“But don’t you think that’s what he’s doing? Or did?”
“I think that’s the strongest probability, yeah. There’s no glory in dressing up a woman as an iconic image, then not painting her, since that’s what you do. Paint. Most probable.”
“Unless we’re following the wrong trail, and he doesn’t paint. Like: Why did these—that word Pecker used—peasants get the talent? I’d do so much more with it. I deserve it, but I can only sell art, or restore art, or buy art.”
“Can’t discount it.”
Eve watched Standish take off his apron. He came around the counter and walked to the table.
“I can take a few minutes. Listen, I told my manager you were cops, and there was some trouble in my building. I really want to keep this job.”
“Why don’t you grab a chair?”
When he had, and sat, what Eve read coming off him in waves was misery.
“I really didn’t do anything. I know I screwed up before, but if Harmann’s had any more trouble, I swear it wasn’t me. I was a little drunk, and a lot jealous. He rubbed my face in it some, and I just punched him. Then I happened to see him a couple weeks ago, and I wanted to apologize. Sincere, right? And he started screaming how he’d get a restraining order.
“I was with some people. They’ll back me up. I just walked away. I didn’t do anything.”
“All right. This is about another matter. Do you know this woman?” Eve held out her ’link.
Standish looked—didn’t skim, but looked. “No. She’s pretty. Too heavy on the eyes with the makeup, but under it, she’s got a nice face.
“I don’t understand.”
“She was murdered last night.”
If powder-white skin could lose color, his did. “Jesus, I’m sorry, okay. But I really don’t understand.”
Eve swiped, offered the ’link again. “How about this?”
“Sure,Girl with a Pearl Earring. It’s beautiful work. The way Vermeer captured light, used the contrast, the way she stands out against the dark background.”
“She was dressed like this.”
“Like… like an artist’s model?” Now both puzzlement and interest mixed together. “Usually if you’re going to try to use a previous image, to learn, you use the image itself. Her face isn’t really right for it.”
“Can you give us your whereabouts last night? Say midnight to four?”
“Oh God, oh my God.” Now his hands shook, so he put them under the table. “Look, I punched a guy, and that was stupid, but I wouldn’t kill anybody.”
“Why don’t you tell us where you were?” Peabody said gently.
“I was—God—I was working, in my apartment. I paint there, too. I was working, with a model. Caryn—ah, Jesus—Caryn Lloyd. We started about nine, and went to… I think about twelve-thirty or one. Then she got dressed—I’m working on a figure study—and we talked a little, then she left. I’m not sure, I didn’t check the time, but it was after one because I know it was close to two when I called it a night. I didn’t go anywhere. The building has door cams. You can check.”
“All right. Why don’t you give us the model’s contact?”
“Sure, fine, but please don’t freak her, okay? She’s supposed to pose for me again tonight.”
He pulled out his ’link, looked up the contact, and gave it to them.
“Do you know anyone who does this? Uses models to replicate?”
“I don’t. I’m not saying nobody does, but I don’t know anybody who does. I’m just trying to straighten up, okay? Keep my day job, work onmy art, stay out of trouble. My parents have really backed me, but punching Harmann? I’m like on parole here.”
He tried to smile.
“I’m working up my nerve to approach the gallery manager. It’s taken me too long to get there—but I need to do that to, well, get things right. My problem, my attitude, my fucking around, so I need to go see her.
