Page 38 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

After sleeping the sleep of the proud, Jonathan Harper Ebersole enjoyed brunch on his rooftop garden. One of his three house droids tended it, kept it lush year-round. From first frost to spring, the retractable glass shielded the plants and dwarf trees from the cold.

But Jonathan liked it best when that protection was tucked away and nothing separated him from his lofty view of his part of the city.

He liked to imagine people looking up from the street, or out through their windows, envying him, wondering about him, admiring him.

Now and again he brought an easel up to paint en plein air , and basked in the knowledge he could be seen at his art, and envied all the more.

He would rather be envied than loved. Love, from his view, demanded time, attention, reactions he didn’t care to spend energy on.

Comfortable in the warm September sun, he sipped his cappuccino, boosted with a double shot of espresso, and the frittata prepared by the droid who dealt with such things.

With a sense of pride, with a quickening thrill, he scanned the media reports as he ate. He hadn’t expected such notoriety! Not before he revealed his portrait series.

After all, the models he’d disposed of had been nobodies. Nobodies, he corrected, until he’d made them special. He’d given them immortality.

They called him The Artist. The Artist, and that sparkled through his blood like wine. Of course, of course, it wasn’t about the models at all, but his creativity.

He’d simply needed to shock the world awake, and he had.

Bathed in the sun, he looked out over the city and could see, perfectly see, the crowds at his major show in New York. How they’d look on his work with awe, how they would vie to have just a word with him, and praise him.

How they would wonder at his gift.

He could despise them, all of them, for making him wait for that praise. But he’d soak in it nonetheless.

His work would hang in the great museums of the world. Donated by his generosity.

The law would deem it murder, but the law would never stand against the art—or the money his mother would pay to protect him.

He had to continue to be careful, to protect himself until the series was complete. But once it was?

He would be envied, not only for the wealth and luxury he deserved by birth, but for his unmatched talent, and with it the gift he’d given the world.

Jonathan Harper Ebersole. The Artist.

After the showing, he thought he might spend at least part of the winter in New Caledonia, where he could refresh himself, take time away from the obligations of fame. He could paint in peace while the art world speculated on what he would bring to them next.

He would have to ask his mother, of course, for use of the family home there for a month or two. But she wouldn’t refuse.

She never refused him anything.

Or he might spend some time at the chateau in the French Alps, a complete change of pace. Snow-drenched mountains, the icy blue lake, a roaring fire.

Something to think about, he decided. But either way, he’d need some solitude, some time away from the demands of the adoring public. Time to focus on himself and his gift.

Inspired, energized, he rose. He took one last look at the city that would soon celebrate his name.

He went directly to his studio, as his work wasn’t just his joy, his passion, but his duty.

He uncovered the three canvases, and with pleasure, studied the progress on each. Then he stepped over to study the long scarlet robe, the white shirt with its ruffled collar and cuffs, the embroidered slippers.

Tonight, he’d fill them with a model, one that had taken him several weeks to select. The face mattered, of course. The model’s dark beard would require some filling in. But he had that ready, as well as the wig.

But for this, the hands. The hands had to be elegant. Narrow, long-fingered, sensual. It was a shame the full-length had proven so difficult to display, even with a droid’s assistance.

Then again, the model display was only, in essence, an advertisement for the painting.

He turned back to the canvases.

He’d finish the first today. If that went well, and he knew it would, he’d work on the second. Most important to him to finish the first, to have that accomplishment before he brought the fourth model into his studio.

He chose his pigments, his oil, carefully mixed his paints. With his selections on his palette, brush in hand, he began. The painted eyes watched him as he worked. To his mind they looked on him with gratitude.

And in his mind, he heard her say: “I was nothing. I was no one. You’ve made me beautiful. You’ve made me worthy. You’ve made me immortal.”

“Yes,” he murmured as he carefully added a glimmer of white to the girl’s lips. “Yes, I have.” With the same white, he dabbed an accent on the pearl earring.

Switching brushes, he gave his attention and skill to the blue of the turban to bring out the folds, the shadows.

Then the gold, lighter, a bit lighter there along the shoulder, there against the white collar.

He felt himself glowing with his own brilliance, energized by his own commitment.

When he finally stepped back, tears burned at the back of his eyes.

“You’re magnificent. I created you. I gave you life, and a life that will never end.”

After dabbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, he cleaned his brushes. He paused only long enough to call for the droid to bring him a double espresso he’d use to down what he thought of as his energy pill.

He wanted the jolt to carry him through his work on the next.

As he drank, his ’link chirped. When he glanced at the display, he saw his mother’s name.

He could ignore it, but… Though he cast his eyes to the ceiling first, he answered. He could consider it a sign to decide between the island or the mountains for his winter retreat.

“Mommy! I was just thinking about you!”

He let her chat, laughed when he knew she expected it, inquired—also expected—about the rest of the family. And since he knew how to manipulate her, gradually wound the conversation around where he wanted.

“You timed this so well, Mommy. I was just taking a short break. My work is going beyond well. I’m working on a series of portraits, and there’s a great deal of interest in them already, Mommy. I’ve planned for a series of eight, and expect to be finished for my showing here in New York.”

“Darling! That’s wonderful!” Phoebe Harper’s eyes, deep and dark blue like her son’s, lit with pride. “Where’s your show? When? You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“I’ll give you the details when it’s all set. You’ll be my date, so Dad will just have to stand aside.”

“Jonathan.” She laughed. “I’m so proud of you. Haven’t I always told you that you were meant for great things?”

He actually felt a little tug of sentiment. “You always did. You’ve always understood like no one else in the world.”

“I know how much this means to you, and how much you deserve it. You’ve never given up on your dream. And I’m happy, my darling, to see and hear you so happy. You look a little tired though.”

“The art, Mommy, it’s consuming, and at the same time, so freeing.”

“I hope you’re getting enough sleep. And taking time out for a break, for some self-care. You know Mommy worries.”

“When the series is finished, I’ll take some time. In fact, I could use a break after the showing. Maybe I could use the house in New Caledonia for a month or so this winter. Recharge, get out of the city. Paint without pressure, soak up some tropical breezes.”

“Of course you can. Whatever you want or need, you know that.”

“I do.”

“Your father and I were hoping the whole family could go down for a couple weeks after the first of the year. We’d have some time together, then you could stay on for a few weeks after. How does that sound?”

Horrible. And he’d find an excuse to avoid the family gathering, if possible.

His sisters weren’t just annoying, but competition.

“It sounds perfect. You’re the best. I miss you so much, I could talk to you all day! But I need to get back to it, Mommy. I’m actually bringing a model in later.”

“I’m glad you’re busy, Jonathan. I know you’ve had some disappoint ments, and I worried how that would hurt your tender heart. Now I can celebrate your success. Meanwhile, you take care of my baby boy. I love him to pieces.”

“He loves you right back. Bye, Mommy.”

After setting the ’link aside, he rolled his eyes again. Well, that was done.

He checked the time, annoyed the afternoon was getting away from him. Then he looked at the next canvas and the boy. His spirits soared again.

“I can give you another hour or so, then you’ll have to wait. But don’t worry,” he added as he began to mix his paints. “You’ll be magnificent when I’m done.”

Peabody stepped into Eve’s office.

“Carter Morganstern’s here.”

“Finally.”

“He apologized. Crosstown traffic, caught behind a fender bender.”

“Whatever. Give me a second. Go ahead and take him to the lounge. I’ll be right there. What about the brush guy?”

“He’s on his way to his shop. He’ll check the records, but he does remember the order, and the—translator said—young man who picked them up. Paid cash. He’s going to see if there’s a name on the order or his copy of the receipt.”

“If we can’t get a name, get as good a description as you can. Two minutes.”

When Peabody left, Eve wound up what she was doing, sent it to Reineke and Jenkinson.

And checked the time.

Six hours if they were lucky, five if they weren’t.

She went out to the bullpen.

“Jenkinson. I sent you and Reineke the most probable from my vehicle search. I’ve got it down to a handful. Three companies, two individuals. Add them to yours while I talk to the gallery guy.”

“Will do.”

“Dallas?” Santiago pushed at the brim of his hat. “I’m getting the runaround on the hotels. They don’t want to give out guests’ names.”

“Same with the private shuttles,” Carmichael put in. “I’m pushing it, but I’m using up my charm.”

“Keep pushing.” She glanced at Trueheart.