Page 51 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“She’d already opened an account for him in Caracas under that name. Seeded it with a hundred million. You know, just to get him started.”

Peabody took a breath. “Dallas, she told him she was buying him his own gallery, along with the villa.”

“And she expected to get away with all of it, just go back and pick up her life as usual. Some people have too much money, and I know how that sounds coming from me.”

“No. Roarke’s the most generous person I know. He’s not selfish, self-serving, and he, well, screw it, he has honor. Phoebe Harper just doesn’t have honor.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She has to know, Dallas. She has to know Ebersole killed three people, planned to kill more. But she’d set him loose. Not get him help, but set him loose, set him up like a fucking king.

“Those people.” Not glowing now, but fired up, Peabody pointed at the board. “Their lives are nothing to her. She’s worse than her son. She’s worse.”

“You’re right. She’s worse. Do what you can with Jessup, then we’ll take Ebersole. Do you know if they’ve lawyered?”

“The last we heard, Harper’s working on it—or has her husband working on it.

Reo was right. A lot of top firms won’t touch this, especially with the live feed out there.

Jenkinson’s with me. McNab’s writing the tech interview up.

I can follow most of the geek speak, but some of this went over my skill set. ”

Eve gave it an hour, then took a turn in Observation. Jessup sat without counsel, and sat resolute to her eye. Not going to break.

Jenkinson hit hard. He had crime scene photos of the victims on the table, he used their names. He pushed, snarled, and looked fierce despite the mutant, bug-eyed fish swimming over his tie.

In contrast, Peabody spoke of loyalty, of how it could be misplaced and exploited. Of the victims as people with hopes and dreams.

Reo stepped in, watched with her.

“He’ll do the twenty.”

Eve nodded. “Yeah, he will.”

“Good look,” Reo added after a quick up-and-down study of Eve. “Damn good look. Weapon on your side, biceps cut, and glorious little diamonds in your ears.”

“I was going for formidable.”

“Oh, you passed formidable, cruised by intimidating, and hit dead-on scary.”

“Even better.”

Eve used her communicator, texted Peabody.

Wrap it. He won’t budge. We can try again after we interview Harper, but he’s Reo’s now.

“I’m sending for Ebersole.”

“Good. He’s still without counsel. Not only has word gotten out, but that feed. They’ll have to settle for someone hungry enough for the fee. My impression is they’ve been advised to work a deal, but so far, she’s not willing.”

“That’s why he’s first.” Eve rolled her shoulders, circled her neck muscles. “I can break him.”

“Counting on it. I’ll be here, wishing I had popcorn. Mira?”

“She’ll be here.”

Once Jessup was taken back to a cell, Eve met Jenkinson and Peabody.

“He’s got a thing for Phoebe Harper,” Jenkinson told her. “I think a mom thing, not a sex thing. Sex thing we could crack. But a mom thing?” He shook his head. “It’s a tougher nut.”

“We don’t need him, and he earned the twenty he’ll do inside. Just one more life in the shitter.”

“I’ll write it up. Hey, I heard we’re having a cookout at your place Saturday.”

“Correct, and it’s casual. No ties.”

He just grinned. “I got a shirt that’s killer.”

She couldn’t imagine it, and decided as he strolled back to the bullpen, she didn’t want to.

“Ebersole and Mira, both on the way. Do you want a break?”

“No. I’m rolling.”

“Coffee, my office. I’ll tell you how I think we play this.”

They’d put him in an orange jumpsuit. In addition, he wore restraints on his wrists and ankles.

Eve saw fear, and could smell it. But he covered it with arrogance.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Peabody, Detective Delia, entering Interview with Ebersole, Jonathan.”

She read off the various files, including those pertaining to the aborted escape.

Then she sat, smiled. “Well, Jonathan, you’re completely fucked.”

“I don’t have to talk to you. I have nothing to say to you. I want to speak with my mother.”

“No, you don’t have to talk to us. Detective, remind me. Is speaking to Mommy included in the prisoner’s rights?”

“No, sir, it’s not.”

“I didn’t think so. Your mother’s in a cell, Jonathan, and she’s going to stay in one for about a half century.”

He smirked. “No, she won’t. When our lawyers get here, we’re out. You might end up in one though.”

“You understand your bail’s been revoked? You’re now remanded into custody until your trial, through your trial, and with what we have, for multiple lifetimes thereafter.”

He pressed his lips together, but tried a careless shrug. “We’ll pay another bond. You won’t keep me in here.”

As if surprised, Eve sat back. “You actually believe that. Let me tell you something Mommy won’t.

You removed a court-ordered monitor, accessed false identification, arranged for a flight to a country without extradition to the United States, and were, when recaptured, about to board a private shuttle in order to escape… ”

She couldn’t help herself.

“The long arm of the law. Those actions negate any possibility—I mean any —for a reinstatement of bond in any amount.”

“Whatever it is, my mother will pay.”

“Jonathan.” Now she leaned forward. “Listen to the words. There will be no bail hearing. You have forfeited the right to any consideration thereof. You have added a whole new list of charges. Serious charges. Your mother also faces a list of serious charges, and as she has proven herself to be a flight risk with the means to procure what she needs to do so, there will be no bail for her, in any amount. Mommy will very likely die in prison.”

“You don’t know her. She’ll beat you. She always wins.”

“Your lawyer has withdrawn from your case, and she’s unable, so far, to find a replacement. I’m already winning.”

She opened the box she’d brought in. “Fake ID, including passport.” She tossed them on the table.

“A new ’link, registered to the fake ID with Mommy’s private numbers already loaded in.

Cash, ten thousand in Venezuelan bolivars, the documentation to your bank account in Caracas under your fake name, containing a hundred million.

You’ve got a hotel suite booked, under the fake ID.

Just until the sale’s completed on the villa she bought for you.

“Oh, and here’s the monitor she paid to have removed. Shaun Ye’s been very cooperative. All this is cut-and-dried, Jonathan. You’re both going down. Does it bother you, at all, to know your mother’s going to spend the rest of her life in a cage?”

On a sniff, he looked away. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“I think it doesn’t, not really. Because you first, right? Always you first.”

As Jenkinson had in the last interview, she tossed the crime scene shots on the table. Slowly in this case, one at a time.

And she watched the pride and excitement light in Jonathan’s dark blue eyes.

“I guess it’s not much to worry about when you’ll already be caged for taking the lives of these human beings.”

He sat back, tried to cross his arms. When the restraints stopped him, a bit of panic flickered. Then he shrugged.

“Peabody, why don’t you do the honors this time?”

“Happy to.” Peabody began to unload a second box. “We have the barbiturates used to dose Leesa Culver, Bobby Ren, Janette Whithers.”

“Those are my prescribed medications for anxiety.”

Oh, he couldn’t help but talk, Eve thought.

“They’re also what you used to incapacitate the three people you killed,” Peabody said, and continued. “We have the wire you used to pose their bodies after you strangled them.”

“Wire? I’m an artist! It’s wire to hang paintings.”

“Glue, used, again, on the bodies of your victims.”

“Please.” He let out a snort of a laugh. “What household doesn’t have glue?”

“These were taken from your residence.”

“So what?”

“And they match—exactly—what you used on the victims. We have these, the clothing, the other personal effects of those three victims, also found in your apartment.”

“Planted, by you.”

“Not only was the entire search recorded, but how the hell did we get the clothing each victim wore on the night they were killed?” Peabody demanded.

“I’m sure my lawyer will figure that out.”

“We have documentation for your travel to France, the Netherlands, Italy, England.”

“I enjoy traveling.” He stared up at the ceiling as if bored. “It inspires my art.”

“Where you purchased the fabrics and engaged costumers to create the costumes you had your victims wear—as well as costumes you planned for others.”

“Prove it!”

“For Christ’s sake,” Eve exploded. “We found several in your residence. Woman with a Parasol —Monet. Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat —Van Gogh. The Crystal Ball —Waterhouse. The Desperate Man —Courbet.”

“You know some art,” Jonathan interrupted. “How surprising, considering. I often provide costumes for my models.”

“We have your own words,” Peabody continued, “your autobiography in process, your own documentation of the victims, when and where you selected them. Where you decided to leave the bodies and why.”

“I’m an artist,” he said again. “I’ve been toying with adding fiction writing to my scope. Writing about an artist. And I often walk around the city, looking for inspiration. All of this is clearly circumstantial.”

“Now he’s a lawyer, too.” Eve sat back. “We have your paintings, Jonathan. Paintings of the three victims dressed and posed in the costumes they died and were dumped in. Girl with a Pearl Earring , Leesa Culver,” Eve said as Peabody laid down photos of the paintings.

“ The Blue Boy , Bobby Ren. Self-Portrait in a Straw Hat —Janette Whithers.”

“Painted purely from my own imagination.”