To Make A Killing
Javier tilted his head, looking at the painting on the wall. He took a couple of steps back to get a different perspective on the piece.
"What do you think this one would go for?"
"I don't know," Leo said.
"Probably in the low hundreds right now. Couple months, could be a million."
"Brilliant. Can we go?"
Javier didn’t move. "Shame we can't take it with us."
"You've got plenty."
"I know but this one-" Javier waved his hand in the air. "This one is special. This one would be the cherry on a very delicious cake. What do you think it's called?"
"No idea. Now come on."
"Just a moment. I want to take it all in." Javier stepped right up to the painting. Close enough to see the canvas fibre beneath the oils. Close enough to smell the linseed. He scanned over the artwork - the shapes, the way the colours blended, the refined brushstrokes and ridges created by the edge of a palette knife. He noticed something unusual and squatted lower.
"Aha!" He turned back to his brother with a satisfied smile.
He pointed to the canvas. A place where red pigments were swirled together in a rich mélange. He wouldn't have noticed it from a distance. No one would. Not till it had dried and it was too late.
"Not so careful after all, are you? Always in such a hurry. You can't rush these things, Leo. It's an art, what we do and must be treated as such."
Leo sighed. There, beyond Javier's extended finger, was a small red droplet. Perfectly formed, surface tension holding it to the glossy paint. No other droplets remained, no evidence of their work. Everything pristinely cleaned and restored to order. When they stepped out of the door in a few minutes it would be as if they were never here. Except for this droplet. Droplets like this would ruin everything.
Leo returned to his bag, a black Gladstone, of the sort carried by visiting doctors in old movies. Javier always thought it was a bit dramatic, but Leo liked its authentic nature. Javier tolerated his brother's eccentricities. He made up for them with his professional knowledge.
While Leo pulled out a cotton pad and some cleaning fluid, Javier moved into the centre of the artist's living room. Light from the glass roof bathed the painting perfectly, accentuating the colours. The space echoed with Leo's movements. Javier had worried not more than twenty minutes earlier that the noisy space would result in a neighbour coming to see what the commotion was, but they were as yet undisturbed.
Javier enjoyed the artwork while he was able, while Leo dabbed blood from the enormous canvas. He may never see this one up close again. It was so beautiful. An eight foot canvas, an abstract seascape at sunset.
"'For Sarah', by the way."
"What?"
"It's called 'For Sarah'. After his wife. He renamed it when she died. It was her favourite piece of his. He sat right here." He gestured to the velvet chair beside a slender table. "Every morning he drank his coffee and stared at it. Just the way she had done while he was painting it."
"Right."
"I read about it in his biography. He treasured this one. Part of his creative process was remembering his wife before he worked."
Javier looked to the bottom corner, to the little 'HP' signature in white oil paint. Smudged with a little bit of cadmium red. Then back to the streaks of crimson in the sunset where Leo worked. Perhaps the artist had added a flourish there before signing the piece. Sloppy, but human. It was these details which brought the artist's work to life, which would ensure the value of the piece continued to rise after his death.
Then Javier looked down to where Henry Prince had laid on the floor, painting posthumously with his own cadmium red. He searched the ground for any other evidence Leo had missed. Nothing remained. Not even an errant fibre of the rug which had laid here. Shame about that. It was a Kinnasand. A thing of modern craftsmanship.
Shame about Henry too. He probably had a few more of these seascapes in him. But that was the point, wasn't it? To lean into the scarcity. To drive up the prices of his most sought after pieces. Both Henry and the rug now lay in the back of Javier's van, parked discretely at the back of the property.
The biggest shame was that Javier couldn't take the piece which hung on the wall. To do so would paint him clearly as Henry Prince's murderer. Though the temptation to take it was enormous. This painting alone could one day be valued at what his entire collection stood to gain him, even without the years he planned on waiting.
It would be some time before Javier needed to sell Prince's artwork. His collection from the Jenette Kuber murder was maturing - her still life paintings were attracting a lot of attention. He was receiving offers in excess of what he had anticipated their peak would be. He thought of the other artworks he had had to leave behind at crime scenes. Helen Bonneville's work-in-progress portrait of the Queen; the vase he had used to kill Rothchild, its maker. He winced, remembering the beautiful pieces lying in disarray around his victim.
"Alright, we're done. Let's go." Leo shut the clasp on his bag. "We need to get the body over to the agent's office."
"The agent is busy. Won't be back for a couple of hours yet. I checked."
"Yes, but if we don't get Mr Prince over there soon, they'll know he's been moved."
Leo knew about these things. Clotting patterns and bruising and things Javier had no interest in.
"Fine," he said, still staring at the canvas, grateful they hadn't damaged it, pleased that Leo had removed all traces of Henry's death.
He was still standing in front of the painting when the sounds of his brother slamming the van door and starting the engine echoed from outside.
Javier sighed. At least someone would get to enjoy this one, in time.