“If you weren’t already in a pissed-off mood,” she commented, “listening to that would get you there.”
It got louder as they got to the fifth floor, then threatened the eardrums when she opened the fire door and stepped into the hallway.
“Anybody who plays whatever the hell that is at that volume in an apartment is an asshole. What do you bet it’s ‘I Really Am a Pecker’?”
“Pretty sure you’re correct. He’s right there, 501, and I think I can see the door shuddering. He’s got three locks on it, but I can see it shaking.”
Eve pounded on the door with the side of her fist. “Should’ve brought the battering ram,” she muttered, and pounded again.
“Allyn Orion! This is the police! Turn off that damn music and open the door.”
“Fuck the fucking police!”
“Open the door, or I will arrest you for disturbing the peace.”
“Try it!” She heard a riot bar thump, locks click, then the rattle of a chain as Orion opened the door a crack. “I’m in my own apartment in the middle of the day!”
Eve held up her badge. “Turn it off, open the door. We can have this conversation here or we can have it at Central.”
“Fucking police.” But he muttered it as he dragged off the chain. “What the hell do you want? I’m working! I need the noise, the anger, therageof the music to create.”
“Turn it off.”
A man of about five-eight with a slender build in black lounge pants and a black muscle shirt—both paint splattered—turned to stride away to a small entertainment box.
He had white-blond hair swirled with bright blue that rained past his shoulders. The black goatee served as contrast on a face of deep gold skin with tawny eyes lined heavily with black.
After slapping the music off, he turned to snarl at her. “Happy now? Is it my fault the pathetic peasants in this building can’t respect art and the creator of it?”
“I’d say it’s your fault for not respecting your neighbors or the city’s noise pollution codes.”
“You could try headphones,” Peabody suggested.
“No! I need it tofill, to burn the very air, to surround me. ForFury.”
He gestured, dramatically, toward a canvas about six feet long, four feet high. Some of the paint still glistened. Black paint, harsh red, angry yellow fought some sort of bitter war over the field. In the morass of thick strokes, hard angles, Eve thought she—maybe—saw a human face.
“It’s one of my series on unbridled emotions. And we haveGrief!”
He gestured, again a dramatic sweep of the arm, across the room to another canvas. Blacks, reds, dark blues, dead spiderweb grays, and yeah, as if smothered by those strokes of color, a human face—the artist’s face—covered with tears.
“I will haveAgony,Desire,Fear.”
She didn’t like them, but had to admit to a weirdly compelling vision.
“Okay. You also have a couple choices. You can soundproof your apartment.”
“Do you know what that costs? I’m reduced to working like a slave every night to support my art.”
“Uh-huh. You can wear headphones and fry your own eardrums. Or keep the music at a reasonable volume.”
He held out his hands, palms lifted. “You’re asking me to slit my own wrists.”
“No, I’m telling you to knock it off. You’ve already done time inside. Want more?”
Now he threw up his hands, circled the room. Other than a single dumpy couch, he used the entire space as a studio, with canvases stacked or hung, with paints and tools littering a table.
Eve figured he’d go a few rounds with the landlord at some point, as he didn’t bother to tarp the floor.
