“I do live with it. I just don’t like him handing me cash when I’m tapped like it’s nothing. And I don’t want to ever get to the point where I feel like it’s nothing.”
On another bite of dog, Peabody nodded. “Okay. I get that. I can absolutely get that.”
“You can?”
“Yeah, I can, and do. If you treated the money like it was nothing, it’s like saying hell, he doesn’t need a few hundred back from me. And sure, he doesn’t. But paying it back is respect, for him and for yourself.”
“Exactly.” Pleased, even vindicated, she gave Peabody a light punch in the biceps. “Exactly. So I need a machine.”
She found one before she finished the soy dog. Took out the cash and stuffed it in another pocket.
As they got back in the car, Peabody ordered them both cold drinks from the in-dash. “McNab and I split expenses. I mean we worked it out—the rent and all that. When we go out, sometimes he treats, sometimes I do. It just depends. But the monthly expenses, we split.”
“It’s respect, and avoids conflict.”
“It’s love, too. You can respect somebody without loving them, but if you don’t respect somebody you love, it’s never going to hold up.”
“I’m going to use that one if he gets pissy about the payback.” Tucking it away, Eve headed for the next gallery.
Though the level of cooperation dipped considerably, and the details blurred, they got a hit at another gallery in SoHo.
They found another in the Village, and another nibble of information.
Though the manager had only come on three months before and had no recollection, one of the staff did.
“I didn’t really deal with him myself.”
Mark Egbe cruised into his sixties with a round, pleasant face. He wore a black three-piece suit with a poppy-red bow tie.
“Brendita—she retired a few months ago—said he told her he’d had a brilliantly successful showing upstate.”
“You never saw or spoke to him yourself, Mr. Egbe?”
“Not to speak to, no. I imagine I saw him at some point. I believe he came in two or three times, but would only speak with Brendita—Ms. Klein—and if I remember correctly, they spoke in her office.
“I recall her comment on this, as she was very frustrated, enough to say to me the only way someone whose portraits were so lifelessly done would have a showing anywhere would be to pay for it.”
“Did she mention where upstate he claimed he’d had one?”
“I don’t believe so, or I don’t clearly remember. I’m sorry.”
“Would she have his name in your records?”
“I don’t see why. Frankly, Lieutenant, she didn’t like him. Not that she said so,” he added quickly. “She would never! But I worked with Brendita for more than a decade before she retired, so I knew.”
“Would you have her contact information?”
“I do, yes. She’s traveling. She and her wife plan to travel for at least a year, if not more. I can’t tell you where she might be at this time, but I have her ’link contact and her email.”
Eve noted them down, then checked the time as they left the gallery.
“We need to head in. We’ll see if we can reach Brendita Klein, get any more details. Right now it’s clear he made the rounds.”
“And if it’s our man, his work’s just not good. Or good enough.”
“And that pisses him off because it’s, to him, masterful. If he did have an art show upstate, maybe he did pay for it. Or found someone who would.”
“We’ve got a lot of threads. The fabrics, the designer or costume makers, the LCs, the galleries, and some potential witnesses. We just have to pull the right one. And there’s another one.”
