“We know his work. We’re studying it, talking about it. He may have failed as an artist. When he paints now, it could be under the cover of a hobby as he works for the Whittiers in another capacity.”
“And that would burn.”
“Yes, it would. Art, his art, is his reason to live. His failure at receiving accolades for it, his greatest pain. But one he shares with many great artists who weren’t recognized during their lifetimes. With this? He’s created a masterpiece, and one he believes superior to the original.”
“If an artist paints or creates that masterpiece, wouldn’t he want to do it again?”
“Yes. And more than want, Eve, need.”
She’d already gone there, so just nodded.
“But not the same one—why do the same reproduction again?”
Mira considered. “I could see that if, for whatever reason, he felt he hadn’t achieved the level he wanted. If he felt the model had been the reason.”
“If he plans to do another, he’d already have the painting selected. The costume or wardrobe, he’d need that. He’d have scouted for the model, or already targeted one.”
“I believe he’s done that, yes. He sees himself as a perfectionist. He’s exacting. You’ll find his living and working space very organized. He lives alone. He has no time to waste with others. Sex? Secondary to art. He’d hired an LC, a young, attractive woman. He could have had sex with her first, but apparently didn’t.”
“Because the art was the reason. And, she wasn’t a person. She represented someone long dead,” Eve said slowly. “Once he had what he needed from her, she had to die or the painting couldn’t live.”
In silent approval, Mira angled her head. “As I see it? Perfectly put. He may be gifted, but he wants more, much more than simple success. He wants immortality, and before immortality comes that notoriety. He may consider or attempt suicide to gain immortality, but not before he gains the notoriety. Not until he’s created enough masterpieces, as many as he’s planned.”
“Okay. I appreciate it. He’s not the sort who’d smash his hand through a wall?”
“Oh, no. He’s too controlled for that, and it could interfere with his painting.”
“Yeah, that was my take. He’s got money. You don’t waste a high-dollar bottle of wine on a street LC you’re going to kill anyway. A private space for his work, and private transpo.”
Eve pushed to her feet. “This all gives me more to work with.”
“Before you go, how did the move-in go this weekend?”
“Move-in? Oh, oh, right, that. Great. It was really just the last push.” And she remembered. “We’re going over there for dinner tonight. To, you know, seal the deal.”
“A lovely way to do just that. Peabody and McNab met Mavis and Leonardo through you. They found the house through Roarke. The two of you are very much a part of the home they’re making.
“Enjoy the evening with friends.”
“Thanks.”
She made her way back to Homicide, and found McNab hanging out by Santiago’s desk.
Jenkinson stopped her first. “Paperwork’s christing done. I got a jump on the restoration types for your portrait killer.”
“Great. Good. Peabody, take off.”
“Take off what?” she asked, and made McNab snicker.
“Go home.”
“Really? I’ve still got some—”
“Go,” Eve repeated, “and take the e-geek with you. I’ve got some things to wrap up, and Roarke’s meeting me here. We’ll be there whenever we’re supposed to be.”
Which, as she went to her office, she hoped wasn’t for at least another hour. Maybe two.
She wrote up notes on her consult with Mira, then made herself set it aside.
