“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.”