“By the fountain. She said she’d try to be here about ten-fifteen, no later than ten-thirty.”
Since he wore black pants, a thin black sweater, black boots, she understood they hadn’t planned to take a run together.
“Why were you meeting?”
He swiped at his face. He had a smear of blue paint on the side of his thumb. “We were involved. We met last summer. Galla bought one of my paintings. I had a sidewalk display, and she liked one I’d done in Tuscany. She—her family—they’re from Tuscany, and she said it reminded her. And she came by a few times, and to this gallery, and … we fell in love.”
“You had a romantic and intimate relationship with Ms. Modesto.”
“We fell in love,” he repeated. “Sometimes we’d meet here, and just sit and talk. Sometimes we’d go to my loft. I knew she was married, she told me. We never lied to each other. She has a little boy. She wanted to leave her husband, but she has a little boy. She wanted to leave him, even talked to her lawyer. But …”
Now he covered his face with his hands. “She told me, the last time we were together had to be the last time. We both knew … Right from the start we both knew it couldn’t last. She had to think of her son first. She had to try to fix her marriage, fix her family.”
“But she agreed to meet you here tonight.”
“I asked if she would. Not to be together. Just to really say goodbye. I had something I wanted to give her.”
“What’s that?”
He opened the bag he carried, took out a package wrapped in thick brown paper. “It’s a painting. Like a companion piece to the one she first bought. I thought, it’s the first and it’s the last.”
“You must’ve been hurt and angry.”
As he shook his head, his eyes welled again. “I loved her. I knew she was married, had a child. She never lied. She never promised. And …” He drew a long breath. “I knew she loved me. She couldn’t be with me, but she loved me. If I hadn’t asked her to come here tonight …”
He fell apart then, so Eve looked to Peabody, the soother.
“Marlon.” Peabody sat beside him. “You can’t blame yourself, but you may be able to help. Did anyone else know you and Galla were meeting here tonight?”
“No. We were careful—our relationship. It was private. It was …” He used the heels of his hands to scrub his face dry. “It was just for us. She said she’d tell her husband she was going to get some time at the gym. Just a quick solo workout. She did that, so it wouldn’t be unusual. She wouldn’t have told anyone she was coming here. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“How did you communicate?”
“Just texts.”
“When were you last together, when she ended it?”
“Just last week. She came to the loft, and told me. We made love one last time. And today, the painting was ready, so I texted her and asked if she’d come here, so I could give her a gift. That it would help me say goodbye.”
“When you met here, did you ever notice anyone paying particular attention to her, to the two of you?”
“No. It’s such a good space. It always felt safe here.”
“When she came to your loft?” Eve drew his attention back to her. “Did you ever notice anyone outside, anyone who made you feel uncomfortable?”
“No. I have a small loft right in the Village, over the gallery. I work there, show there, do some teaching. She could only come once a week, sometimes twice, but usually once a week when she could get away, when her son was out with his nanny or on a playdate. We’d only have an hour, maybe two. We loved a lifetime’s worth. We knew we only had that little bit of time.”
“Did she ever tell you she felt threatened or had been threatened?”
“No, no. God no.”
“Did she fight with her husband?”
Almost absently now, he swiped his fingers over his eyes. “Not really, she never said so. He was more interested in the business, and the show, you know? How they looked together, going to events. She wanted to go back to Tuscany, to take her boy. For us to live there. We dreamed about that, even knowing it was just a dream.”
He thrust the painting to Eve. “Will you take this? I can’t look at it. I don’t want it. It’s too painful.”
“Peabody, give Mr. Stowe a receipt for the painting. We’ll need to take it into evidence for now.”
“I don’t want it.” He began to cry again. “I can’t sell it. Just keep it.”
“We’re not allowed to do that. But we’ll work something out. Detective Peabody will give you a receipt, and take your contact information.”
Eve spotted Roarke, passed the painting to Peabody. “Then you’re free to go. Do you need transportation?”
“No, no. I can walk. I’ll walk.”
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Stowe. Please contact me or Detective Peabody if you think of anything that may help our investigation.”
She got up, moved quickly to Roarke. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “You’re pissed. Scary Roarke pissed.”
He took her arm. “Let’s walk.”
“I can’t just—”
“With me.” He tightened his grip to lead her away from the crime scene. “Lorcan Cobbe,” he began. “You’ll want to do a run there. From Dublin, and he’d be three or four—maybe five—years older than me.”
“One of your old friends?”
“Not remotely.” He moved away from the lights so they stood in shadows. “He worked for my father, and as he had no talent for thievery and considerable for viciousness, he did enforcement, intimidation, helped with the protection racket. We can get into all of that at another time, but you’ll want to run him. And you’ll want to take care.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “A great deal of care, Eve.”
“Why?”
“He’d do me in a heartbeat if he could manage it, but he’d kill what matters to me and enjoy it all the more. A killer is what he is, and always has been.”
“And you saw him, at my crime scene.”
“I saw him. He made sure I did. Aye, he made certain of that, bloody bastard.”
He scanned the park again, but knew he wouldn’t see that face again. Not tonight.
“I’m telling you, I didn’t have to see him put the knife in that woman to know he did. He’ll be your man on this.”
“Why her? He couldn’t know you’d be here.”
“That’s just a nice twist of fate for him. Killing’s what he does, Eve, for pleasure and profit. He does his work primarily in Europe, but this wouldn’t be his first job in the States, I’d think. I don’t know of him coming, for business at least, to New York before, and I think I would. But he’s here now.”
She took it in. It was rare to see him agitated—more than angry—so she took it in, and took it seriously. “Describe him—as you saw him tonight.”
“About six feet, a strong build, wide in the shoulders, light brown hair worn in what you’d call a topknot. Light complected, clean-shaven. Black pants and shirt, a red jacket. He stepped clear so I’d see him, looked right at me. Smiled.”