“I don’t understand. You said explosion.”
“Would you come across the hall?”
Eve led the way to where Peabody conducted a search.
Astrid didn’t gasp. She moaned, a deep, guttural moan. “No, no, no. Who would do this? Who could do this? His work. Monsters. Fucking monsters.”
Tears didn’t just swirl now, but streamed.
“Who would do this?” Eve echoed.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anyone who’d do this.” Weeping, she knelt down, touched a ripped canvas. “I hope they burn in hell for it. Maybe, maybe some can be restored. They’d never be the same, but there are some good restoration artists. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t—”
She broke off, and those tears shut off like a tap turned. “Not a gas leak. What kind of cop are you?”
“We’re Homicide.”
“Murder.” With the hands balled and shaking at her sides, Astrid got slowly to her feet. “You’re saying someone murdered Angelo.”
“And four others.”
“An explosion? Somebody set off a bomb. At the Salon. His work there. His work here.”
Her face went hard as the stone on her workbench. “Oh, I see. I see. Three reasons, there are only three reasons I see.”
“What are they?”
“Somebody’s just crazy—straight crazy. Somebody crazy jealous because he was about to bust out. Or somebody who figures a dead artist’s work, especially if a lot of it is gone—is worth a hell of a lot more than a live one’s.”
“Do you know anyone who fits any of those reasons?”
“I don’t. I’d tell you if I did. I’d help you hunt them down myself.”
“Who had access to this unit?”
“Just Angelo. Like I said, we slept together sometimes—and we both slept with other people sometimes. I had to knock or buzz. As far as I know, so did everybody. He didn’t have any close friends, not really. But he didn’t have anybody who hated him, either.”
“Did he ever mention Jordan Banks?”
“Not to me.”
“Hugo Markin?”
“No, sorry.”
“Wayne Denby.”
“Sure. He’s one of the owners of the Salon. I actually met him a couple times. He came over to talk to Angelo about which paintings to include in the show, and the fact is, he had a better sense of the flow than Angelo—and Angelo knew it. He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“No.”
Her lips parted, trembled. “He had a kid. He talked about his little boy. He was leaving here, he said the first time I met him, to meet his wife and his little boy, taking him to a—a puppet show.”
“Did you see anyone in or around the building today who shouldn’t have been? Did you hear anything?”
Astrid shook her head as tears swirled again. “I’ve been working all day, I like the music loud. But—Lollie. Maybe Lollie. She watches the street a lot, for inspiration.”
“Which apartment?”
“I’ll take you down. Please, I have to do something.” She stared at the torn and sliced canvases. “I have to do something. I’ll take you down.”
“Peabody, keep the scene secured.”
“Affirmative. I let Baxter know the situation. They should be here any minute.”
“Let’s go, Astrid.”
“It’s just one flight down. I thought you were Lollie when you buzzed. She’s been poking at me all day to come down to help her pick out an outfit for tonight. We were going together. She’s just had yet another dramafest breakup with her latest guy, so she’s—I’m babbling. I’m just pushing out words so I don’t think too hard.”
“It’s okay.”
The third floor held six units. Astrid walked to one Eve judged to be directly below Richie’s main studio space.
The woman who answered wore a paint-splattered white smock over black skin pants. The smock didn’t disguise the curvy body beneath.
Her hair streamed in multicolored braids around a stunning face dominated by enormous eyes of tawny gold.
“Finally! Come see which—Oh, sorry. Hi!”
She beamed a smile at Eve.
“Lollie, this is Lieutenant—sorry, I forgot.”
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant Dallas. She—”
“Oh sure, like the one in the vid. Hi!”
“Not like a vid,” Astrid began.
“Sure it is. I watched it last night and ate a pint of ice cream because I felt sad and pissy about Franco. They had an And the Winner Is marathon going. I watched a lot of it. Are you going to model for Astrid? That’s just entirely frosty. You’ve got a terrific face.”
“She’s not here about that. Sorry,” Astrid said to Eve, and took Lollie by the shoulders. “Shh. This is bad, Lollie.”
“What’s bad?”
“Angelo. He was killed.”
“Don’t say that, Astrid. Don’t say that. He’s getting ready for his opening.”
“It happened at the Salon.” She walked Lollie backward into a room less than half the size of the studios above. An easel with a canvas stood by the big window, a drop cloth beneath. Eve saw the half-finished cityscape as Astrid steered Lollie to a chair.
“Somebody’s playing a nasty joke,” Lollie insisted.
“No, it’s not a joke. And, Lollie, you’re not going to get hysterical or dramatic. This is important, so you’re going to wait for that.”
“But . . . Angelo.”
“You talk to Lieutenant Dallas for Angelo. I’m going to get us both a drink. I guess you can’t have any wine.”
“No,” Eve confirmed. “Go ahead.”
She pulled up a stool, faced Lollie. “When did you last see or speak with Angelo?”
“Just this afternoon. I think it was afternoon or nearly. I hadn’t been up too long. I watched that marathon and ate too much ice cream, and I don’t have clocks. I don’t like to worry about time, but I think about noon. Because of the light.”
“Where did you see him?”
“I was having my energizer, and I saw him leaving, from the window. I opened the window—the small one on the side, and called out. I said: ‘Good luck, Angelo,’ and he blew me a kiss. He blew me a kiss, and walked away. I have to cry, Astrid.”
“That’s okay, but no hysterics.” She handed Lollie a glass of straw-colored wine, knocked back half a glass herself.
“Did you see anyone in or around the building who shouldn’t have been?”
“No. I painted right there. I can see out the window.”
“You’re right below his studio. Did you hear anything up there?”
“No. Well, the men who came for the other paintings. I heard the elevator go up.”
“What men?”
“From the Salon, I guess.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t know, really. I was painting. I just saw the car stop—and I didn’t want it in the painting.”
“What kind of car?”
“I guess it was a van, really. A black one. I blocked it and them out because they’d throw off the balance of my painting.”
Eve took a stab. “Were they old men?”
“I don’t . . . They didn’t move like old men. I guess I didn’t see their faces. They had sunshades on—it’s a bright day. And hats. And I was blocking them out. Then I heard the elevator go by and up. It makes a lot of noise.”
“How long after Angelo left?”
“Oh, a while. Closer to now than then. I don’t have clocks,” she said, eyes shining with tears. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“I sort of heard them up there. You don’t really hear a lot, but a couple of times I thought they dropped something or stomped around. And then I heard the elevator coming down. Then I saw them carrying out some of Angelo’s paintings. It made me think about the opening. I tagged you right after, Astrid, about what to wear.”
“What time?” Eve snapped at Astrid.
“Was that the first time you tagged me, Lollie?”
“How many times did I?”
“Four.”
“The first time was when I saw Angelo leave. I guess maybe it was the third time. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Astrid rubbed Lollie’s shoulder. “I think that was about two-thirty or three. That’s my best guess. The first time was about eleven-thirty, so that would be when Angelo left. And the second was a little after one—because I had to take a break. And the third would have been after two-thirty, but I think before three. Because the fourth was just a few minutes before you came to the door, and I actually looked at the time. It was nearly five.”
“That’s helpful. Lollie, what else can you tell me, about the men or the van?”
“I wish I knew more. I don’t think they were old because they walked fast. I wanted them to—I just thought: Get out of my painting. The van was new, I think, or really clean. Shiny, and I didn’t want shiny.”
“Did it have windows on the sides?”
“No. Just that solid black, and it spoiled—”
“Anything written on the side?”
“Oh, like a company? No. Just black. I know that for sure.”
“How about the hats? What kind of hats?”
“Ooooh.” She gulped wine, closed her eyes. “I think earflaps? I think. I paint landscapes and cityscapes. If I paint people they’re just part of the scape—and not detailed. I look closer at things than people because I don’t paint people. But they weren’t old, and they had on black like the van. Sunshades, for certain. And I think earflap hats. Maybe gloves? I think maybe. I just didn’t look at them. They were in the way. And they were only in the painting for a few seconds each time.”