Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(73)

“He does?”

“He said it’s in one of the guest rooms.” She scanned the call buttons—fifteen—then the security. Low end, bordering on pitiful. “Something . . . Moonlight.” Pulling out her master, she breezed through the locks, into a kind of vestibule with a muscular freight elevator. “Woman in Moonlight.”

“Oh! I know that one! I didn’t know who painted it, but it’s in where we usually stay when we hang over night. It’s really beautiful, all blues and silvers and mystical.”

When, after eyeing the freight elevator, Eve aimed for the stairs, Peabody just thought: Loose pants. And started the trudge up four levels.

“Whatever. He’s got one, maybe he can help pin down other sales. Especially since these bastards will have multiples.”

Rather than the graffiti, the stray used condom, the smell of beer vomit, she expected in a low-end downtown building, murals roamed along the walls. Scenes of green parks or fanciful castles with fountains, fire-breathing dragons, winged nudes.

“I bet Richie wasn’t the only artist living here. It’s probably something like a commune.”

“Only two units on this level,” Eve noted when they reached the fourth. Music thumped against the door of the unit on the right. She turned to Richie’s, mastered through.

She wasn’t surprised, and as her hand was already on her weapon, drew it. Inside the large space with its wide front-facing window, canvases hung in tatters. Others lay scattered on the floor destroyed by sharps or a stomped foot.

“Clear it.”

A quick job, as other than the main space the loft had a single bedroom and bath, a small kitchen.

“Eliminate as much of his work as you can.” Disgusted, Eve shoved her weapon in its holster. “The value of what you’ve got goes up.”

“It’s a crime. I don’t mean to throttle back on the human lives taken, Dallas, but to destroy art like this? No way they’re art lovers. No way they could do this if they were. The art’s just—”

“An investment, and they maximized their profit. Let’s nail down the timing. When they got in, when they got out. Because if they took the trouble to steal one of Richie’s pieces from Banks, I’m betting they took some from here, then wiped out the rest. When did Richie leave here for the Salon, when did they cut Denby loose to go to the Salon? We’ve got Denby’s arrival time, the bombing, so when did they fit this in?

“Field kits, Peabody.”

She moved across the hall, jammed a finger on the buzzer.

With music still thumping, the door swung open. “Look, Lollie, I told you—Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

The woman hit about five-three with well-muscled arms and a mermaid tat along her left biceps exposed by a black tank. She had her dark blond hair bundled up under a flowered kerchief and wore baggy gray pants tucked into steel-toed boots. Goggles hung by a strap around her neck.

She held a wicked-looking chisel.

“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”

“Okay.” She stuck the chisel in the short leather tool belt at her waist. “Why?”

“Do you know Angelo Richie?”

“Sure. He lives across the hall. Again, why?”

“He’s dead.”

The woman laughed. “What are you talking about? He’s over at the Salon loading in for his opening. He has a major show opening tonight.”

“Not anymore.”

The first sign of anxiety clouded soft, hazel eyes. Her voice sharpened with it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“How well did you know him?”

“You tell me what you’re talking about first.”

“There was an explosion this afternoon at the Salon. Angelo Richie and four others were killed.”

“Explosion. Like—like a gas explosion? I don’t . . . Wait, just wait.” She turned, dragging off the kerchief. A lot of tangled, tousled hair fell.

Eve stepped in, noted the space nearly mirrored Richie’s. This one appeared to be divided into stations, one with stones—raw stones—and one on a workbench with mallets, more chisels. A half-formed face emerged from the pillar of stone.

Another area held welding tools, another had a worktable, stacks of metal.

“Could I have your name?”

The woman turned back, face pale, breathing ragged. “What?”

“Your name, please.”

“I’m Astrid. Astrid Baretta, but I only use Astrid. Angelo’s really dead?”

“Were you friends?”

“I guess we were. I—” She broke off, covered her face with her hands. “I admired his talent. He has real talent. He’s arrogant and full of himself, but why wouldn’t he be? We both shared a pretty serious work ethic. I sculpt. And I . . . I guess I should tell you I slept with him now and then. Nothing serious, but, well, it was handy for both of us.”

“When did you see him last?”

“I slept with him last night. A kind of good-luck fuck. Oh God, that sounds terrible.” Tears swirled now. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was happy for him, you know? I took over a bottle of champagne, and we drank it, and had sex, and I came home. I’ve been working all day, so I didn’t see him before he left to load in.”