Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(13)

DeWinter’s lips, dyed to match the dress, curved. “Got bones?”

Eve shook her head. “Not this time. You know the vic.”

Distress flickered over DeWinter’s face. “Who’s dead?”

“Ariel Byrd.”

Puzzlement came first. “I don’t know … Oh, of course. The sculptor.” She set the bone down again. “I’m really sorry to hear this. How was she killed?”

“Somebody bashed her skull in with one of her mallets.”

“God, people. What they won’t do to each other. What can I tell you? I only met her twice. Once at the art festival downtown, and then when I went to her studio to buy a piece I’d seen in her portfolio.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Mostly art.” DeWinter stepped over to order a bottle of water. “Do you want anything?”

“No, I’m good.”

“She was working on a piece—a small one—in the park. That’s part of the draw, seeing artists work, being able to talk to them. My daughter was captivated, had a dozen questions. She—Ariel—was very sweet with my girl. We talked for a bit—Li was with us. And I skimmed through her portfolio. The gargoyle—limestone—was just what I was looking for, for my garden.”

DeWinter paused to drink, to think back. “I didn’t know I was looking for a gargoyle until I saw it, but it was just right. She gave me her card, told me I could get in touch if I decided on it, and come by her studio. She had some pieces in a local gallery, but most at her own place.”

“Do you know the gallery?”

“Let me think.” DeWinter rubbed fingers on her temple. “No, sorry. I’m sure she mentioned it, but I don’t remember.”

“Poets and Painters? It’s street level of her building.”

“Yes, that’s right. Another one, too, I think. Anyway, I contacted her a few days later, made an appointment, and bought it directly from her. This saves her the gallery commission.”

“Okay. Anyone else there?”

“No.”

“What else did you talk about?”

“Nothing important. I asked about the types of stone, the tools. She asked what I did, the way you do. She found it interesting, asked some questions. It was all just … pleasant. She was pleasant. Oh, I asked if she took commissions, and she said she did. I talked about her doing a statue of my daughter and our dog, and we talked about what medium I might want, talked about our schedules. I was supposed to contact her in a couple of weeks to set it up.”

“She didn’t mention anything about friends, other clients, anyone.”

“No. But …” DeWinter held up a finger. “She had these gorgeous striped tulips—like candy canes—on her table. When I complimented them, she got that look in her eye.”

“That look?”

“The look you get when you think about a lover. That’s how I read it anyway, but she didn’t actually say: Oh, my lover brought me those.”

“Got it. Appreciate it.”

“If I think of anything else … Jesus, Dallas, she was so young, so … fresh, I want to say. And just a little thing. I hope whoever gave her those damn tulips didn’t kill her.”

“It’s where you look first.”

She made her way downstairs and found Peabody walking her way.

“My charm’s on high today.” After a little hip wiggle, Peabody tried a hair toss.

“Never, never do that again.”

“You’re going to want to do the same when I tell you Dickhead already had the sheets done. Two separate DNAs from fluids, both female. One from the victim, one not in the system.”

“Good, solid. But I don’t do the wiggle and toss.”

“’Cause you’ve got no hips and really short hair. But inside, you’re wiggling and tossing.”

“No. What about the murder weapon?”

“No prints other than the vic’s because, the experts say, the killer sealed up or wore gloves.”

“Huh. Interesting. Some premeditation in that.”

“Sweepers got some hair—from the sheets and pillowcases—and Harvo’s on it.”

“If Harvo’s on it, we’ll have the results soon.” The queen of hair and fiber always came through. “We’ll take a look at the security feed back at Central. Then you check the alibis, get a couple of uniforms to start looking for likely flower and wine shops. I’ll write this up, start the board and book. Once we get that, we’re going to want to get whatever other security feed the apartment building has on alternate exits.”

“Cabs?”

“We backtrack from the drop-off—near or at the coffee place this morning, near or at the flower or wine place yesterday once we nail that down. Run the fiancé; let’s get a sense.”

Peabody settled in with her PPC. “Merit Andrew Caine, age thirty-six. Single, no marriages, no official cohabs. Only dings a handful of traffic violations. Harvard Law—like his father, mother, paternal grandfather. And give him a zing, graduated top of his class, and clerked for Supreme Court Justice Uma Hagger.”

She glanced at Eve. “That’s not shabby. Parents married—first and only for both—forty-two years. Nice run. Two sibs, one of each, also lawyers, but not in the firm. He’s a junior partner at Caine, Boswell, Caine—grandfather’s the first Caine, dad’s the second, and mom’s Boswell. He’s worth sixty-three mil, resides Upper East Side, about five blocks north of his intended bride, and has a second home in Aruba.”