Two canvases, unframed, were wall-mounted. The other three, on easels, were only about three feet square. A hallmark of all Ransome's work were the wildly primeval, ominous or threatening landscapes in which his models existed aloofly.
Two minutes after they entered the room Peter began to fidget, glancing at Echo, who seemed lost in contemplation.
"I don't get it."
Echo said in a low firm tone, "Peter."
"What is it, like High Mass, I can't talk?"
"Just—keep it down, please."
"Five paintings?" Pete said, lowering his voice. "That's what all the glitz is about? The movie stars? Guy that plays James Bond is here, did you notice?"
"Ransome only does five paintings at a time. Every three years."
"Slow, huh?"
"Painstaking." Peter could hear her breathing, a sigh of rapture. "The way he uses light."
"You've been staring at that one for—"
"Go away."
Pete shrugged and joined Stefan, who was less absorbed.
"Does Ransome get paid by the square yard?"
"The square inch, more likely. It takes seven figures just to buy into the play-off round. And I'm told there are already more than four hundred prospective buyers, the cachet-stricken."
"For five paintings? Echo, just keep painting. Forget about your day job." -
Echo gave him a dire look for breaking her concentration. Peter grimaced and said to Stefan, "I think I've seen this model somewhere else. Sports Illustrated. Last year's swimsuit issue."
"Doubtful," Stefan said. "No one knows who Ransome's models are. None of them have appeared at the shows, or been publicized. Nor has the genius himself. He might be in our midst tonight, but I wouldn't recognize him. I've never seen a photo."
'You saying he's shy?"
"Or exceptionally shrewd."
Peter had been focusing on a nude study of the unknown black girl. Nothing left to the imagination.
Raw sensual appeal. He looked around the small gallery, as if his [lowers of detection might reveal the artist to him. Instead who he saw was Taja, standing in a doorway, looking at him.
"Echo?"
She looked around at Peter with a frown, then saw Taja herself. When the Woman in Black had her attention she beckoned. Echo and Peter looked at each other.
"Maybe it's another special delivery," Peter said.
"I guess we ought to find out."
In the center of the gallery's atrium a small elevator in a glass shaft rose to Cy Mellichamp's penthouse suite. A good many people who considered themselves important watched Peter and Echo rise to the fourth floor with Taja. Stefan took in some bemused and outright envious speculation.
A super-socialite complained, "I've spent seventeen million with Cy, and I've never been invited to the penthouse. Who are they?"
"Does Ransome have children?"
"Who knows?"
A talk-show host with a sneaky leer and a hard-drive's capacity for gossip said, "The dark one, my dear, is John Ransome's mistress. He abuses her terribly. So I've been told."
"Or perhaps it's the other way around," Stefan said, feeling a flutter of distress in his stomach that had nothing to do with the quantity of hors d'oeuvres he'd put away. Something was up, obviously it involved Echo, and even more obviously it was none of his business. Yet his impression, as he watched Echo step off the elevator and vanish into Cy's sanctum, was of a lovely doe being deftly separated from a herd of deer.
Taja ushered Echo and Peter into Cy Mellichamp's presence and closed the door to the lush sitting room, a gallery in itself that was devoted largely to French Impressionists. A very large room with a high tray ceiling. French doors opened onto a small terrace where there was a candlelit table set for three and two full-dress butlers in attendance.
"Miss Halloran, Mr. O'Neill! I'm Cyrus Mellichamp. Wonderful that you could be here tonight. I hope you're enjoying yourselves."
He offered his hand to Echo, and a discreet kiss to one cheek, somewhere between businesslike and avuncular, Peter noted. He shook hands with the man and they were eye to eye, Cy with a pleasant smile but no curiosity.
"We're honored, Mr. Mellichamp," Echo said.
"May I call you Echo?"
'Yes, of course."
"What do you think of the new Ransomes, Echo?"
"Well, I think they're—magnificent. I've always loved his work."
"He will be very pleased to hear that."
"Why?" Peter said.
They both looked at him. Peter had, deliberately, his cop face on. Echo didn't appreciate that.
"This is a big night for Mr. Ransome. Isn't it? I'm surprised he's not here."
Cy said smoothly, "But he is here, Peter."
Pete spread his hands and smiled inquiringly as Echo's expression soured.
"It's only that John has never cared to be the center of attention. He wants the focus to be solely on his work. But let John tell you himself. He's wanted very much to meet you both."
"Why?" Peter said.
"Peter," Echo said grimly.
"Well, it's a fair question," Peter said, looking at Cy Mellichamp, who wore little gold tennis racket cuff links. A fair question, but not a lob. Straight down the alley, no time for footwork, spin on the return.-
Cy blinked and his smile got bigger. "Of course it is. Would you mind coming with me? Just in the other room there, my study-Something we would like for you to see."
'You and Mr. Ransome," Peter said.
"Why, yes."
He offered Echo his arm. She gave Peter a swift dreadful look as she turned her back on him. Peter simmered for a couple of moments, took a breath and followed them.
The study was nearly dark. Peter was immediately interested in the array of security monitors, including three affording different angles on the small gallery where the newest Ransome paintings were on display Where he had been with Echo a few minutes ago. The idea that they'd been watched from this room, maybe by Ransome himself, caused Peter to chew his lower lip. No reason Cy Mellichamp shouldn't have the best possible surveillance equipment to protect millions of dollars' worth of property. But so far none of this—Taja following Echo around town, the special invitations to Ransome's showing—added up, and Peter was more than ready to cut to the chase.
There was a draped, spotlighted easel to one side of Mellichamp's desk. The dealer walked Echo to it, smiling, and invited her to remove the drape.
"It's a work in progress, of course. John would be the first to say it doesn't do his subject justice."
Echo hesitated, then carefully uncovered the canvas, which revealed an incomplete study of—Echo Halloran.
Jesus, Peter thought, growing tense for no good reason. Even though what there was of her on the canvas looked great.
"Peter! Look at this!"
"I'm looking," Pete said, then turned, aware that someone had come into the room behind them.
"No, it doesn't do you justice," John Ransome said. "It's a beginning, that's all." He put out a hand to Peter. "Congratulations on your promotion to detective."
"Thanks," Pete said, testing Ransome's grip with no change of expression.
Ransome smiled slightly. "I understand your paternal grandfather was the third most-decorated officer in the history of the New York City police force."
"That's right."
Cy Mellichamp had blue-ribbon charm and social graces and the inward chilliness of a shark cruising behind the glass of an aquarium. John Ransome looked at Peter as if every detail of his face were important to recall at some later time. He held his grip longer than most men, but not too long. He was an inch taller than Peter, with a thick head of razor-cut hair silver over the ears, a square jawline softening with age, deep folds at the corners of a sensual mouth. He talked through his nose, yet the effect was sonorous, softly pleasing, as if his nose were lined with velvet. His dark eyes didn't veer from Peter's mildly contentious gaze. They were the eyes of a man who had fought battles, won only some of them. They wanted to tell you more than his heart could let go of. And that, Peter divined in a few moments of hand-to-hand contact with the man, was the major source of his appeal.