Page 36 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

Eve caught the scent of chocolate before she turned into Homicide. And saw Nadine Furst, camera ready in a red dress with a short, matching jacket, perched on the corner of Jenkinson’s desk.

She momentarily blocked Eve’s view of the tie. But when Nadine shifted, rose, Eve saw cows.

It just had to be cows.

Dozens of cows standing unnaturally on their hind legs, their front hooves joined as they spiraled down the atomic green field.

“That’s just sick. It’s sick.”

“Not sick cows, boss. Happy cows.”

“Sick.” She held up a hand before Nadine could speak. “Peabody, does your family make cheese?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you know anything about Salers cows?”

“No. Why?”

“Later. Nadine, since you’re good at your job, you know I’ve got three bodies. Since I’m good at mine, I don’t have time to talk to you.”

“Then I’ll start the conversation,” she said, and followed Eve into her office. “Plus, I brought you a brownie.”

“I don’t have time for a brownie either.”

“Then save it for later.” Nadine reached into her elephant-sized bag, took out a small pink box that smelled like heaven wrapped in glory.

“I do know you’ve got three bodies. We’ve reported. I’ve hit it pretty hard. I want to hit it harder, and I will.”

Now, very much at home, Nadine eased a hip on Eve’s desk as she had on Jenkinson’s.

“It might help get the word out to street levels. It’s clear they’re being targeted, and you’ve already considered using the media for that.”

On her list, Eve thought, and she could adjust priority rank, since Nadine was currently sitting on her desk anyway.

“If you can give me any details,” Nadine continued, “anything I can air that gets through.” She lifted both hands. “We’re both trying to save lives here, Dallas.”

Eve looked at her board. She’d be putting another victim on it now.

She walked to her AutoChef, programmed coffee for both of them.

“A source from the NYPSD states we believe the suspect is a white male between twenty-five and thirty. We believe he approaches a street-level licensed companion with the offer to hire them for the purpose of posing as a model for a painting. We believe he offers them a substantial amount of cash in order to persuade them to leave with him.”

Nadine sat, absorbed. “That’s it? That’s all you can give me?”

Eve considered. “We believe the suspect is a failed artist whose substandard work has been rejected by multiple galleries in the city.”

Nadine angled her head; her sharp green eyes narrowed. “You want to insult him. I can get behind that.”

“Yeah, I do. Pissed-off psychopaths make more mistakes.”

“Has he made any yet? I can hold it. You know I’ll hold it until you tell me otherwise.”

And since she did, Eve said, “Hold it. His precision and obsessive attention to details are mistakes. They’re adding up. He’s got money. He’s got a place—a home, a studio—that costs money. He’s got what Harvo calls ultra transportation.”

Nadine pursed her perfectly dyed red lips. “I’m seeing a spoiled rich kid who’s re-creating famous portraits, then killing the models because nobody recognizes his genius.”

“Close enough.”

“I have some contacts on the stroll.”

“I’m sending out a memo for patrols to spread the warnings.”

“Good, but some might listen to me before they listen to a cop. If it’s a substantial amount of money, it’s a tough turndown.”

“Talk to them, that’s fine. That’s good. If you go out tonight, don’t go alone. He’s got a pattern, but that doesn’t mean he won’t change it and go after a well-known reporter, especially one who’s reported his work’s crappy.”

“Jake’ll tag along. He’s trying out Mavis’s studio right now. I haven’t had time to go by and see it since they finished. How is it?”

“It’s… flat-out amazing.”

“I’ll get there soon. And I’ll get out of your way now. Eat your brownie,” Nadine added as she walked out. “You look like you could use it.”

She eyed the little pink box. Maybe she could use it, but not now. Instead, she added Janette Whithers/Chablis to her board.

She updated board and book and, still ignoring the brownie, got more coffee. Sitting, she wrote and sent out the memo.

Maybe, she thought, just maybe it would do some good.

She brought up Harvo’s list of vehicles.

More makes and models than she’d hoped for, but she could eliminate sedans, two-seaters, compacts, sports cars. He probably had a sports car, Eve decided. Might even use that for the pickup. But for the body dump, he’d need a van or an all-terrain with enough cargo area.

So she rubbed her eyes, rolled her shoulders, and began.

For a city with solid public transportation, New Yorkers sure as hell liked their luxury vehicles, she discovered.

As someone who drove one—despite its dead-ordinary looks, her DLE had all the chimes—she couldn’t bitch.

At least not out loud.

Add to that, she’d married a man who had a garage full of them. And as she skimmed the long, long list of Harvo’s ultras, cross-checked with ownership, she deliberately refused to count the number registered to Roarke personally or any of his businesses.

Then again, she doubted she knew the names of all of his businesses.

She eliminated what she did know, filtered out all but vans, minivans, all-terrains. And noted she still had her work cut out for her.

Roarke wasn’t the only one, by far, who had vehicles registered to businesses. The killer might have the same. He had money, she considered. Someone, at some point, had to have earned it.

For individuals, she fined it down to registrations with addresses in the areas she’d deemed most likely. But for businesses, organizations, corporations, she accepted she had to spread it out. All boroughs, and into New Jersey and Connecticut.

“Hell,” she muttered. “They could have their HQ any-fucking-where. Start here,” she told herself.

She got up, got more coffee. Studied the board, walked to the window.

Roarke had a garage full, she thought again.

“Computer, with current data, run a search on individuals or businesses with multiple vehicles registered in New York State, New Jersey, and Connecticut.

Acknowledged. Working…

He wants to impress, she thought. He doesn’t make an impression, but he wants to. Fancy cars. Something big enough to cart bodies around, sure, but doesn’t he want some shiny toy?

Search complete.

As she walked back to her desk, her ’link signaled.

“Dallas.”

“Lieutenant, it’s Natalie Hornesby. Carter—my husband’s flight’s delayed.

He booked an earlier one as soon as I told him what happened, and he wanted to speak with you, see if he could help.

But there’s a delay, and I told him I’d let you know.

Storms in Chicago, so he might be stuck there another hour or two. ”

“Thanks for letting me know. If he could contact me as soon as he arrives. Is there anyone else I could talk to about rejected art?”

“Carter really is the one, and his assistant’s with him. I understand as much about Carter’s work as he does mine, which is not a lot. The gallery’s open—or will be at eleven—and the staff on duty would absolutely cooperate. But they’d refer any artist who came in to Carter or his assistant.”

She could try tugging at his memory over the ’link. But Yancy would be tugging on a verified witness’s memory.

“Understood. Please have him contact me as soon as possible. If his flight’s delayed again, I’d like to arrange to interview him via ’link.”

“If his flight’s delayed again, I think he might explode. He’s upset about what happened, about not being here when it did. He’ll get in touch as soon as he’s back. I promise.”

A few more hours for that, she thought as she sat again. A couple more, at least, for Yancy. She wanted a face. But she’d push on getting a name.

Her ’link signaled again, and read out as Brendita Klein.

“Lieutenant Dallas. Ms. Klein, thank you for getting back to me.”

“No problem at all, since I’m sitting at a sidewalk table in Barcelona having a lovely glass of wine.”

The sturdy-looking woman with flyaway blond hair and huge sunshades lifted a glass of red. “But I don’t know how I can help you.”

“An artist you rejected,” Eve began. “A white male, twenty-five to thirty.”

Brendita tipped down the sunshades to reveal hazy green eyes full of humor. “My dear lieutenant, imagine in my decades at the gallery how long that list runs.”

“Long brown hair, dark blue eyes. Sometime within the last year or two. Bad attitude.”

“So many own that.”

“About five-eight, probably well-dressed. He does portraits, not very well according to others I’ve interviewed, and claimed he had a successful show upstate.”

“All right, all right.” Lips pursed, Brendita nudged her sunshades back in place, sipped more wine. “I’m getting a glimmer.”

“Ms. Klein, we believe this man has killed three people. Anything you remember could help us stop him.”

“But no pressure,” Brendita murmured, and pushed at her flyaway hair. “I know, Annie, but… My wife’s reminding me I bitched to her about someone like this. But I just can’t see him. Young, yes, and as unimpressive as his work.”

“Did he give you his name, a card, a contact?”

“No, no, I’m nearly sure there. What I have are vague impressions at best.”

“I’ll take them.”

“Family money, as he certainly hadn’t earned it himself. Arrogance, ego—extreme. Anger, though he was careful not to let it fly too high. It was in there. The eyes—oddly, I couldn’t swear to the color, but there was something missing in them. Again, like the paintings.”

Pausing, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s true my brain’s on extended vacation, but beyond that he didn’t impress, and I think it was months ago when he last came in. If I’m even thinking of the right person. The glimmer’s mostly from the bragging about the successful showing, and…”

“Something else.”

“He said something else that struck me. What the hell was it. What?” she looked away from the screen again. “That’s right, I did. My wife’s reminding me during my bitching I called him a mama’s boy.”

“Why?”