No one ever filched from her AC when she wasn’t there. Because, she understood, in her strange cop world, that would simply be wrong.
Tacos, she considered. Tacos were tasty.
She’d think about it.
As she jogged down the last level, Roarke texted her back.
Running a bit late myself. I’ve something to clear up before I leave. I’ll see you at home.
Satisfied the Marriage Rules held strong, she drove into the early evening insanity of Manhattan traffic.
She programmed in five addresses on the East Side, and wondered why the hell New York had so many art galleries. On her start, stop, wait, walk journey, her choices started with the tiny, with its trio of narrow aisles covered with paintings of cats, dogs, turtles, fish in bowls or tanks, birds in cages or on perches, a snake that looked ready to swallow a whole human.
She learned the display was: A Celebration of Pets.
Her final stop hit the other end of the scale with a two-story space with art carefully spaced on its bright white walls or on sturdy white stands.
Even the floors and the open curve of stairs glittered white. She might have reached for her sunshades, but she’d left them in the car.
Somewhere.
Everyone spoke in hushed tones, as they might in a church. All the staff wore severe black, and if of any length, their hair was pulled tightly into a bun, twist, or knot at the back of their head.
The man in charge, about five-six, had a wide white streak through his ink-black hair. He took Eve’s hand, and when she realized he meant to lift it, kiss it, she gave his a hard squeeze and pulled hers back.
He blinked his nut-brown eyes, but kept his smile in place.
“Ms. Dallas.”
“Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Yes, of course. I’m Hale Vanderling. It’s a pleasure to meet you. We’re well aware your husband is an esteemed collector of art. Are you perhaps in search of a gift?”
“No. This is police business.”
“I see.” He might have wiped the smile away with a wet cloth. “Then perhaps we should adjourn to my office.”
Maybe she wanted to needle him, but Eve stood her ground. “This shouldn’t take long. This is a murder investigation with connection to art.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Yeah, you could say. We’re looking for a male, late twenties to early thirties. An artist, or one who hopes to be. Have you turned away a man in that age range bringing in paintings they hope you’ll display, take on commission, buy outright?”
As he stared at her, she wondered how he could breathe with his nostrils that pinched.
“We here at Fine Arts do not acceptartbrought in off the street. What we house is most carefully curated for the discerning collector. I believe our vision, and therefore our reputation, is unmatched, as we offer our clients art selected for their elevated tastes.”
“So that would be a no. Has anyone attempted to bring in their art for consideration?”
“If such a thing were to be attempted, security would immediately block their entrance. Accepted art is never delivered, hung, or set during open hours so as not to diminish the ambiance for our clients.”
“That would also be a no. Has anyone ever offered a large sum of money to get their paintings in the door?”
Somehow he breathed through the pinched nostrils in a long, audibleand derisive sniff. “Our art is sacrosanct! Our reputation unblemished! We are not to bebribed! We—”
Eve cut him off with a raised hand. “I got the no. Thanks for your time.”
The smile popped right back on his face. “If your official duties are complete, I would be delighted to show you through our current collection.”
