Page 79 of Passions in Death
“You want to sit, find a spot on the floor. I’m not moving anything.”
“Why don’t you tell us the last time you saw or spoke with Erin Albright.”
“Can’t say. Don’t pay attention.”
“You helped her and Glenda Frost carry down some paintings.”
“Yeah, yeah. Big sale for her. She goes all giddy. Decent work.” He shrugged. “Pretty good work. She put in extra time on it, so we were in the studio some nights. She kept her mouth shut. I didn’t have a problem with her.”
“Did anyone come to see her—or you when you worked those nights?”
“Nobody came in. Nobody comes in when I’m working unless I ask them to.”
“Did anyone contact her?”
“Can’t say. Can’t,” he insisted. “When I’m working, I’m working. The rest of them, they’ll stop, take tags, make them. I don’t. And I don’t pay attention unless they get loud with it. Then I tell them to knock it the hell off.”
He shrugged. “Roy, he doesn’t use the studio more than a few times a week, and he works days when he does. It’s down to Donna and me now, so we’ll need to get somebody else in there to make rent. Fucking landlord gouges you, but it’s a good space.”
“You don’t seem very broken up about your colleague’s murder.”
“Colleague’s stretching it. We shared space. She was okay. I don’t like people. They’re not worth the time, the effort. But she was okay. Did decent work, kept to her area. Bubbled. I hate when people bubble, but she stayed in her space.”
“She brought in a case.”
“A case of what?”
“A black overnight case.”
“What she kept in her area’s no business of mine.”
“I didn’t say it was in her area.”
He gave her an exasperated look. “If she brought something in, where else was she going to put it?”
“What did you talk about after you helped take the paintings down?”
He dug a hand through his mass of curls. “Jesus. I don’t know. It was a major sale, okay? I said like congratulations or something. She came back up to clean her brushes, and she said thanks or whatever, and how she had big plans for the money.”
“What plans?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Why would I care? Her money, her business.”
“How often did ChiChi Lopez come in to see her?”
His gaze drifted to the painting. “Off and on, that I know of. Erin worked evenings mostly, until about a year ago. Worked the sidewalk most days. ChiChi came in now and then when I was in the studio. They had a thing going.”
He slid his hands into the pockets of his sleep pants. “You don’t have to like people to see what’s going on with them. I don’t do portraits often, because people, but an artist has to observe, has to see.”
“You did ChiChi’s portrait.”
“Yeah. She’s got a body on her, and a damn good face.”
“You had a thing with her.”
“Way short of a thing, and after she wasn’t having one with Erin. You go bouncing on someone your studio mate’s bouncing on, it’s trouble. It’s a bunch of talking and shit. Who needs that?”
“When did you do the portrait?”
