[ PI ] The Painter

This is the actual continuation, apparently the first part above is too long!:'D 
 
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 Alexei ran a hand through his thick hair, watching Kris look the box over with tedious caution. `` It's her mother's. I know it.'' 
 
 `` Wrong-o, Romeo.'' Kris pulled his gloves off, flinching when the latex snapped against his skin. `` I already did a search, had the cops do a checkup on the little ol' lady. Rosalind Butler is safe and sound in her house in Wales, and her music box is locked away in her safe that's only to be opened by her lawyer after her death, blah blah...'' He noted the irritable glare coming his way and sighed. `` Yes, she opened it on the phone for the officers and played it for them so there could be a comparison of the songs. They're completely different; hers plays *Auld Lang Syne. * The one delivered to your wife plays something else.'' He put it back in its container and grimaced at the blood samples in the little tubes. He hated wondering who it belonged to. 
 
 `` It's *My Little Boat*. It's a song that Lynn used to sing to our foster kids, including you and your sister, when they had nightmares or were n't well.'' He picked up the container, frowning deeper. `` I do n't like what this means.'' 
 
 `` Neither you nor I, bro.'' The blond man scratched his scraggly beard, exhaling. `` I'm almost done with the facial reconstruction of the skull from the park. The damage made it a little hard to replicate on a dummy, so I had to build right on the damn thing.'' 
 
 `` Bet your supervisor's loving you for that.'' He chuckled. Kris just rolled his eyes. 
 
 `` If I try hard enough, maybe I can be called the real-life Eve Duncan.'' He waved his hands in the air, wiggling his mangled fingers. Alexei remembered that accident clearly enough; he himself had been fresh in the police force, a twenty-two-year-old officer ready to make a difference. A car accident had orphaned Kris and his little sister, Kayte, and left the boy with missing or bent digits when he grabbed onto her to shield her from the force of the impact. `` Eh, I'd be happy with being able to write my own damn papers. Asha's a godsend though; writes my notes in longhand when she is n't busy with labwork.'' 
 
 `` You two start dating yet?'' Alexei could only grin as a fist thudded against his shoulder. 
 
 `` You know damn well our wedding's in two months.'' The scowl on the younger man's face changed to a silly, wistful grin. `` God, I remember the first day I saw her.'' He ran a hand through his hair, sighing happily as he looked at his foster father. But his smile faded. ``... Hey, uh... Alex?'' He'd never called him `` dad'' and he'd never have demanded it of him. `` How'd you meet Lynn anyway?'' 
 
 `` Through work. I was in the arson unit for a bit, wound up working with her a few times. Once I was settled in a cubicle after the Schwartz case, we started dating and things went from there.'' He did n't smile. He could n't, not right now. `` Kris, you take good care of Asha. You two never have to go into the field.'' 
 
 `` Please, with these grubby paws?'' He flexed the stub of his middle finger and the scarred fingers on either side of his right hand. `` Commissioner would get a kick out of me trying to do a speed chase.'' He clapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the door. `` Go take care of your wife, dammit. She needs you. Kay said she'd stop by.'' 
 
 `` Thanks for the head's up. How's that foolish boyfriend of hers?'' He opened the door and leaned in the frame. 
 
 `` On his first year of sobriety. He's doing pretty well; his daughter's certainly more fond of him.'' Kris did n't turn around, just pointed at the door again. `` Shoo.'' Alexei chuckled and left at last, walking up the hall. The building bustled - but it felt far, far too empty. 
 
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 Oh, the beauty, the splendor! The brilliant glimmer of her soft brown hair, the twinkle in her blue eyes - She was pure art to his mind and he only wanted to keep working on his next piece. But alas, it was n't meant to be. Tears trickled down her bruised cheeks as she tried to fight the braces holding her arms in position and her soft whimpers were starting to grate on his nerves. The scene was a Victorian-era tea party, a pretty white and blue china tea set the focal point. Her dress was similarly placed, white and blue to complement the party, and his lovely contraption held her arms in place - one in her lap, the other bent and holding a teacup near her lips. 
 
 `` Please let me go,'' she whispered, `` I did n't do anything!'' 
 
 He said nothing, simply set down his wide brush and picked up one that was softer, narrower and walked over to the model. She squirmed harder, breath hitching as she sobbed, but she quieted when he painted her face. `` I ca n't have you being so discolored. Try not to smear it, these are oils after all.'' He pulled a tissue out of a pocket and dabbed at her tears, grimacing. `` Oh, tears, why must you get in the way.'' He dabbed some soft peach-colored pigments on her cheeks, covering up the bruises, and smiled at her, the corners just slightly lifting up. `` My dear, you will be a most lovely piece of work by the time I am through.'' 
 
 He returned to his easel, admiring the scene portrayed. It had become incredibly difficult to acquire compliant muses since his popularity had shot up in the news and he disliked using brute force to gain their forms for his art, but work was work. 
 
 He added a few small smears of pale white here, a touchup of gold to the tablecloth's calico pattern, and stepped back to appreciate it properly. Her frame continued to shake with fear, tears ruining the facade on her face, and he rested his tools reverently on his table before walking over to her once more. `` You're free to go now, my sweet muse.'' He took the cup out of her fingers after pressing the appropriate latch and poured tea into it from the pot. `` Have a drink before you go; you've been sitting there for nearly eight hours, now! Are you not thirsty?'' 
 
 `` Y-yes...'' Fear formed in her eyes. `` P-please just let me go!'' 
 
 `` I wo n't hurt you, love. Watch, I'll drink the tea too. It's perfectly safe.'' He picked up another delicate cup and poured his own glass, dropping a few sugar cubes into it before taking a long sip. `` Ah, perfectly steeped. What's your favorite flavor of the leaves?'' 
 
 ``... Um. Green. With mint.'' Fear morphed into confusion as he undid one of her hands, allowing her to pick up her own cup, and she gingerly look a sip. The bitter taste overwhelmed her tongue and she gagged slightly, but she finished the cup without thought, desperately wanting some form of moisture in her mouth. 
 
 `` I find almond extract is a good flavor to contrast the more floral aspects of tea.'' He poured them both another cup. Her confusion only increased, and she drank more, unable to believe how thirsty she was. He watched her with a growing smile and finished his second cup, setting it down and leaning back in the other chair. `` I'll let you sit here and rest before you leave. You've had a hard day, darling.'' He stood and kissed her on the forehead, much to her disgust, and walked back to his easel. 
 
 As she watched, a dull buzzing began in her skull as her vision blurred a little. She shook her head, taking a deep breath, and she was puzzled as time passed: It felt like her chest could n't expand enough and she put a hand on her forehead, resting her elbow on the table. Her eyes drifted shut as she tried to wait it out - panic attack? Maybe, sometimes she felt like this when she was spiraling, but... 
 
 The man turned as her head hit the table, and he raised an eyebrow as he checked the little box of oils in his bag. `` Oh, dear.'' He picked up a small vial, smirking. `` I'd forgotten that little detail; a little stroke of poison in your cup.'' He turned to the table and bowed his head. `` I'd beg forgiveness, my wonderful muse, but time is wasting and so are you.'' 
 
 He took his finest brush and a knife, slicing into the scar on the meat of his thumb, and he placed his signature on the one untouched corner with a loving flourish. Both the painting and the woman would have to dry overnight, he decided, packing up his paint tubes and beginning the loving, if laborious work of cleaning his brushes. 
 
 Oh, the *Tea Party* would be his best work yet received, he was sure.
