“Bouncer had plenty to say,” Su added. “But we didn’t have an interpreter. Nice pup. We had the alert about the body downtown, the weird outfit angle and all that, so informed Dispatch.”
Since the sun had yet to rise, Cunningham shined his flashlight on the body. “You can see the wires and the plank of something holding him up there. Looks like a kid, and that adds ugly to creepy and weird.”
“All right. Stand by.”
She didn’t recognize the pose or costume from her cheat sheet, but checked. Nowhere did she find a portrait of a boy or young man wearing a fancy blue jacket with a lacy white color, matching pants that stopped at the knee, white stockings, shoes with blue bows on them. He had a black hat with a white feather held down by his side in his right hand, and his left cocked on his hip.
He had curly brown hair past that lacy collar, with some swept over his forehead. He stared straight ahead, unsmiling.
To save time, Eve tagged Roarke.
“How can I help?”
“Tell me if there’s a painting like this.”
“The Blue Boy,” he said immediately. “Gainsborough. Thomas Gainsborough. The original is, ah—let me think—in the Huntington, in California.”
He paused a moment. “So it’s not a connection to Vermeer after all.”
“Were they pals, associates, competitors?”
“As the two paintings were done about a hundred years apart, that’s not an angle for you.”
“Okay. Thanks. I have to get to the body.”
She pocketed her ’link, opened her field kit, and sealed up.
“The victim is a Caucasian male, dressed in a blue costume, with white lacy collar and cuffs, white stockings to the knee with blue ribbons holding them up, and a kind of blue cape over the jacket. There’s some white detailing on the jacket from the armpit to about halfway to the elbow. He’s holding a black hat with a white feather in his right hand.”
She used her penlight. “The hat’s glued to the hand. The left is set on the left hip with glue. The body is posed in a standing position, wired to a board propped in the doorway.”
She lifted the material covering the left hand, managed to maneuver the pad to get a fingerprint.
“Victim is identified as Robert Ren, age twenty-three, residence 716Seventh Avenue, number 4-D. Victim is a licensed companion, street level. Mother, Suzann Ren, Bronx; father deceased; one sibling, female, age twenty-one, Rachel Ren. Victim is single, no official cohabs.”
Shifting, she used a fingertip to ease the chin up, hit resistance immediately.
“The head’s glued in position. Visible indications of strangulation. Manual. Eyelids glued open, lips glued closed. It looks like some lip dye, some color added to the cheeks. Well, Christ, the hair on the forehead’s glued in place. It’s a wig, but glued in place.”
“Sick bastard,” Su commented from behind her.
Eve just grunted and got out her gauges. “Time of death, oh-three-ten.”
Behind her, she heard Peabody’s voice and Cunningham’s response.
“Shit,” Peabody said as she stepped closer. “It’sThe Blue Boy.”
“So Roarke tells me. Robert Ren, another street level. Carted here on this board, glued and wired. He wanted this one standing.”
“It’s a full-length portrait. The original, I mean.”
“And it has to be exact, every detail exact.”
“Let me pull up the original.”
When she had, she held it out for Eve to see.
“The victim looks younger than twenty-three, but still a little older than the model in the portrait. But the build’s close, and I’d say the height. And look, Dallas, the board’s painted to replicate the background of the painting. See the colors—dark with some light around the shoulders, and right around the hat and the cocked elbow, some green that goes into brown.
