“How about this?” Eve brought up the Vermeer.
“Of course I do. Who doesn’t? What does that…” He stopped, then held out his good hand. “Let me see the dead girl again.”
When Eve obliged, his brows knitted. “It’s the eyes, isn’t it? Bone structure’s off, nose, that’s wrong. Mouth’s almost there, but the eyes…”
He looked up. “Somebody had her stand in for, what, a forgery of the most famous Vermeer, then killed her?”
“Can you tell us where you were Saturday between elevenP.M. and fourA.M.?”
“Well, Christ.” A flicker of temper fired in his eyes. “Here, brooding. How the hell am I supposed to strangle a woman I don’t know with this?”
He shook his casted hand.
“When and where was it treated, and by whom?”
“Give me a second.” He shut his eyes, breathed deep in and out, then muttered something she couldn’t quite catch. “It just doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t work?”
“Mindful breathing and a mantra. I’m still pissed off. I don’t know the time, exactly. Three, maybe four on Saturday. The urgent care on East Eighth. Dr. Salvari. I have to go back to her in a few days so, please God, she can take this bastard off. I can’t paint, can’t sketch. I can’t even tie my own goddamn shoes.”
“Okay. How about you show us your studio, then we’ll get out of your hair?”
“You want to see my studio? What, in case I have a reproduction of a Vermeer in progress?” Gesturing with his good hand, he turned to the steps.
When they followed him up, Peabody caught her breath.
Another large space, it held canvases, a worktable, shelves holding paints and tools and palettes. It included a curvy green couch, numerous throws, a bed with rumpled white sheets, a rack of what Eve supposed he used to dress or drape models.
Peabody walked straight to the unfinished painting on an easel.
He’d used the bed, and the rumpled sheets swirled over and around the model, who reclined with golden red hair spiraling down over her left shoulder. She lay propped on her right elbow and wore a lazy, I’ve-just-been-laid smile.
“Oh, this is wonderful! The light, the moonlight, it’s luminous, and the way it streams through the window and hits her hair. The movement, the way her body’s curved. The wine bottle and two glasses on the table. The shadows in every crease of the sheets.
“And you can just feel they’re still warm, and she’s smiling at the one who warmed them with her. She’s about to say: ‘Come back to bed.’ It’s so sensual. It’s breathtaking.”
“Okay, this was worth a trip up the stairs. Are you an art collector?”
“I wish. You have some wonderful art in your living space, your work and others’, but this?”
“I was working on the background on Saturday. Just couldn’t hit the groove I’d been in. I needed the model back. When I tried to contact her, it went straight to her v-mail. Can’t reach her, can’t find that groove.”
He shook his head, pointed at the wall and the jagged, fist-sized hole in it.
“That’s how I handled that. I’m leaving it like that to remind me losing it cost me days, if not a week or more, on something that matters. And hell, the doctor said if I’d hit wrong, it could’ve cost me a lot more. It’s the best I’ve done in a long time, and I nearly fucked it up.”
He turned back to Eve. “I don’t do forgeries. I’ve got enough left from before Pilar screwed up our marriage, and I screwed up everything else, to keep me in paints and brushes. And I’m fixing what I screwed up.”
“We appreciate your time and cooperation.”
“Cooperating sucks, but I’m working on it.”
When they got back downstairs, Eve paused at the door. “When I try meditation, my mantra’sFuck this. Sometimes it works for maybe a minute.”
“Yeah? I’ll try it. That beats my fifteen seconds.”
Peabody pulled out her ’link when they walked out to the car. “I’ll check with the clinic and the doctor, but they’re going to confirm.”
