“Family. Maybe the killer’s a descendant, or thinks he is. Or sees himself as a reincarnated Vermeer guy. A replica,” she murmured. “As he used a replica for the portrait.”
She stopped and decided taking a few hours might have opened something.
“He did others—Vermeer? Other portraits?”
“He did, of course.”
Low odds he’d repeat the same portrait, but not low he could choose another from the same artist.
“Can you get me those—names, images—while I update the book?”
“Easily enough.”
“He left her body—and he used wire and glue to fix her in the pose—atthe door of the basement level of a brownstone. Owned by people who own an art gallery.”
“That earns an ‘ah.’”
“Yeah. I’m looking for an artist, and I bet a pissy-ass one, who’s—we theorize—decided he’s underappreciated. Wants to make a splash anyway.”
“With murder.”
Eve rolled her shoulders. “You never know what people will kill for or over. Maybe he has a grudge against the Whittiers—the gallery owners. We interviewed a few today, but nobody clicked right in.
“Now I’m adding he either has money or spends it like he does. Probably the first because he has to have a private enough space to do what he’s done, most likely his own vehicle. Could have rented one, and that’s already a dead end because we don’t have a description of the vehicle.”
She circled the board.
“He could’ve taken her anywhere, but he had to see her first, plan all this. So he either scouted that area or lives close enough to have spotted her.”
She circled the board again. “He’s organized, precise. He sealed up before he strangled her. Used his hands when a cord’s easier, quicker.”
“But not as intimate.”
Eyes on the board, she pointed a finger at Roarke.
“That’s just right. If he is an artist, he at least started the portrait. Maybe a photographer, but then why not replicate a famous photograph?”
“An artist, or one who aspires to be,” Roarke agreed. “Someone who knows the Vermeer, or studied it enough to duplicate the costume—down to the way the scarves are tied.”
“Yeah, right down to that. I may catch a break tomorrow when Harvo does her magic with the fabrics. Until then, I’ve got this.”
“I’ll get you the other portraits.”
“Thanks.”
When he went into his office, Eve sat down at her command center.
“Open operations,” she ordered, and got to work.
By the time she’d updated her book, added to her notes, Roarke came back.
“That was fast.”
“It’s a simple search. A considerable number of paintings, but a simple search. I sent you thumbnails. You can expand them individually.”
“Great.” After opening the file, she sat back. “Shit, that is considerable.”
“You have a separate file on portraits of multiple people.”
