrait, she stands against the backdrop of the sky. ”

“Not sitting like this?”

“No, the arms are correct, but though it’s not a full-length portrait, she’s clearly standing.”

“He didn’t want to bother with a board again. Hard to manage that, so he lowered his standards for convenience this time.”

With a nod, she pulled her gauges out of her field kit.

“TOD, oh-three-oh-seven. Officer.”

“Kingsly, and Owen, sir.”

“Kingsly, do me a favor, go ask Ms. Hornesby what time her sprinklers run.” Eve took the pad, started to press the victim’s right thumb onto it. “Something under the nail of her index finger. Just something.”

She got out microgoggles, angled herself, and carefully scraped under the nail, then studied the result in the clear tube.

“It’s fabric. It’s a trace, dark gray.” Satisfaction ran dark and it ran deep. “Here’s a mistake. Here’s a fucking mistake. Just a couple threads caught under her nail. He missed that. Had to get there after he glued and wired.”

Closing her eyes, she imagined it. “Against his clothes? Maybe, possibly, but… More likely scraped across a rug as he was moving her.

“That’s it,” she murmured, studying the threads as another might have a precious gem.

“The way he’s glued her fingers, the index is lower, and it catches on a rug—in the transpo.

It’s glued to the next finger at the first knuckle so it can’t really bend.

It scraped along the carpet just enough to pick up some trace. ”

“You’re a wonder, Lieutenant.”

She shook her head at Roarke.

“Just a cop. Flagged for the lab, flagged for Harvo. Top priority.”

She set the sealed tube in her field kit, and once again picked up the Identi-pad.

“Victim is identified as Janette Whithers, age thirty-one, mixed race, street name Chablis. Licensed companion, street level. Avenue B address—most work close to where they live. No marriages, no official cohabs. Parents, married thirty-three years, in Wichita, Kansas. Two siblings, brother age twenty-nine, sister age twenty-six. Kansas residents.”

Eve sat back on her heels. “So Chablis came to the big city—she’s been here for seven years—and ends up just as dead as the woman who painted herself in this outfit a few centuries ago.”

She turned back to Roarke. “How about the face? Is it close to the original?”

“The skin tone’s deeper, but the features? It’s fairly close, yes, particularly the mouth. Here.”

Since he’d already brought up the image, he turned the screen of his PPC so she could see.

“Yeah, yeah, the shape of the face, the mouth. Nose is wrong, and the skin tone. He has to settle on some points.”

“Sir? The sprinkler system’s timed to run from three-thirty to four every morning.”

“Okay, good. She’s not wet, but the dress, where it’s laying on the ground? It’s damp, so the body was placed here after four.” She eased a hand behind the body. “Dry on the back, and the ground’s pretty dry now. What time was the nine-one-one?”

“We got the call at oh-six-forty-five, Lieutenant.”

“All right. Probably put her here before five. Between four-thirty and five. Quiet neighborhood’s going to be quiet.”

McNab pranced out in his red-and-blue-checked baggies, long tail of red-tipped blond hair swinging. “Security system went down at oh-four-thirty-six, Dallas. We’ve got a fifteen-minute jam. It’s a decent system. Not one of yours,” he said to Roarke.

“No, not one of mine.”

“He needed a decent jammer to interrupt the feed for fifteen.”

“He can afford decent. So it took him one hour and nineteen minutes after he strangled her to glue, wire, transport.” She turned back to the body.

“He wouldn’t rush it. He’s too precise. Still, she’s dead, so how long would it take?

Forty-five, maybe fifty minutes? Then he needs to load her into the car.

Drive here, and you’ve got to take a few minutes, check for lights, movement, insomniacs before you park—double-park because there’s cars on the curb—then jam the feed before you get her out, carry her through the little gate.

“He lives downtown. He could live more Midtown East Side, but… New York’s loaded with art, but what areas do you associate with art first?”

“The Village,” Roarke said, “SoHo, Tribeca.”

“That’s exactly right. If he doesn’t live there, he has a studio there, in the heart of it. Private, no neighbors in the building, with a garage. McNab, you just closed one, right?”

He rubbed his hands together. “A big, fat, juicy one.”

“Check with Feeney, and if he clears it, you could start running a search for a single-occupancy building with garage. Upscale, nothing low-rent.”

“Got you.”

“I don’t see him sharing a building, but filter in a multiple occupancy with a unit with a private elevator to a garage. I don’t want to miss him by keeping the search too narrow.”

“Commercial buildings?”

“Not yet. If we crap out on this, we’ll try that.”

“I can run a parallel auto-search on commercial without pulling time from the primary.”

“You’re the e-geek, your call.”

She turned to Peabody as her partner came out. “She’s got to get her kids up in about fifteen.”

“Contact the morgue, give them the situation with minors on-site. Then tag the sweepers. I need a few more minutes with the body. We need to bag the left arm holding the board thing and the brushes.”

She crouched down to work. “The paint’s dry, and the brushes look new.

We may be able to trace those. He’d need the paint dry enough so it wouldn’t run or drip because of the angle of the board.

The board, palette, whatever, looks new, too.

No other signs of paint on it, no smears, no drops, no wear. ”

When she’d finished with the body, she stepped back, closed the shield.

“Morgue’s on the way, sweepers’re tagged.”

“Good. She had a place on Avenue B. We’ll go check it out. We have to run evidence to the lab. She had some trace—fabric threads—under her nail.”

“Well, hot shit!”

“I can take it to the lab, Dallas,” McNab offered. “And straight to Harvo.”

“I’ve got a car coming,” Roarke added. “I can give you a lift there.”

“Bonus round!”

“Appreciated, both counts.” Eve looked out at the quiet street. “There’s a crack now. I can feel it.”

“I’ve got some direction from my cousin on pigments from way back when.”

“Good. You can fill me in there after I fill you in on the victim. We’ve got maybe fifteen hours before he hits again. Let’s not waste any of it.”

She put the sealed tube in a small evidence bag, sealed and labeled that. “Talk to Dickhead first. He can get bitchy otherwise.”

McNab grinned. “He likes me.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone say that before in reference to Dickhead. Let Harvo know we’ll be in later this morning.”

“Here’s our ride,” Roarke told him as a sleek limo pulled up.

“Oh doggies, fancy time.” He did the finger-twiddle thing with Peabody. “I’m off styling.”

“Thanks for the help.” Eve gave Roarke a look that warned against any and all public displays of affection.

And made him smile. “I’m at your disposal, Lieutenant. I’ll let you know if I have luck with the costumes. Good hunting to both of you.”

Since she had the scent now, Eve counted on just that.