He had a lot of dark blond hair waving around a face with a solid twenty-four hours of stubble. His blue eyes had shadows under them, and his long mouth held in a frown.
“Mr. Morganstern.” Eve walked to the table where he sat with Peabody, a vending cup of coffee in front of him. Peabody, wisely, went with water. “Lieutenant Dallas. Thanks for coming in.”
“I should’ve taken the subway. Got stuck, kept thinking traffic would move. Damn near fell asleep in the cab, so one more apology.”
“Not necessary.” She sat. “The woman killed and left at your residence was, we believe, hired as a model. An artist’s model sometime last night. She was a licensed companion.”
“I don’t get it.”
“She’s the third LC killed in this manner, then left at a residence—of a gallery owner—or at a gallery. In each case, the victim is dressed and posed to replicate a painting.”
Eve brought up the image. “Do you recognize her?”
“God. No, not her, but that’sSelf-Portrait in a Straw Hat. I mean to say, she’s dressed and posed like that painting. Why would anyone do that?”
“We believe he’s an unsuccessful artist who’s been unable to place his work in a gallery. Your gallery for one. You’d be the one, correct, to decide yes or no?”
“Oh shit.” He covered his face, rubbed, then picked up his coffee. “This coffee is terrible.”
“It really is.” Peabody smiled. “Can I get you something else?”
“No, sorry. It’s fine.”
“Detective? Get Mr. Morganstern some coffee from my office. It’s a hell of a lot better,” Eve added.
“Thanks.” He let out a careful breath as Peabody left. “Yes, I’d make the final decision. We normally work through agents, or by recommendation, but if something comes in, makes the cut with my assistant, he’ll bring it to me.”
“Your assistant. Could I have his name?”
“Sure. Travis Barry.”
“So Mr. Barry would be the first stop if an artist brought in a work on their own?”
“Usually, not always. I can and have been in the gallery and taken the first look.”
“Let’s start there. We’re looking for a white male, between twenty-five and thirty. Dark blue eyes, long brown hair. The other galleries we’ve spoken to who remembered someone with that description say his work wasn’t good enough.”
“Okay, let me think. Listen, why don’t I tag Travis, put him on this?”
“That would be great.”
As he made the call, Peabody brought in the coffee. Carter took a quick drink. Then closed his eyes.
“God bless you both. This is coffee. Hey, Travis, charge up your memory banks. Aspiring artist, white guy, late twenties, dark blue eyes, long brown hair. Turned him down.”
“Well, Jesus, Carter. We might get a dozen like that a year. Maybe more.”
“Yeah, but, it’s important. My brain’s muddled from all this.”
“The art was likely portraits,” Eve added. “He’d have been well-dressed. Rich guy casual wear. The eyes? Very dark blue, and maybe something off about them. Something that gave you a little buzz at the time.”
“Portraits.” Over the ’link, Carter’s assistant frowned. “Maybe… It could be the man—yeah, late twenties most likely—hair was in a bun, the eyes. Yeah, I remember that. The painting—I can’t remember at all—but I do remember trying to let him down easy. I probably gave him the line that we weren’t accepting any new artists at that time.”
“I’ve warned you about that one.”
“Yeah, but I’m a softie. He came in again, which proves your point, Carter. We were both out there, so you took a look. I can’t remember exactly what you said besides no. It was months ago. Maybe close to a year ago.
“But after, you said to me there was something spooky about him.”
