Page 37 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“Digging back,” she muttered, “it seems to me—and again, it was months ago, maybe longer, but it seems to me he said something like his mother could buy the gallery and everything in it before he made his dramatic exit.”

Eve noted down mama’s boy , highlighted it.

“I wish I could remember more, but I honestly can’t call up his face, or the paintings he brought in.”

Eve pushed a bit more, but Brendita spoke the truth. She simply didn’t remember more.

After the conversation, Eve looked at her notes. And tapped a finger on mama’s boy .

“That’s one more thing,” she murmured. “One more piece. And it’ll fit somewhere.”

But for now, she shifted focus and looked over the search results on vehicles.

“Jesus, people, take the subway, ride a bus, hail a cab.”

She shook off annoyance and dug in.

Some businesses had a fleet, some a handful. She couldn’t discount either. The individuals ranged from two to a dozen or more, but most hit the two to three range.

She got up, paced.

“He doesn’t work, not a job. No workweek for him.

He’s an artist, and I swear he’s living high on someone else’s money.

Family money hits for me, too. Mama’s money—and he’s the spoiled son.

So why would he want a van or a cargo AT?

He’s young, single—has to be single. He’s fucking important in his own mind. ”

She actively yearned for fifteen minutes to put her feet up, close her eyes, and think. But time, and the empty frame of her dream, pushed her to keep pacing.

“Computer, filter results for cargo all-terrains, vans, minivans purchased within the last two years.”

Acknowledged. Working…

“It’s probably less,” she muttered to herself. “But we can’t go too narrow. He’s thought about this for a while, planned it out, detail by detail. Had to do at least a little research on the wardrobes, the props. Had to.”

She sat again, considered giving her unit a little punch. “Come on, come on, give me something.”

Search complete.

Just as she leaned forward, she heard footsteps. And recognizing the stride, got to her feet.

“Commander,” she said when Whitney filled her doorway.

“Lieutenant. I didn’t want you to take the time to come to me.”

He stepped in, a big man, broad in the shoulders, dark skin, dark eyes, close-cropped dark hair sprinkled with gray. Like his suit, command fit him well.

“I haven’t requested an oral report.” He glanced toward her board. “But now there are three, and three’s the magic number.”

“Yes, sir. We could request federal assistance. I’ve discounted that, for now, as in a matter of hours, there could be a fourth. We’re pursuing multiple viable angles. I don’t want to take time away from those pursuits to spend some of these vital hours briefing the FBI.”

“You’re convinced he’ll hit again tonight?”

“We can’t know how many he’s planned for. We can’t risk he’d only planned for three.”

“Agreed. And if those angles don’t pay off in time, and he kills another?” Still watching her, he gestured toward her AutoChef.

“Sir.”

While she programmed coffee for him, he shifted to scan her screen. And saw the pink box.

“Is that a brownie?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like it?”

“More than I can say, but she’d know. She always does. Anna has a way.”

He shook his head over his wife’s ways , and settled for the coffee.

“No one wants another life taken,” he continued. “God knows we don’t want a serial loose in New York. The media’s heating up. They’re calling him The Artist.”

Well, of course they were, Eve thought.

“He’ll love that. He’ll celebrate that.”

She’d have paced if Whitney hadn’t taken up half her pacing space.

“It’s acknowledgment, adulation. But I believe the media can help.

The more warned and informed, the less likely the next target is to go with him.

I’ve covered all three victims’ financials.

And all three earned, as a rule, three to five hundred a night.

All three could and did hit on bigger nights, but that’s the general range.

To get them to leave with him, it had to be more than their nightly take.

So all three went. But they weren’t warned and informed. ”

He could overrule her, and she’d accept that. She expected he’d temper that with a deadline. Though she knew he’d have read all her reports, she made her case.

“I know what he is, Commander. He’s rich, he’s spoiled, and he’s a second-rate artist at best. I lean toward family money and an indulgent mother.

He drives a luxury vehicle, he lives, in my opinion, in an area from Tribeca up to the Village—possibly Chelsea.

A private home—and it’s a luxury because he can’t settle for less.

It has to have a garage or a place for his transportation. That has to be on-site.

“He’s single, around thirty, he’s white. He wants to make an impression, but he doesn’t. People don’t remember him well, or remember his work. He sees himself as great, as not just a master, but better than those who earned that title over the centuries.

“He’s taken time, a lot of time, trouble, expense to create the art he’s killing for.

The time, trouble, and expense to have the costumes replicated.

Perfectly, every single detail. French and Italian silks and satins, handmade Irish lace—and all of that’s being tracked.

We will find who made the costumes, and find him.

“His mistake is that need for exacting details. Not the victims, they just have to fit, have to be close enough. They’re nothing but a vehicle. He takes their lives because his work lacks it.

“But the rest?” she continued as Whitney drank his coffee and watched her. “It has to be just right, otherwise he can’t prove he’s better than the artist he copies. The wigs, the hats, the pigments used. The glue and wires to hold the pose exactly. The paintbrushes he—”

She turned on her heel, stared at the brushes on her copy of the original, on the crime scene shot.

“Son of a bitch! Wait!”

She ran out of the office and straight to Peabody’s desk. “The paintbrushes. Where’s an eighteenth-century French artist going to get the brushes?”

“I—”

“France! They have to be exact. Focus on people or companies who make custom brushes in France. Forget New York, forget the rest. France. The first one, the earring girl. Vermeer. Dutch, right? Where would she have gotten the outfit?”

She shoved at her hair. “The material—on the vic—French again. But people traveled back then. They traded. But somebody had to make it—the original.”

“She might have made it herself.”

“Maybe, but somebody had to make it.” Pacing the bullpen, she yanked out her ’link and tagged Roarke. “Tell me if you don’t have time and I’ll put someone else on it.”

“I’ll make time. What am I making it for?”

“The Dutch painter, that one. Where the hell are Dutch people from?”

“The Netherlands, darling.”

“Okay, there. Costumes, high-end from there for that one. The second guy, Brit, right? So—”

“I’m following you. It’ll take some time. I’ll get back to you.”

She shoved the ’link back in her pocket. “That’s how he does it. Exact, precise. Duplicate as close as possible to the original, and that spreads it out. No big multiple orders from one source.

“He’s not going to have them shipped. He can’t demand any adjustments, can’t see and feel them at the source if they ship them. He goes there to vet them, approve them, bring them home. Private shuttle.”

She turned. “Detective Carmichael, start checking for private shuttles from New York to the Netherlands, to England, to France, most likely one trip for all three. Start with all three. There may be other locations, but those three.

“Shit, Ireland. Add Ireland, he had the lace made there.

“Detective Hat, luxury hotels—shit, he may have a second home, but luxury hotels in those four locations. Impressions,” she muttered.

“If he’d had an accent, they’d remember that.

You’re looking for an American, from New York who stayed in all four locations, no more than a few nights in each, and all within… ”

She hissed. “Damn it, can’t afford to narrow it. The last two years. Can’t find that, work it with three. Bonus round for two trips. Detective Trueheart, are you clear?”

“I can be, sir.”

“Peabody’s got a list of fabrics, yardage included. I want to know if an American man, late twenties, white, came in personally to select those fabrics. Same time period. Start with the three locations.

“Peabody.”

“Working on it. He’d have picked up the brushes. Dallas, the pigments.”

“He got them over there. In Europe. Baxter, New York, fancy cheese places. Same description. West Side up to Chelsea. Saint-Nectaire cheese.”

“Feeling pretty left out over here, aren’t we, partner?”

“Sad and lonely,” Reineke agreed.

“You’re clear?”

“Clear enough. You bag this fucker or the feds are going to want a piece. I say you bag him first.”

“I have a mighty list of luxury vehicles. I’m tossing you registrations in Connecticut and New Jersey. If registered to a company, locate the HQ and add that to the search.”

She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “We cross-check it all. McNab’s doing a search on potential residences, so add him into that. This fucker’s in there, he’s in all of this, and he’s going to show up. We’re going to bag him.

“Detective Yancy’s working with a witness on his face,” she added. “I’ve got another coming in who may help with that.”

She pulled out a hand, checked the time. Let herself curse mentally.

“We’ve got maybe nine hours before he will likely pick up his next victim. I want his ass in the box first. Hunt him down.”

She turned, saw Whitney, and realized she’d completely forgotten him. “Sir, I apologize.”

“For doing your job? Unnecessary. Nine hours, you said. How many before the kill?”

“Fourteen, sir, maybe less.”

“You’ve got twelve. You’re cleared for overtime.” He nodded at the bullpen. “Get it done,” he said, and walked out.

“Be prepared for a briefing this afternoon on a takedown op. You heard the commander. Get it done.”

He’d show up, she thought as she went back to her office. His ego would wrap him just as tight as she would.

She got more coffee, sat, then sent the data on the vehicles to Jenkinson and Reineke.

And eyed the pink box.

As Eve opened it, she heard someone coming again. Heels.

“What now?”

Reo walked in on those heels, ones of bold scarlet that conflicted with the all-business navy suit.

Eve supposed that was intentional.

“I’ve got your international warrants. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t pretty, but I got them.”

Maybe not necessary now, Eve thought (but didn’t say), and still handy. “I may need one for the Netherlands.”

Reo just sighed. “I’d hit you, but you’d hit back harder.”

“Yeah, I would.”

Reo narrowed her eyes. “That’s some brownie. Did I mention how much time and sweat getting those warrants took?”

Eve broke the brownie in half, offered one. “I’m going to need a search, seize, and arrest warrant, too.”

“You got him? I heard he hit again this morning. Court recessed early.”

“Not yet, but we will. Too many good, solid lines to tug not to. And I really have to get tugging.”

“Let me get coffee in a go-cup and I’m gone.”

“Fine.”

Reo stepped over, programmed. “I’m walking over to see the new house.”

“You’re walking over there in those shoes?”

Reo hitched the strap of her briefcase more securely on her shoulder. Took the go-cup in one hand, tried a nibble of the half a brownie with the other.

“You’ve got your superpowers, I’ve got mine. Tag me when you’ve got a name and location.”

Eve added, eliminated, cross-checked. Little by little, as time ticked by, the list whittled down.

When her desk ’link signaled, she saw Carter Morganstern on the display and snatched it up.

“Mr. Morganstern, this is Lieutenant Dallas, thanks for getting back to me.”

“I just got in. Jesus Christ, somebody put a dead woman in my front yard with my wife and kids alone in the house!”

“Yes, sir. I need—”

“I wasn’t here, then I couldn’t get home. We have security. I don’t know how this could happen.”

“I’ll have answers for you. Mr. Morganstern—”

“Nat says you’re married to her boss.”

“That’s correct. I’m also the primary investigator in this incident.”

“Why would somebody kill somebody and leave her at my house?”

“I believe you were targeted because of your gallery. Mr. Morganstern, please,” she said as he started to interrupt again, “I understand this is very stressful.”

“That doesn’t begin to cover the day I’ve had so far. I’m sorry.” She heard him take a breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Our gallery? My God, did she work for us? I haven’t checked all the—”

“No, sir. If you’d come into Central, I can explain. We could use your help. We believe the person responsible hoped your gallery would take his art, and was refused.”

“Well, Christ, that happens several times a week. I don’t see how… I’m apologizing again. Yes, I’ll come in.”

“As soon as possible, please. Cop Central, Homicide level, Lieutenant Dallas. I’ll arrange for a visitor’s pass.”

“I’ll come in now. I need those answers.”

“Thank you.”

She heard Peabody coming.

“Carter Morganstern’s coming in now. Get him a visitor’s pass.”

“Okay. Dallas, I think I’ve got something on the brushes.

The owner—it’s a shop in Paris—isn’t in.

He’s at a party. He and his wife’s fiftieth anniversary party.

But the woman who answered the ’link—I caught her right before they closed—said she thinks she remembers Monsieur Cabot working on the brushes.

She remembers he had a print of the painting in his workshop because it’s one of her favorites. ”

“Did she see the guy who ordered, picked them up?”

“She thinks so, but she’s vague. It was, she thinks, months ago. But an American artist. She checked the records for the last six months. It’s as far as she could go back. The owner needs to access anything prior. She didn’t find the order, or a payment. But!”

Peabody held up two fingers, one on each hand and shook them. “She’s seen the vid! She’s in France and she saw the vid! She got invested because of that, I think. She’s going to contact the owner, tell him it’s vitally important. She’ll give him my contact.

“It’s him, Dallas. It has to be.”

“It’s going to be. Good work. Get the visitor’s pass. Help Trueheart tug on fabric until Morganstern gets here.”

“Those companies are going to shut down soon, if they haven’t already.”

“Tug fast, and let me know when Morganstern gets here. We’ve got momentum. We’re not going to lose it.”

She checked the time. Got more coffee. Got back to work.