“If his flight’s delayed again, I think he might explode. He’s upset about what happened, about not being here when it did. He’ll get in touch as soon as he’s back. I promise.”
A few more hours for that, she thought as she sat again. A couple more, at least, for Yancy. She wanted a face. But she’d push on getting a name.
Her ’link signaled again, and read out as Brendita Klein.
“Lieutenant Dallas. Ms. Klein, thank you for getting back to me.”
“No problem at all, since I’m sitting at a sidewalk table in Barcelona having a lovely glass of wine.”
The sturdy-looking woman with flyaway blond hair and huge sunshades lifted a glass of red. “But I don’t know how I can help you.”
“An artist you rejected,” Eve began. “A white male, twenty-five to thirty.”
Brendita tipped down the sunshades to reveal hazy green eyes full of humor. “My dear lieutenant, imagine in my decades at the gallery how long that list runs.”
“Long brown hair, dark blue eyes. Sometime within the last year or two. Bad attitude.”
“So many own that.”
“About five-eight, probably well-dressed. He does portraits, not very well according to others I’ve interviewed, and claimed he had a successful show upstate.”
“All right, all right.” Lips pursed, Brendita nudged her sunshades back in place, sipped more wine. “I’m getting a glimmer.”
“Ms. Klein, we believe this man has killed three people. Anything you remember could help us stop him.”
“But no pressure,” Brendita murmured, and pushed at her flyaway hair. “I know, Annie, but… My wife’s reminding me I bitched to her about someone like this. But I just can’t see him. Young, yes, and as unimpressive as his work.”
“Did he give you his name, a card, a contact?”
“No, no, I’m nearly sure there. What I have are vague impressions at best.”
“I’ll take them.”
“Family money, as he certainly hadn’t earned it himself. Arrogance, ego—extreme. Anger, though he was careful not to let it fly too high. It was in there. The eyes—oddly, I couldn’t swear to the color, but there was something missing in them. Again, like the paintings.”
Pausing, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s true my brain’s on extended vacation, but beyond that he didn’t impress, and I think it was months ago when he last came in. If I’m even thinking of the right person. The glimmer’s mostly from the bragging about the successful showing, and…”
“Something else.”
“He said something else that struck me. What the hell was it. What?” she looked away from the screen again. “That’s right, I did. My wife’s reminding me during my bitching I called him a mama’s boy.”
“Why?”
“Digging back,” she muttered, “it seems to me—and again, it was months ago, maybe longer, but it seems to me he said something like his mother could buy the gallery and everything in it before he made his dramatic exit.”
Eve noted downmama’s boy, highlighted it.
“I wish I could remember more, but I honestly can’t call up his face, or the paintings he brought in.”
Eve pushed a bit more, but Brendita spoke the truth. She simply didn’t remember more.
After the conversation, Eve looked at her notes. And tapped a finger onmama’s boy.
“That’s one more thing,” she murmured. “One more piece. And it’ll fit somewhere.”
But for now, she shifted focus and looked over the search results on vehicles.
“Jesus, people, take the subway, ride a bus, hail a cab.”
