“Keep hacking away. I’ve got one New York venue off the list. I’m going to see if I have luck with the others. Who’s out there?”
“Bullpen? Baxter and Trueheart caught one. Jenkinson and Reineke figured they had good luck with the last cold one they pulled, so they pulled another. They’re in the field chasing a lead.”
“So brief Carmichael and Santiago. Once I push my way through these two, we’ll try some galleries, and they can try hacking away.”
She didn’t find a helpful cop’s kid at any other New York venue, and hit the same client privacy walls.
She stuck long enough to try one in Chicago, then another in Boston with the same results. So decided it was time to get the hell out of the office.
She went out to the bullpen to find Carmichael and Santiago both at their screens, and Peabody on the ’link rhapsodizing about fabrics.
Peabody held up a finger out of ’link range, circled it to signal winding up.
“We’re both looking at cold ones,” Carmichael told her. “Maybe we’ll shake something out.”
“Did you bet on it?”
Santiago only hunched his shoulders.
“My esteemed partner proposed one, but I nixed it. Bad bet. We’ll take Peabody’s list.”
“Sending it now.” Peabody pushed back from her desk. “No luck on that one. Not enough yardage on the blue satin, and none of the gold fabric in the last year.”
“If you catch one,” Eve said to her detectives, “tag me or Jenkinson. Let’s go, Peabody.”
“Here’s a snag.” Since Eve ignored the elevators, Peabody joined her on the glides. “The lace—handmade in Ireland. Not all the fabric venues on the list carry that. Some use French lace, for instance. And it’s a specific pattern, too. One of the contacts said they commission tatters in Ireland if they have a specific order.”
“Tatters?”
“Tatting. It’s a weaving method to make lace. I brought up the painting and the replication, compared. They’re exact, so either the client—ourkiller—the fabric venue, or whoever made the costume could’ve ordered the lace from a craftsman in Ireland.”
“More digging, more contacts. But… that may not be a snag. It could be an answer. Handmade lace, specific pattern, specific size, shape, from one country. That’s not calling all over hell and back. It’s focusing in.”
“Well… yeah, I guess it is. Change snag to possible break. On the other hand—”
“How many tatter-type people are there in Ireland? Who the hell knows, but this guy isn’t going to want somebody who makes lace for the village shops. He wants someone with an important rep.”
They clattered down the steps to Eve’s parking level.
“Start looking for the twelve best lace makers in Ireland. Or, shit—who use the Irish method, threads, tools.”
“Got it. Where are we going first?”
“We’re going to start in Tribeca, work our way to SoHo. Both areas are loaded with art galleries. If we get through there, we hit the Village.”
To Eve’s mind, no angle explored equaled a true waste of time. Though it could and did often feel like one.
If an exploration didn’t harvest any solid answers, that was an answer. When you ended up with a basket of mixed, conflicting, and multiple answers, you had more to pick from.
Though Harlee Prince ranked high on the cooperative scale, her responses hit typical for most. As manager of House of Art in Tribeca, she proved knowledgeable about every artist represented in the gallery.
She stood about six feet in her towering heels with a crown of russet curls adding another inch or two. In her sleek black dress, she showed them through various rooms where others browsed.
“As you can see, we offer a variety of styles, methods, mediums.”
“How do you select the art, the artists?”
“We work mostly through an agent, or a trusted patron.”
