“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.”
“I’m going to show you a picture. Tell me if you think this might be one of the men.” Eve brought up Markin’s ID shot, laid her thumb over the data.
Biting her lip, Lollie studied it. “I want to say yes because I want to help, but I just don’t know. I want to help. I modeled for Angelo. He paid me fair, and it helped me buy paints. I want to help. I’m so sorry.”
“You have helped, both of you.”
“We helped, Astrid.” Lollie turned her face into Astrid’s shoulder.
Eve left them, went back upstairs where Baxter and Trueheart worked with Peabody.
“The sweepers are heading in,” Peabody told her.
“We’ve got an estimated time frame. Richie left about eleven-thirty. The nine-one-one on the bombing came in at fourteen-forty-six. Best estimate for the killers walking out of here with some of Richie’s paintings is between fourteen-thirty and fifteen hundred.”