Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

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.”

“Is that one of his paintings?”

Astrid nodded when Eve gestured to a study of a woman with gold and green hills behind her back as she stood in a garden with a basket on her hip and her face lifted to the sun.

“Yes. He painted it when he lived in Italy. That’s Tuscany, one of my favorite places. I bought it shortly after he moved in here.” She let out a sigh. “I could afford it, and this space. Family money. It’s why I only use my first name. I really want to make my own name. Got a ways to go yet.

“But Angelo? He was going to bust out. He was already getting serious attention. And he had years and years ahead of him. And now, he’s gone? Right at the start of his rise? A fucking gas leak?”

“It wasn’t a gas leak.”

“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.”