“But at some point, he said fuck that. None of these assholes know real art. I’m going to try to track down Klein now, see what she remembers. You’re pigments and fabrics.”
“I have to say: Yippee.”
Chapter Twelve
She left v- and e-mail for the retired gallery manager, then contacted Iona from the Midtown Gallery.
“I’m really vague on this, and it had to be last winter. Maybe January or February. I’m only remembering a little because you said oil on canvas, portraits, pedestrian, lifeless—according to the other gallery managers.”
“What do you remember?”
“An artist who brought in a portrait of a woman—and I’m not a hundred percent clear on that. I only remember him coming in once, and he didn’t cause any sort of scene or get nasty, so I didn’t think about him this morning. The painting, it just wasn’t good. I can’t even recall the details, but I remember he needed to work on adding light and life to his work. It’s something I might say to any hopeful artist. I probably encouraged him to take some classes. I can’t say that absolutely, but it’s something I often suggest.
“I am sure he never came back in, not with another piece.”
“Can you describe him at all?”
“I’m just not sure. White, and…” With a look of frustration, Iona pressed a hand to her head. “I wish I could be sure, but I’m just not sure. I think probably not over thirty. He didn’t make an impression, Lieutenant, not personally or professionally.”
“All right. If you remember any more, contact me. If you wouldn’t mind, you might ask your staff if they remember him.”
“I absolutely will. We’re all pretty shaken.”
Who wouldn’t be? Eve thought, and turned to her board just before she heard Peabody’s cowboy boot clump.
“Leonardo reports!”
“What?”
“None of the colleagues he contacted created those costumes. He has more to reach out to, but so far, none. He did try a few venues, but they locked him out mostly because he’s a designer. The way he explains it is some in his business might try to poach clients this way, so they keep it zipped. But he does bump up three fabric venues. He’s also reaching out on the Irish lace. He actually has a mother-daughter team who does lace for him when he wants it.
“Another thread? I left a message for my cousin. If she’s working, she shuts off her ’link. But she’s good at getting back to me.”
“Good.”
Eve filled her in on Iona.
“He left enough of an impression for her to remember he didn’t leave much of one.”
Eve leaned back, gave Peabody a nod. “That’s exactly right. Given some time, she might remember something else. But. She’s more sure she remembers telling him he needed more light and life in his work.”
“You think the way he decided to do that was to take lives.”
“I do.”
The more she considered it, the clearer, the louder it rang for her.
“If you want to punish the galleries for not recognizing your genius, you go after the galleries or the people in them who turned you down. But that’s not it. He’s using death to give his work life. And there’ll never be another portrait of that person again. Only his.”
“But they’re copies of others.”
“Which is something none of the managers who remember him at all said. Not one’s said he copied classic portraits. This is new for him. A new—what do they call it when an artist… it’s not era.”
“Period. This is his Death Period, I guess.”
“And he’ll show all of them how brilliant he is, how gifted. I’m going to finish up here, then give this damn paperwork an hour. I’ll hit a few galleries on the way home. You keep working the pigments and fabrics.”
“And yet another yippee.”
