Transgressions

by Ed McBain

“I had my soft-boiled egg with some tea. It was, oh, about five o’clock, wasn’t it, Julia?”

  “Soft-boiled eggs. Wants nought but her bit of egg.”

  “They go down easy,” Rosemay said, massaging her throat. Words didn’t come easily, at least at this hour of the night. But for Rosemay sleep was elusive as well.

  “All that cholesterol,” Peter chided.

  Rosemay smiled. “Nothing to worry about. I already have one fatal disease.”

  “None of that,” Peter said sternly.

  “Go on, Petey. You say what is. At least my mind will be the last of me to go. Pull up some chairs, we’ll all play.”

  The doorbell rang. Echo went to answer it.

  Peter was arranging chairs around the table when he heard Echo unlock the door, then cry out.

  “Peter!”

  “Who is it, Echo?” Rosemay called, as Peter backtracked through the front room to the foyer. The door to the hall stood half open. Echo had backed away from the door and from the Woman in Black who was standing outside.

  Peter took Echo by an elbow and flattened her against the wall behind the door, saying to the Woman in Black, “Excuse me, can I talk to you? I’m the police.”

  The Woman in Black looked at him for a couple of seconds, then reached into her purse as Peter filled the doorspace.

  “Don’t do that!”

  The woman shook her head. She pulled something from her purse but Peter had a grip on her gloved wrist before her hand fully cleared. She raised her eyes to him but didn’t resist. There was a white business card between her thumb and forefinger.

  Still holding onto her wrist, Peter took the card from her with his left hand. Glanced at it. He felt Echo at his back, looking at the woman over his shoulder. The woman looked at Echo, looked back at Peter.

  “What’s going on?” Echo said, as Rosemay called again.

  Peter let go of the Woman in Black, turned and handed Echo the card.

  “Echo! Peter!”

  “Everything’s fine, mom,” Echo said, studying the writing on the card in the dim foyer light.

  Peter said to the Woman in Black, “Sorry I got a little rough. I heard about that knife you carry, is all.”

  This time it was Echo who moved Peter aside, opening the door wider.

  “Peter, she can’t—”

  “Talk. I know.” He didn’t take his eyes off the woman in black. “You’ve got another card, tells me who you are?”

  She nodded, glanced at her purse. Peter said, “Yeah, okay.” This time the woman produced her calling card, which Echo took from her.

  “Your name’s Taja? Am I saying that right?”

  The woman nodded formally.

  “Taja what?”

  She shrugged slightly, impatiently; as if it didn’t matter.

  “So I guess you know who I am. What did you want to see me about? Would you like to come in?”

  “Echo—” Peter objected.

  But the woman shook her head and indicated her purse again. She made an open-palm gesture, hand extended to Echo, slow enough so Peter wouldn’t interpret it as hostile.

  “You have something for me?” Echo said, baffled.

  Another nod from Taja. She looked appraisingly at Peter, then returned to her purse and withdrew a cream-colored envelope the size of a wedding announcement.

  Peter said, “Echo tells me you’ve been following her places. What’s that about?”

  Taja looked at the envelope in her hand as if it would answer all of their questions. Peter continued to size the woman up. She used cosmetics in almost theatrical quantities; that overload plus Botox, maybe, was enough to obscure any hint of age. She wore a flat-crowned hat and a long skirt with large fabric-covered buttons down one side. A scarlet puff of neckerchief was Taja’s only concession to color. That, and the rose flush of her cheeks. Her eyes were almond-shaped, creaturely bold, intelligent. One thing about her, she didn’t blink very often, which enhanced a certain robotic effect.

  “Now, who’s getting married this time?” Julia said. “Seems like you’ve been to half a dozen weddings already this year.”

  “No, it’s—” Echo’s throat seemed to close up on her. She sat down slowly on one of a pair of matched love seats.

  “Good news or bad?” Peter said, adjusting the blinds over the window.

  “My . . . God!”

  “Echo!” Rosemay said, mildly alarmed by her expression.

  “This is so . . . utterly . . . fantastic!”

  Peter crossed the room and took the invitation from her.

  “But why me?” Echo said.

  “Part of your job, isn’t it? Going to these shows? What’s so special about this one?”

  “Because it’s John Leland Ransome. And it’s the event of the year. You’re invited.”

  “I see that. ‘Guest.’ Real personal. I’m overwhelmed. Let’s play.” He took out his cell phone. “After I run a plate.”

  Echo wasn’t paying attention to him. She had taken the invitation back and was staring at it as if she were afraid the ink might disappear.

  Stefan Konine’s reaction was predictable when Echo showed him the invitation. He pouted.

  “Not to disparage your good fortune but, yes, why you? If I wasn’t aware of your high moral standards—”

  Echo said serenely, “Don’t say it, Stefan.”

  Stefan began to look over a contract that one of his assistants had silently slipped onto his desk. He picked up his pen.

  “I confess that it took me literally weeks to finagle my way onto the guest list. And I’m not just anyone’s old hand job in this town.”

  “I thought you didn’t like Ransome. Something about art on a sailor’s—”

  Stefan slashed through an entire paragraph on the contract and looked up at Echo.

  “I don’t worship the man, but I adore the event. Don’t you have work to do?”

  “I’m not strong on the pre-Raphaelites, but I called around. There’s a definite lack of viability in today’s market.”

  “Call it what it is, an Arctic chill. Tell the appraiser for the Chandler estate that he might do better on one of those auction-junkie internet sites.” Stefan performed strong-arm surgery on another page of the contract. “You will want to appear in something singularly ravishing for the Ransome do. All of us at Gilbard’s can only benefit from your reflected glory.”

  “May I put the gown on my expense account?”

  “Of course not.”

  Echo winced slightly.

  “But perhaps,” Stefan said, twiddling his gold pen, “we can do something about that raise you’ve been whining about for weeks.”

  FOUR

  Cyrus Mellichamp’s personal quarters took up the fourth floor of his gallery on East 58th Street. They were an example of what wealth and unerring taste could accomplish. So was Cy himself. He not only looked pampered by the best tailors, dieticians, physical therapists, and cosmeticians, he looked as if he truly deserved it.

  John Ransome’s fortune was to the tenth power of what Cy Mellichamp had managed to acquire as a kingpin of the New York art world, but on the night of the gala dedicated to himself and his new paintings, which he had no plans to attend, he was casually dressed. Tennis sweater, khakis, loafers. No socks. While the Mellichamp Gallery’s guests were drinking Moet and Chandon below, Ransome sipped beer and watched the party on several TV monitors in Cy’s study.

  There was no sound, but thanks to the gallery owner’s expensive surveillance system, it was possible, if he wanted, to tune in on nearly every conversation on the first two floors of the gallery, swarming with media—annointed superstars. Name a profession with glitter appeal, there was an icon, a living legend, or a superstar in attendance.

  Cy Mellichamp had coaxed one of his very close friends, from a list that ran in the high hundreds, to prepare dinner for Ransome and his guests for the evening, both of whom were still unaware they’d been invited.

  “John,” Cy said, “Mons
ieur Rapaou wanted to know if there was a special dish you’d like added to his menu for the evening.”

  “Why don’t we just scrap the menu and have cheeseburgers,” Ransome said.

  “Oh my God,” Cy said, after a shocked intake of breath. “Scrap—? John, Monsieur Rapaou is one of the most honored chefs on four continents.”

  “Then he ought to be able to make a damn fine cheeseburger.”

  “Johnnn—”

  “We’re having dinner with a couple of kids. Basically. And I want them to be at ease, not worrying about what fork to use.”

  A dozen of the gallery’s guests were being admitted at one time to the room in which the Ransome exhibition was mounted. To avoid damaged egos, the order in which they were being permitted to view the new Ransomes had been chosen impartially by lot. Except for Echo, Peter, and Stefan Konine, arbitrarily assigned to the second group. Ransome, for all of his indolence at his own party, was impatient to get on with his prime objective of the evening.

  All of the new paintings featured the same model: a young black woman with nearly waist-length hair. She was, of course, smashing, with the beguiling quality that differentiates mere looks from classic beauty.

  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?” Peter 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?”

  “He 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.”

  Peter 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 playoff 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 powers 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 cufflinks. 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 hesi
tated, 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,” Peter 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,” Peter 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 a seaquarium tank. 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.

  Having made Peter feel a little more at home Ransome turned his attention again to Echo.

  “I had only some photographs,” he said of the impressionistic portrait. “So much was missing. Until now. And now that I’m finally meeting you—I see how very much I’ve missed.”

  By candlelight and starlight they had cheeseburgers and fries on the terrace. And they were damn good cheeseburgers. So was the beer. Peter concentrated on the beer because he didn’t like eating when something was eating him. Probably Echo’s star-struck expression. As for John Leland Ransome—there was just something about aging yuppies (never mind the aura of the famous and reclusive artist) who didn’t wear socks with their loafers that went against Peter’s Irish grain.