Page 39 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

In mid-conversation on his ’link, he held up a hand, wagged it left and right.

Then Baxter.

“No hits yet, but I’m eliminating.”

She left them to it and headed down to the lounge.

Carter Morganstern looked like a man who’d had it with the world. She could sympathize.

He had a lot of dark blond hair waving around a face with a solid twenty-four hours of stubble. His blue eyes had shadows under them, and his long mouth held in a frown.

“Mr. Morganstern.” Eve walked to the table where he sat with Peabody, a vending cup of coffee in front of him. Peabody, wisely, went with water. “Lieutenant Dallas. Thanks for coming in.”

“I should’ve taken the subway. Got stuck, kept thinking traffic would move. Damn near fell asleep in the cab, so one more apology.”

“Not necessary.” She sat. “The woman killed and left at your residence was, we believe, hired as a model. An artist’s model sometime last night. She was a licensed companion.”

“I don’t get it.”

“She’s the third LC killed in this manner, then left at a residence—of a gallery owner—or at a gallery. In each case, the victim is dressed and posed to replicate a painting.”

Eve brought up the image. “Do you recognize her?”

“God. No, not her, but that’s Self-Portrait in a Straw Hat . I mean to say, she’s dressed and posed like that painting. Why would anyone do that?”

“We believe he’s an unsuccessful artist who’s been unable to place his work in a gallery. Your gallery for one. You’d be the one, correct, to decide yes or no?”

“Oh shit.” He covered his face, rubbed, then picked up his coffee. “This coffee is terrible.”

“It really is.” Peabody smiled. “Can I get you something else?”

“No, sorry. It’s fine.”

“Detective? Get Mr. Morganstern some coffee from my office. It’s a hell of a lot better,” Eve added.

“Thanks.” He let out a careful breath as Peabody left. “Yes, I’d make the final decision. We normally work through agents, or by recommendation, but if something comes in, makes the cut with my assistant, he’ll bring it to me.”

“Your assistant. Could I have his name?”

“Sure. Travis Barry.”

“So Mr. Barry would be the first stop if an artist brought in a work on their own?”

“Usually, not always. I can and have been in the gallery and taken the first look.”

“Let’s start there. We’re looking for a white male, between twenty-five and thirty. Dark blue eyes, long brown hair. The other galleries we’ve spoken to who remembered someone with that description say his work wasn’t good enough.”

“Okay, let me think. Listen, why don’t I tag Travis, put him on this?”

“That would be great.”

As he made the call, Peabody brought in the coffee. Carter took a quick drink. Then closed his eyes.

“God bless you both. This is coffee. Hey, Travis, charge up your memory banks. Aspiring artist, white guy, late twenties, dark blue eyes, long brown hair. Turned him down.”

“Well, Jesus, Carter. We might get a dozen like that a year. Maybe more.”

“Yeah, but, it’s important. My brain’s muddled from all this.”

“The art was likely portraits,” Eve added. “He’d have been well-dressed. Rich guy casual wear. The eyes? Very dark blue, and maybe something off about them. Something that gave you a little buzz at the time.”

“Portraits.” Over the ’link, Carter’s assistant frowned.

“Maybe… It could be the man—yeah, late twenties most likely—hair was in a bun, the eyes. Yeah, I remember that. The painting—I can’t remember at all—but I do remember trying to let him down easy.

I probably gave him the line that we weren’t accepting any new artists at that time. ”

“I’ve warned you about that one.”

“Yeah, but I’m a softie. He came in again, which proves your point, Carter. We were both out there, so you took a look. I can’t remember exactly what you said besides no. It was months ago. Maybe close to a year ago.

“But after, you said to me there was something spooky about him.”

“That guy! Yeah, I’ve got it. He just gave me a bad feeling. That wouldn’t have stopped me from taking a painting if it worked for me. But it didn’t. I don’t remember the work either.”

“Yet you remember the artist?”

“Yes. Well, more or less. I wouldn’t say I have a crystal clear picture, but I think I’d recognize him if you showed me one of him.”

“We’re working on it. Would you be willing to work with a police artist?”

“He left a dead woman practically at my front door. Whatever you want. I might be able to sketch him myself. I’m not sure, but maybe. If you’ve got something I can use, I’ll try. Trav? Maybe you can hang with us here. You may remember something I don’t.”

“Sure I can.”

“Let me get you something.” Peabody pushed up, hurried out.

“I think he was a little shorter than me,” Travis said. “I’m five-ten. He was shorter than you, Carter. I’m pretty sure.”

“I’m six feet flat. Yeah, I think that’s right. Does that help at all?”

“Everything helps.”

Peabody brought in a sketch pad, a pencil. “Had one in my desk.”

Carter flipped through, stopped at a sketch of Peabody’s water feature. “This is pretty good.” And another flip to what Eve saw was a sketch of the backyard garden. “So’s this.”

“Thanks. Don’t worry, I won’t bring them into your gallery.”

“Nat would flip over a garden like this.”

He turned to a blank page. “Okay. I’ll start with what I think I know. Hair in a bun, right, Travis?”

“I know it was the first time, not sure about the second.”

“I’m pretty sure. No hair around the face.

Shape of the face… I’m just going oval because I can’t really see it.

Clean-shaven, yeah. No beard, no facial hair.

But the eyes. Not sure I remember the color, but I do the shape.

There was, like you said, something off.

Deep-set,” he muttered as he worked. “Heavy lids. Smooth, no lines. Young. Pampered? Why do I want to say that? Don’t know.

“Eyebrows… yeah, yeah, yeah. I can see them. Darker maybe than the hair. Arched like this, I think. Yeah, I think. Wrong about the lines. Got one here, between the eyebrows. That fuck-it line. Sorry.”

He paused for a minute. “I think about it that way. The one you get when you frown or scowl a lot because—fuck it—I want it my way.”

He turned the sketch. “Can you see it, Travis?”

“Yeah. I wish I remembered better, but I really think you’ve got the eyes.”

“Lieutenant?”

She glanced over, saw Yancy. “Excuse me a minute. Keep going.”

“Sorry to interrupt. The wit? She tried. I used every trick I’ve got, and she tried. What I got? I’m saying fifty-fifty at best.”

He took out a sketch.

“The eyes.”

“Yeah, she was more confident there. And about the hair. She contradicted, second-guessed herself on just about everything else. Except skin color, approximate age. Clean-shaven, and she thinks slender build.”

“With me.” Gesturing, Eve crossed back to the table.

“Mr. Morganstern.”

“Carter. Your husband’s my wife’s boss. I’m not sure about the nose, but I think…”

“Carter, this is Detective Yancy. He’s a police artist. The best we’ve got. The witness he worked with today didn’t remember the suspect well. But he got this.”

She handed Carter the sketch. “The eyes—hundred percent on the eyes. But there’s a line between the eyebrows, and they’re darker—I really think so—and more arched.

And I don’t think— Crap. I think, unless I’m wrong—his face is more oval—that was my first instinct, and I think it’s right.

More oval, a little thin, but oval, and soft in the chin. ”

After a glance at Eve, Yancy sat. “More like this?” he said, and corrected the sketch.

“Yeah, I think… a little leaner. I know how it sounds, but I’m going to say it anyway. He had a hungry look that had nothing to do with food. And his hair was up, bunned up, not down like that when I saw him. We saw him.”

“Okay. Let’s start fresh.”

“I’m going to leave you to it. Thank you, Carter, this is very helpful. Thank you, Mr. Barry, for assisting.”

“It’s awful,” Travis said. “But it’s frosty, too.”

“This is going to work,” Eve told Peabody as they left. “Between what Yancy got from the other witness, and what they’ll put together here, it’ll work.”

She quickened her stride. “It just has to work in time. Get us a conference room, Peabody. We’re on the verge in a half dozen areas. Something’s going to fall.”

When she walked back into the bullpen, Trueheart raised his hand.

They’d washed most of the green off him, Eve thought, but Detective Troy Trueheart was just wired as polite and earnest.

“Speak.”

“I lucked into a woman working late who answered the ’link. In France. Doing an inventory, and she said she gets through it better when everyone’s gone.”

“And?”

“She remembers him, Lieutenant. She doesn’t have a name, and can’t get to any of that paperwork, but she remembers him.

I got a solid description. She didn’t like him, said he was impolite.

Spoiled and demanding. He ordered the fabric there for the costume the last victim wore.

She remembers because she knows the painting, and commented.

He said it was none of her business, and how he’d have her fired if she didn’t keep to her place. ”

“He sounds nice,” Eve muttered.

“So she remembers him. She’s contacting her supervisor and asking him to access the records for the order. She said he came in the second week of March. She remembers because her friend got married that weekend. The one after he came in.”

“This is good. If you don’t hear back within the hour, call back. Nag.”

“I got one.” Rather than raising his hand, Baxter grinned.

“The French cheese. Kept busting out, then hit on one in Tribeca. The clerk said he’s a regular—the description matches.

Pays cash, but he’s almost sure he lives close enough to walk.

He’s next to—not all the way, but right next to—sure he’s seen him in the neighborhood. ”

“Peabody, have McNab zero in on Tribeca. Jenkinson.”

“Whittling it down.”