“Yeah, but we cross it off. He’s got strong hands, but the killer used both, and he sure as hell can’t. Plus, he just doesn’t fit. His temper, it flashes. The killer’s, it’s always there.”
Chapter Six
In Tribeca, Eve had to settle for a lot, then a two-block hike.
Martin Martin lived in an old, weathered brick building that clung to its dignity. Since he lived on the floor above a women’s boutique, Peabody felt it unworthy of her loose-pants chant.
When Eve knocked on 1-C, the door opened across the hall.
A woman in her mid-twenties dressed in black skin pants and a flowy, hip-swinging white shirt shifted the red bag on her shoulder.
“Asshole—I mean Martin-Squared’s not there.”
“Would you know where he is?”
“No, and I’d be thrilled if he stays there. He went out about this time on Friday, with a weekender rolly. As far as I know, he hasn’t been back.
“If you’re thinking of modeling for him,” she added, “do yourselves a favor. Don’t. Because asshole.”
“You’ve modeled for him?”
“Once. It started out fine, then he’s yelling at me, calling me a stupid bitch and more. I don’t have to take that, so I got up. He grabs me, shovesme back. I had bruises with his fingerprints on them for a week. He had worse, since I kneed him in the balls. I told him if he ever put his hands on me again, I’d slice them off.”
She shifted the bag on her shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to rehearsal, but I’m saying the modeling fee’s not worth it.”
When the woman left, Eve nodded. “Okay, he’s been physically abusive to models more than once. Maybe a pattern of it. Left here with a suitcase, so maybe he has another place. More private.”
“I’ll see if I can contact him.”
“Yeah, do that. We’ll head back. Try the contact from Central. We want him to come in. Say there’s been a complaint about physical assault.”
“Well, the neighbor did complain.”
“Yeah, and I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t meditate.”
Back at Central, Eve had time to update her board and book. Then took more time to do a deeper dive on Martin-Squared.
The only child of an upper middle-class family. He got his art degree from Pratt, did a year touring Europe, another year living in Paris before settling in New York.
He’d had a couple of shows, and Eve thought the word for the reviews she read would betepid.
At twenty-nine, no day job for him. Ever. He had a small but adequate trust fund to live on while he pursued his art. And sold the occasional piece.
After checking the time, she left her office for Mira’s.
Peabody signaled. “Martin’s in Philadelphia. He was one of the artists featured in an exhibition that opened yesterday. He’s heading back tonight, and with a lot of whining will come in tomorrow if we need him to deal with—I quote—‘some hysterical woman’s overreaction.’”
“New York to Philadelphia and back. An easy trip. Go there, check in,come back, hire the victim, dress her, kill her, dump her, then go back in plenty of time for the exhibition.”
“He rented a car, so he’s got private transpo.”
“Even better. I’m with Mira.”
Eve took the glides to Mira, and because she’d timed it, arrived two minutes early. Only to find, in her admirable promptness, the dragon not at Mira’s gates, and the gates open.
Eve stepped to the door, rapped knuckles against the jamb as Mira sat at her desk working with a keyboard.
She glanced up, smiled. “Come in, sit. Just give me another minute.”
