“I have a family, a wonderful, frustrating, loving family. Considering what came before, I think I’m the luckiest woman in the world. I wish I’d known Leesa and had a chance to bring her into my family. I didn’t, so now this is all I can do for her.
“Lieutenant, will you let me know when you find who did this?”
“Yes, I will.”
Afterward, she got more coffee, and stood for a moment drinking it by her skinny window.
There were some, she thought, no matter what they came from, who worked to make themselves better.
She glanced back at the board and Leesa.
“Maybe you’d have had a better chance with her. Or maybe that wouldn’t have changed your direction at all. Either way, you’ve got someone with enough heart who’ll plant a tree for you.”
She went back to her desk to send a memo to Mira, with the case file attached. And asked for a consult at Mira’s convenience.
Then she walked out to Peabody in the bullpen.
“I’ve carved it down some,” Peabody told her. “I separated the females, and I’ve eliminated some who either relocated or are currently out of New York, even the country. Like one of the students—he was a regular—he’s doing a year in Florence at an art school, and one of the featured artists—multiple times—moved to Paris six months ago.”
“Any with dings?”
“A few. Top of the list, Simon Standish, twenty-eight, in SoHo. Day job, barista. He’s on his third café. Arrested last year when he became verbally abusive at an art show, escalated that when he punched the featured artist in the face. He did sixty days in, mandatory anger management, and three months of community service.
“And it happens to be Glenda Frost’s gallery where he went off, so it was easy to get some impressions of him from her. She’s doing that show for Erin Albright’s work next month. Did you buy that painting?” Peabody wondered. “The one of the pizza place?”
“Yeah. Frost asked me if she could keep it for the show.”
Erin Albright would never marry the love of her life, or take her to Hawaii on their honeymoon.
But her art would live on.
“Standish.”
“Frost said he’s a high-strung, angry young man whose work showspromise, but isn’t ready yet. Which he doesn’t like to hear. She also doesn’t think he could or will kill, and certainly not this way. Or mimic an old master, as he does abstracts.”
“We’ll have a chat anyway.”
“I figured. I’ve got a couple more.”
“Tell me on the way. Hold on. Reineke, anything look good?”
Reineke shifted, and when he crossed his leg over his other knee, she got a peek at the urine-colored flower adorning his sock.
“I got a lot of stories about eccentric artists, nutty artists, lousy ones, and a couple with tempers. Sexy’s in there, too. Temper? I got a Kyle Drew the model—goes by Adora—claims screamed at her when she didn’t hold the pose, put a few bruises on her when he yanked her back into it. Then ended up throwing a table at her—just missed. That’s when she grabbed her clothes and walked out.
“Got another, Martin J. Martin—no shit on that. This model says he slapped her, twice, when he didn’t get what he wanted. And when she started to cry, yelled out that was perfect, told her to sit her ass down, and so on. Which she did because she said she hadn’t been paid yet.”
“Send those locations. We’re in the field. Jenkinson? Paperwork.”
“I’m almost the fuck finished.”
Because she sympathized, Eve recalculated. “Take a break. You and Reineke take your break. Reineke, Peabody’s going to send you a list—current and former employees of the Whittiers. Check them out after your break.”
She glanced around. “Baxter, Trueheart?”
“Working the ’links shook something loose. They’re out tugging the line. Carmichael, Santiago and the hat got one in Interview.”
“Well then…”
