Page 44 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“Then what they did, took out the walls between the two buildings to expand the second and third floors. It’s kind of mag to notice that kind of thing now that I’ve been all the way through a major rehab.”

“Yeah? And it’s sure fascinating to hear about the possible rehab of the murdering bastard’s lair.”

“Just having a conversation, right?”

“Team four, in position.”

“Hold that position.”

“Scanners off. Locks disengaged. And… security system offline,” Roarke added with what came through clearly as satisfaction.

“EDD joining teams. You go, McNab,” Feeney said. “Slick work, Roarke. Slick and smooth.”

Though she’d learned to expect no less from him, Eve reminded herself not to take it for granted as she watched him move like a cat—slick and smooth—down the sidewalk.

“Team two, go. Secure garage, start clearing main level. Quick, quiet. Team three, go. Team four, you’re go when you have Feeney. Team one’s moving in.”

She turned to Roarke. “Internal locks, elevators?”

“When inside. It’ll be quick, it’ll be quiet.”

“Then we’re go.”

They moved up the three steps from sidewalk level. Eve drew her weapon as Roarke put a hand on the doorknob. At her nod, he nudged the door open.

She went in low, Roarke and Peabody took high. They swept left, right, then moved in.

“Garage,” Carmichael murmured in her ear. “Two vehicles, the two-seater and a cargo-style AT.”

“Team four complete,” Jenkinson said. “Moving in.”

As they went up the stairs as a unit, Roarke gave Eve the all-clear signal. She gave her communicator two clicks to signal the same to the others.

At the second floor, she held up a fist for hold. She stopped, listened.

Not a sound, not from inside, not even the slightest hum from traffic outside. Once again, she signaled go.

Halfway up to the studio level, she heard voices.

“Hold the pose. Please. Your hands. Don’t move your hands. I need them perfectly still.”

“Doing my best, Jonathan. I have to tell you, these shoes are killing my feet. So damn tight.”

“I’ll work on them next, then you can take them off. No, just…” She heard a heavy sigh. “Wait.”

She didn’t, but moved in fast.

The target, wearing a long red robe, stood facing the entrance while Jonathan’s back was to her as he stepped toward his model.

The man in the robe said, “What the living fuck!”

Jonathan whirled around.

“Police! Jonathan Ebersole, put your hands up.”

Instead, he spun behind his target, and held to the man’s neck something that looked like a pie server.

For an instant, Eve just stared at him. “Really? You’re just that stupid?”

“I’ll slit his throat. Back off, get out of my house this minute , or I’ll slit his throat.”

“And then what? Next step, Jonathan? You try to cut him, when I’m standing here with a stunner and you’re standing there with, what, a spatula? I win. Your house is surrounded. You’re going nowhere. So—and it’s my first time saying this—put down the spatula.”

She saw his eyes cut to the safe room.

And saw him realize he’d have to go through her to get to it.

“I’m walking out of here, with him, or his blood’s on your hands. I’m defending myself! I’m defending my home, and I’m defending my art!”

The man in the red robe said, “Just fuck this.”

Eve watched as the LC delivered a damn good backfist. And when it struck Jonathan’s nose, it turned out his blood was on the target’s hands.

“Step away from him, please. No,” Eve said quickly, “don’t kick him. Tempting, I know, but just don’t. Step away from him now.”

“I knew it was too good to be true. Good shit’s always too good to be true.” Shoulders slumped, Aaron moved back.

“Jonathan Harper Ebersole, you’re under arrest for—”

He charged her. She had an instant to think: Moron. Then as he lifted the thing in his hand, point toward her, she decided against stunning him.

Since her legs were longer than her arms, she kicked him in the balls, and he went down, gasping.

“Peabody, get the spatula.”

“It’s a palette knife, Dallas.” But fighting a grin, Peabody stepped on it.

“Whatever. Roarke, see to the witness, would you? To repeat, Jonathan Harper Ebersole, you’re under arrest for the murders of Leesa Culver, Robert Ren, Janette Whithers.”

“M-m-murder?” Aaron sat down hard in the chair Roarke led him to.

“Further charges include dosing them with barbiturates without their knowledge or consent, and trespassing on private property to dispose of their bodies. As well as the attempted murder of—what’s your name?”

“Aaron.” His golden tan faded as he went pasty white. “I’m Aaron Pine.”

“The attempted murder of Aaron Pine, and the attempted assault with intent on a police officer.”

“Was he going to kill me?”

Eve cuffed the blubbering Jonathan, then looked at Aaron. “Don’t you listen to media reports?”

“Why?” He lifted trembling hands. “Things are bad enough without hearing about more shit.”

“Hard to argue. Suspect’s in custody.”

“We heard.” Baxter strolled in. “This is some excellent place.”

“I guess I’m relieved of ass-kicking duties,” Jenkinson added as he glanced around. “Who are you supposed to be?” he asked Aaron.

“I don’t know. Some guy from history.”

“ Dr. Pozzi at Home ,” Roarke supplied. “John Singer Sargent. Dr. Pozzi was a nineteenth-century French gynecologist.”

“Seriously?” was Jenkinson’s response as Aaron just put his head in his hands and moaned.

“Also reputed to be quite the ladies’ man—in nonprofessional ways. Can I get you something, Aaron?”

“Can I have the rest of my glass of wine? It’s not dosed, is it? He drank some, too. I saw him pour both glasses from the bottle.”

“Don’t touch anything until you seal up,” Eve told Roarke as she hauled Jonathan to his feet. “We need some field kits from the van.”

“You broke into my home.” Jonathan’s voice wheezed a little but carried plenty of venom. “I’ll have your job! You have no right to break into my home.”

“Got a warrant.” Curious, she looked at the portrait he’d begun. “Man, that’s a lot of red. I know somebody with fingers like those. Spider fingers.” She glanced back at Aaron. “Yours don’t look like spiders.”

“It’s not finished! I’d barely started!”

“Maybe they’ll let you finish it in prison. I really doubt it, but maybe. Who wants to take him in?”

“I don’t get to kick ass, I might as well get some satisfaction. Me and Reineke have him, boss. We’ll get him all nice and settled.”

“I’m not going to prison. That’s ridiculous! You have no idea who I am!”

“Well, you start with jail, but yeah, you are. And I know exactly who you are, you dumb fuck. I didn’t finish reading the dumb fuck his rights, Detective Sergeant.”

“We’ll take care of that. Hey, dumb fuck, you have the right to remain silent.”

“Get your filthy, disgusting hands off me!”

“I washed up. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”

Jonathan looked back at Eve with those eyes—those eyes that weren’t quite right.

“My family will ruin you. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“I’ve got all the ideas.”

He bared his teeth and said, “Lawyer.”

“Yeah.” Eve nodded as Jenkinson and Reineke hauled him out. “I knew that was coming. Step-by-step. Here’s the next. Peabody, get Aaron’s statement, then arrange for his transportation home or wherever he wants to go.”

“Can I keep the money? He gave me a thousand, and… shit, why did I tell you that?” Aaron pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I think I’m in shock.”

“It’s helpful you did, and I’ll see what I can do.

Everybody else? Seal up. And let’s take this place apart.

Paintings, costumes, barbiturates, wire, glue, pigments.

Bag ’em all. EDD, get into the e’s, find travel, correspondence, anything that applies.

We’ve got airtight, but let’s put a big, shiny bow around it. ”

She took a field kit from McNab, sealed up.

She walked to a draped canvas, uncovered it.

She thought the colors were close to the portrait she’d studied, but without the light that sort of hit the senses. As far as the face of the girl, to her eye it didn’t come near the same universe as the original, and not much closer to Leesa Culver.

“I’m no art expert, but I’m pretty sure I know crap when I see it.”

After handing Aaron his glass of wine, Roarke walked over, stood beside Eve to study.

“He killed to do this,” Roarke murmured. “It’s bollocks, absolute bollocks.”

“Meaning, in this case, crap?”

“Complete and utter crap.” Since his hands were sealed, he undraped another, and shook his head at Jonathan’s version of The Blue Boy . “Quite obviously, his ego far exceeds his talent. He has no feel for human expression.”

Eve dragged off the third drape. “He didn’t get very far on this one, of Chablis.”

“But Christ Jesus, what’s done is poorly done. Look at the brushstrokes, the proportions, how clumsily he’s painted her hands.”

She didn’t have to look at Roarke to see the anger, but she looked anyway. “It’s pissing you off.”

“Bloody well right it is.”

Roarke’s eyes had gone to ice-cold lasers with furious heat burning just behind.

“He killed three people, bastardized great works of art. He took their lives to feed his inflated sense of importance when he’s less than an amateur. He had every advantage, every advantage in the world from the time he drew his first breath. And he chooses to do this?”

“Would it matter if he’d painted masterpieces here? Would that change the fact he killed to do it?”

She watched Roarke take a calming breath.

“Of course not. No. But it somehow grinds down to my soul he’s not just a monster, and a spoiled git with it, but a talentless one who insists he’s gifted. Who’s murdered, and would have continued to, because he thinks that will bring him the accolades he deserves.”

She was strict and careful on the job, but she gave Roarke’s hand a quick squeeze. “That’s how we’re going to put him away. That, as much as rock-solid evidence, is why he’s going to spend the rest of his life in a cage.

“And,” she added with a glance back at where Peabody spoke with a visibly shaken Aaron, “you helped save a life tonight. His, and however many Ebersole planned for after him. Also? He won’t be finishing these crappy bollocks paintings.”

“I suppose that’s something.”

“Feeney and McNab can handle the e’s, for now anyway. Maybe you can hunt up any other costumes. You’d recognize the paintings he cribbed from quicker than any of us.

“We tie a bow around it,” she repeated.

Roarke took one last disgusted look at the paintings. “I’m more than pleased to help fluff that ribbon.”

Peabody walked over. “Pine’s changing into his own clothes. He gave me the cash—he had it on him. It’s bagged. I gave him a receipt. I’ve called a cruiser to take him home.”

“We should be able to give the money back to him at some point. It was payment for services.”

“Got the drugs, Dallas.” Baxter held up two bottles “Prescription barbs, pill form. Two different kinds, two different doctors. Both stored here inside a locked drawer behind the bar. Neither one’s full. Got some uppers here, too. I’m guessing personal use. And a third doctor.”

Eve smiled. “I’m liking the shine on this ribbon. Flag for the lab. They’ll match it. Peabody, go ahead and contact the sweepers. There’s no rush, but we’ll want them to process when we’re done with the initial search.”

“It’s nice not to have to contact the morgue.”

“Yeah. Aaron.” Eve stepped to him when he came out of the dressing area. “We have your transportation downstairs.”

“Thanks. Really. It looks like you saved my life, so thanks.”

“You helped. Nice backfist.”

He smiled a little, rubbed his face where the spirit gum had stuck a little too well. “You shouldn’t work the stroll if you can’t defend yourself.”

“Good thinking. Detective, why don’t you escort him out? I’ll contact the sweepers.”

“Come on, Aaron, let’s get you home.”

As Eve pulled out her ’link, Roarke came back. “You may want to have a look. I found more costumes, wigs, props, in one of the bedrooms, stored in garment bags.”

“Can you ID the paintings?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Baxter, Trueheart, carry on.”

She went with Roarke, started down to the second floor. “He won’t kill again. He won’t even start those paintings.”

“I’m over it,” he told her, and because he felt she’d tolerate it, just this once, brushed his lips over the top of her head. “I’m well satisfied to help tie this bow around him.”

She glanced at her wrist unit. “Right about now, if Mira’s right, he’s going to be demanding his call, and that’s going to be to his mother, because Mira doesn’t miss. His mother will call in a fucking battalion of lawyers.

“So.” She took a breath. “Let’s tie that bow real pretty.”