Mikhail lifted his shoulders again. “It’s how it strikes me, and I’m upset, angry that Iona’s gallery was used. But what do I know?”
“You’re an artist. You have that perspective. He must see himself as an artist, and obviously he has his.”
“Seeing himself as one doesn’t make him one. An artist, whether successful or struggling, has to own their art first. In here.”
He thumped a fist on that bare and muscular chest. “Whether you’re a hobbyist, a professional, whether you create to live or live to create, what you create has to be yours, you see. Or you’re nothing. You have to own it, or you create nothing.”
He edged forward. “Two people look at a work of art. One thinks: Idon’t get it, or that’s crap. The other sees something that lifts them, that inspires or engages or simply speaks to them. Both are true, and the artist owns both.”
“How do you feel when someone looks at your work and thinks it’s crap?”
“Pain, anger, sorrow. Then I use all of that in the next work. You can’t create for either of the two people who see two different things, but only for yourself. So you own your art.”
“What if I said the killer’s artisthe kill?”
He blinked at her. “Oh, I see. I’d say I hope you find him quickly because… wouldn’t he need to create another work?”
“All clear, Lieutenant.” Peabody came back with Iona. “The security feed shows both of them coming in just after oneA.M. No one in or out after until our arrival.”
“All right. Ms. Beecham, if we could ask you for a list of featured artists, rejected artists, employees, former employees.”
“Sure. We actually don’t use the termrejected. Justunsuitable for our needs at this time.”
“I’m one of the featured artists. I’m happy to give you whatever information you need.”
“Appreciate it. Peabody.” Eve turned back to Iona. “Do any of the unsuitables stick in your mind? Someone who caused a scene, or threatened you or anyone else in any way?”
“Some are certainly disappointed, some are even angry if we feel unable to take on their work. We’re fairly small, and we select with care. If I could think about it? I could discuss it with our manager and staff.”
“That works.” Eve handed her a card. “We’re sorry to have disturbed you so early, and appreciate your time and cooperation.”
“Whatever I can do to help. Art and artists are an essential part of my life, and always have been. And the gallery? A woman I loved andadmired so much entrusted it to me. He can’t get away with using that for his sickness.”
As they walked back to the car, Peabody smiled. “They’re either already crazy in love or heading there fast.”
“Yeah, that’s the important thing I got out of that conversation.”
“It’s a nice thing. Who can’t use a nice thing when they start off the day with Dead Blue Boy? And holy shitfire, that guy was ripped. Cut. Built. An Adonis.”
“And you know what else he was? Insightful. Let’s go see how Dead Blue Boy lived.”
He had a flop on the edge of Times Square above a shawarma joint and a game parlor. Eve parked in a loading zone, engaged her On Duty light. With Peabody, she wound her way through the endless party that swarmed the streets, the twenty-four-hour shops, the parade of LCs taking the early shift.
She smelled Zoner and cheap brew, whatever passed for meat on cart grills.
About half the party was drunk or stoned or on the prowl, the other half came to gawk, and half of those would end up having their pockets picked. Either by nimble fingers or laying out cash at a pop-up for a designer wrist unit on the cheap that would stop working before they got back to Milwaukee.
She felt the brush and bump, pivoted and grabbed the hand trying to lift her ’link out of her pocket.
“Are you serious?”
“Hey! Get off me, bitch!”
The woman, maybe twenty, with a rainbow fright wig and fake face tattoos, took a swing. Eve dodged it, and with a solid grip on the captured wrist, gave the woman a solid bump in the gut with her field kit.
That brought on a shriek that could have shattered glass.
“Help! Help!”
