“TOD, oh-two-fifty-three. Was she already wearing the outfit? I’m going to say most probable given the need to wire and glue her up, the need to transport to this location, then wire her to the door. But… three hours between TOD and the nine-one-one, so enough to dress her up.”
Unlike Roarke, Peabody made noise. Eve heard the distinctive clomp.
“You’re already on the body?” Peabody started down the steps. “You got here fast.”
“I was already up and dressed. Paperwork.”
“Oh, right. Those are beautiful scarves, and she’s wearing earrings so it doesn’t look like a mugging. I… wait. Can you move over so I can get a better look?”
“Do you know her?”
“No, no.” Peabody, black, red-streaked hair in a jaunty tail, khaki jacket and pants offset with a shirt in bold pink-and-white stripes, studied the body. “The outfit. It’s something. It’s like I recognize the outfit, and how she’s sitting. Like she’s posing.”
She shook her head, rapped her fingers against her temple as if to knock something loose. “It’s… I think it’s like a painting, but I can’t place it exactly.”
“A painting? If it is, I know who can.”
Eve pulled out her ’link, tagged Roarke.
He gave her a puzzled smile when his face filled the screen. “Lieutenant.”
“I’m going to show you the vic. Tell me if what she’s wearing, how she looks reminds you of anything.”
“All right then.”
She turned so the body came on his screen. It took him under two seconds.
“Girl with a Pearl Earring, Johannes Vermeer. The original’s in The Hague.”
“Yes,” Peabody said, and rapped her temple again. “That’s the one.”
“You got that in about one second.”
“It’s a very famous painting, arguably Vermeer’s most well-known. Your victim’s face isn’t quite right—the features—but the eyes are close in shape.”
“Who was she, the model for the painting? Was she a prostitute?”
“Unknown, but unlikely. She’s what the Dutch—he was Dutch—call a tronie. A character type,” he explained. “Vermeer, by and large, painted people at their work, their daily routine or chores. She’s not meant to represent a specific person, but simply a young woman in rather exotic dress. It’s a study of her face, her expression, of light.”
“Okay. That’s helpful.”
“She’s very young, isn’t she? Wasn’t she?” Roarke corrected.
“Yeah.”
“How did the killer hold her in that specific pose after death?”
“Wire and adhesive.”
“Ah,” he said.
“Yeah, it earns an ‘ah.’ Thanks for the help. I need to get back to it.”
“Good hunting.”
Eve slipped the ’link back in her pocket. “So he poses her, very specific, dresses her, very specific—to mimic a painting.”
“It’s a really beautiful painting.” Peabody held out her PPC, where she’d brought the image up.
