Page 45 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

In the end, Eve decided they needed a very, very long ribbon. Considering himself invulnerable in his glossy urban castle, Jonathan left behind a mountain range of evidence.

The paintings, of course, and the costumes—those worn and those waiting to be filled. The drugs he’d used to render his victims unconscious before killing them.

They found the wire, the glue, boards identical to what he’d used on the second victim. He’d painted the background for the third victim, which he’d decided not to use, and yet another—so much red—for Aaron Pine.

He’d taken photographs of his victims, in the costumes, in the pose he’d directed. He’d taken more of those victims, and the others he’d chosen, on the street. He’d labeled them with their location, and the painting he’d planned to create.

He hadn’t bothered to dispose of their clothes, instead storing them, in an orderly fashion, in the closet of another guest room.

Between them, Feeney and McNab found an ocean of digital evidence.

Various files contained data on each painting—those begun, those planned—with contacts for the fabrics, the costumers, the tatters in Ireland, the dates of his travel and appointments.

Each separate file contained his extensive research on the individual painting, the pigments employed, the techniques, the history of the artist, and anything known of the model.

He had files on the galleries, the managers, the owners that included his personal notes raging against them. And more damning, the name of the painting assigned to each.

He’d opened another for media reports of the murders.

In yet one more, he’d started to write his autobiography. He’d titled it:

The Artist

The Gifted Life of Jonathan Harper Ebersole

Though he’d yet to reach beyond his own childhood, he’d written his own foreword.

I was born to create art, to realize my vision with pigment and brush. This is both my gift, and my curse. To be filled with this vision, this talent, this purpose, demands sacrifice, even suffering.

Every true artist faces the brutality of rejection, the cruelty of criticism. And worse than these, more brutal, more cruel, apathy.

How many of the gifted, through the ages, have been driven to suicide by the apathetic, by those who blithely consider themselves lovers of art?

While I sacrificed, while I suffered, while the blades of apathy cut deep, I determined this would not be my fate.

I would live. I would paint. I would humble those who turned their backs on my gift.

Some will condemn my methods, but they are less than nothing to me. Those who truly understand greatness know the power of art supersedes all else.

With my gift, with my art, I have bestowed immortality on those who were no one. Their life beats its pulse in the series I call The New Master Emerges .

While my greatest works to date, these will not be the last. In the following pages, I will take you on the journey of a life dedicated, above all else, to the god of art.

When, at last, Roarke drove home, she sent memos to Reo, Mira, Whitney.

“I need Mira to observe, but right now, I’m coming down solid on legally sane.

Crazy, oh, fuck yeah, but not over the legal line.

He knows right from wrong, he just doesn’t give a damn.

He used an alias on a cash receipt. His actions throughout?

Carefully, systematically planned. He chose LCs because he considers them no one, and easy to lure, and he considers himself above the law.

He sought to humble—his words—people who’d said no to him. ”

“I’d lay a healthy wager he’s rarely heard the word no .”

“You’d win that bet.” Eve scrubbed her hands over her face.

“I get some satisfaction at knowing he’ll spend the night in a cell, waiting for someone to ride to his rescue.

Next step’s tomorrow. I need verification from the lab on the drug, on the fibers from the back of the AT, on the victims’ clothes. ”

Now she rubbed the tension in the back of her neck.

“I think he kept their clothes to use later.”

“To use?”

“Yeah. Costumes. Besides the ones he had made, he had other stuff. The shawl-type things, hats, fake jewelry, a couple of fancy dresses, and all that. We saw some of it in his other paintings around the house, in the studio.”

“And in those works, those previous works, there was at least a dull glimmer of talent.”

“Pedestrian.”

“Yes, at best. But the ones he killed for? No glimmer at all.”

He drove through the gates.

“You were right about the costumes—the paintings he planned to copy with them. It’s all written out.”

“Yet you worry. You have all the evidence, you have evidence in his own words. He held a weapon—such as it was—to his intended victim’s throat, then tried to attack you with it. And yet you worry.”

“Yeah, I do.” She got out of the car, walked to the door with him. “He’ll have money, influence, and power behind him. Hell, surrounding him. If you read his data, it’s clear he’s never done a single hard day’s work in his life, never earned his own way on anything.”

She looked over at him as she walked into the house. “He grew up exactly the opposite of us. Pampered, indulged, spoiled. Plenty of others are, and don’t turn into psychopaths, but it’s a factor in his pathology.”

He slid an arm around her waist as they started up the stairs. “You worry he’ll wiggle out on an insanity defense?”

“Some, yeah, but I’d take it. He’ll still be locked up. As plush as the Harpers could manage, but locked up. Nobody else dies. It wouldn’t be just, and still, I’d take it. I worry because I know they’ll throw everything they’ve got at getting him out, getting him off.”

“Eve, I can’t believe even with the depths of the Harper Group’s pockets, they can overcome the amount of evidence you’ve compiled against him. Add what’s on your recorder during the arrest.”

“He was shocked. People broke into his house, had weapons. He snapped, he panicked. They’ll try that.”

“And you’ll counter it. I’ll place another wager then, won’t I? And it’s all on you.”

She leaned against him a moment as they walked into the bedroom.

“It’s still step-by-step. I can get a confession out of him, but I can’t get a confession out of him if the lawyers zip him up. And they will. They’ll try anyway. We’ll have to work through them to get to him. I’ll need Reo there.”

“You’ll have her, and Mira, and a bloody Mount Kilimanjaro of evidence. Add an egoist, a malignant one at that, and one you’ll skillfully goad into bragging about everything he’s done and planned to do.”

He slipped the jacket off her shoulders, laid it aside, then rubbed at the knots.

Because it helped to hear it, she nodded. “I know what buttons to push if I can get to them.”

After removing her weapon harness, she sat to pull off her boots.

“You’ll get to them.”

“They’ll delay, toss up obstacles.”

“And still.”

She rose, began to undress as he did.

“Summer’s nearly over, right?”

“You wouldn’t know it by the weather, but it’s waning, yes.”

“Let’s have a barbecue thing.”

He turned, studied her. “You’re very tired, aren’t you now? Not altogether lucid.”

“Actually, worrying’s got me… I don’t know what.

But I mean it. Or right now I do. They all dived right in.

Put in a full day, but dived right in. Including you.

He’s off the street because they did, you did.

I know in my gut I’d’ve gotten him eventually, but it might not have been tonight.

Without the help, I might be going to the morgue again in the morning. I’d be briefing the feds tomorrow.”

“So we’ll have a barbecue.”

She shrugged. “You like them, they like them, summer’s almost over. And tonight, Jonathan Harper Ebersole sleeps in a cage.”

“We’ll plan for Saturday then, or Sunday if that works best. Including the Miras, the Whitneys?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She slid into bed with him. Galahad rolled over from his sprawl and curled at the small of her back.

“Nadine and Jake. And we haven’t seen much of Charles and Louise of late so we’ll see if they’re free. Mavis and family, of course.”

“See, this is what happens. You decide to do something nice, and it balloons on you. Then the balloon pops and all the gunk inside spills all over you.”

“Let me worry about all that. I’ll enjoy it.”

He would, she thought, which was part of the why she’d said it. She’d be okay with it, but he’d love it.

As the cat curled against her, she curled against Roarke.

He brushed his lips over her forehead and he stroked her back as he often did when trying to soothe her into sleep.

But her mind wouldn’t rest.

She lifted her mouth to his.

“Help me out, will you, pal? I don’t want to dream tonight.”

So his mouth took hers again, gently, while his hands stroked her back. And murmured to her as those hands slid under the nightshirt she’d tossed on.

She heard the cat give a kind of annoyed grunt before he rolled away.

“If you dream, dream of me. Dream of us. Dream of this,” he said, and took her mouth again. Again tender, so tender and so warm.

She laid a hand on his cheek. His hands, his lips didn’t just stir desire, but beat in her heart as well. Worry began to fade in wonder. That he was hers, that he wanted to be hers.

She answered tenderness with tenderness, understanding, as she never had before him, that when love surrounded desire, it meant everything.

With him, she had everything.

He felt the tension fade away as she softened against him. His fierce cop let go for him, let the day, the night, all that came before this moment go.

He took his time, hands gliding rather than demanding so she could drift, just drift before the rise.

And he, lost in her, could drift with her.

She allowed herself to surrender, needed to surrender, could surrender because she knew he would cherish.

And with surrender, she found peace. With peace, she found pleasure. All tangled together in a slow, quiet blooming.