“Oh God, this is horrible.” Now she clutched at her throat as if to push the words out. “Is it someone I know?”
Eve pulled up Ren’s ID photo, offered it.
“No. I shouldn’t be relieved, but I am. I don’t know him. What happened? Oh, Mikha, thanks. Someone died in front of the gallery.”
“I’m so sorry. Can I sit with her, or…”
“No problem,” Eve told him.
When he did, he took Iona’s free hand.
“Ms. Beecham, do you know this painting?”
Eve brought upThe Blue Boy.
“Of course. Gainsborough. I cut my teeth on art, sometimes literally. My great-grandmother founded the trust that supports the gallery. My grandfather and father are both artists. So’s my sister. She’s living in Italy right now. I don’t understand.”
“Yesterday,” Mikhail murmured, “there was a woman killed and posed like Vermeer’sGirl with a Pearl Earring.”
“I’d forgotten. I need this coffee. My mind is… Is this like that?”
“We believe so. Do you know the Whittiers?”
“Not personally, no. Grandy—my great-grandmother—knew everyone in the New York art world. And beyond. My father may. I know art, I value art, but Grandy asked me to run the gallery because while I didn’t inherit my father’s talent, I did my mother’s. And that’s for business.”
“This isn’t art. I’m sorry,” Mikhail said quickly. “It’s not for me to say.”
“Why isn’t it art?”
He shifted toward Eve. “This? Beyond the meanness of murder? A cheap gimmick, a cheap fake, and an excuse to hurt others. Whoever is doing this uses the genius of others, their talent, their history, and bastardizes their art.”
He lifted those broad, naked shoulders in a kind of apologetic shrug. “I feel strongly.”
“Mikhail’s an artist.”
“Not Gainsborough or Vermeer, but Barvynov. Myself. This person, this killer, he’s not an artist. He’s a pretender.”
“Because he copies to kill. Or,” Eve considers, “kills because he can only copy?”
“Either way, he’s a fake. That’s how I see it, and I should be quiet.”
“Let’s get this out of the way. The two of you were together last night?”
“We went to dinner,” Iona said. “About eight? Then a club. Then…” The faintest flush rose to that beautiful face, but Eve didn’t see it as embarrassment. More as fondly remembered pleasure.
“Then here. I guess we got back here about one?”
Mikhail just smiled at her. “I didn’t notice the time. It had already stopped.” Then he looked at Eve. “Iona has security. You can check and see that once we got here, we haven’t been out again.”
“If we could, it would tie that off.”
“Of course.” Iona rose. “I’ll show you.”
“Peabody.”
“We appreciate it, Ms. Beecham.” Peabody got to her feet. “I admire your collection of art,” she continued as she walked out with Iona.
“You have an interesting perspective on the killer.”
