by J. D. Robb
Chapter 8
Portography was within easy walking distance from the college, Eve noted with some interest, and had a two-tiered parking port—shared by residents and patrons—jammed between the building and its neighbor.
“Check and see if there are any security cams for the parking facility,” she told Peabody. “If there are, I want the discs for the night of Howard’s murder.”
The sign on the lot flashed FULL, but Eve pulled in anyway to study the setup. And flipping on her On Duty light, parked behind an aged minitruck.
“We’ll run the vehicles registered to residents and staff. See if we get anything that carries the carpet fibers.” She scanned the lot, counting two vans and another truck. “Could he be this careless or this arrogant?” she wondered. “Plan it all out, then get busted because of his ride?”
“They always make mistakes, right?”
“Yeah.” Eve headed to the iron steps leading down to street level. “There’s always something. It’s doable. Get her into the vehicle over by the college, tranq her enough to keep her quiet, drive to another parking deck. Get her inside, do it, then cart her back to the vehicle, drive downtown, dump her. And your work is done.
“Risks, lots of risks,” she said more to herself now. “But if you’re careful, if you’re driven, you factor in the risks. That’s what he does. Plans it out, plots it out. Times it. Runs computer programs, maybe, on probabilities, on routes. All the details.”
“It wasn’t that late when he took her,” Peabody pointed out. “Between nine and nine-thirty, right? Maybe somebody noticed him coming or going.”
Eve studied the street, the building, the steps and glides that serviced it, and the parking tiers. “How does he get a dead girl out of the building and into his ride? Takes his time, waits until it’s late, late enough that there’s not much activity on the street. Not so busy in the summer, so not too late. Not so many students hitting the clubs and cafés, and those that do are already in them by nine, for the most part. Music starts cooking at nine. You’re going to be exposed for a minute or two. No way around it. But if you’re quick, you’re careful, and willing to risk it.”
“And taking her all the way downtown puts a lot of distance between the murder scene and the dump site. It’s a good plan.”
“Maybe” was all Eve said as she approached the door.
The first level of Portography was sales. Cameras, supplies, gadgets that were alien to Eve, and software that made no sense to her. An employee was currently demonstrating and extolling the virtues of some sort of complex-looking, multitasking imaging unit to a customer. Another was making a sale on a jumbo box of discs.
Two small screens recorded all the activity in the store from different angles, and invited customers to: CLICK HERE FOR INSTANT SELF-PORTRAIT! Try out the user-friendly Podiak Image Master. On sale! Only $225.99.
There was bright and annoying music tinkling out of the demonstrator. The proud owner of the Podiak Image Master could scroll through a menu of musical choices already loaded on, or record favorites to serve as the score to the family’s home vids or stills.
Eve was idly wondering why anyone would want irritatingly happy tunes dancing all over their pictures when Peabody clicked.
“I just wanted to see,” she explained. “I don’t have any pictures of us.” She snatched the printout. “Look. Aren’t we cute?”
“Fucking adorable. Put that thing away.” She pointed toward the skinny elevator, and the sign announcing the Portography Gallery on Level Two, the Studio on Three.
“Let’s take a look upstairs.”
“I’m going to put this in my cube,” Peabody said as she tucked the printout away. “I can make you a copy. Maybe Roarke would like to have one.”
“He knows what I look like.” She stepped off on the second level.
There were faces and bodies lining the walls. Young, old, groups. Babies. Young girls in toe shoes, boys with sports gear. Family portraits, artsy shots of nude men and women, even several examples of family pets.
All were framed in thin silver.
To Eve, it was like having a hundred pair of eyes staring. She shook off the feeling and tried to judge if any of the images reminded her of the style used in photographing Rachel Howard.
“Good afternoon.” A woman in New York black with a short, straight fringe of white hair stepped around a display wall. “Are you interested in a portrait?”
Eve took out her badge. “Who took these shots?”
“I’m sorry. Is there some sort of trouble?”
“I’m investigating the death of a Columbia student.”
“Oh, yes. I heard about that. A young girl, wasn’t it? Horrible. I’m afraid I don’t understand how the gallery relates to your investigation.”
“That’s the purpose of investigating. To find out what relates. Miss?”
“Oh, Duberry. Lucia Duberry. I’m the manager here.”
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’m the primary here.” She drew Rachel’s photo out of her bag. “Did she ever come in?”
“Pretty girl. I don’t recall seeing her here. But we do get browsers, and some of the students wander up to look around. I may not have noticed her.”
“What do you think about the photograph itself?”
“Well, it’s an excellent study, strong composition. You look, immediately think—as I did—pretty girl. Then you think friendly and young. Fresh is another word that comes to mind, because the pose is so easy and unstudied. Was she a photography student, or a model?”
“No. But she took an Imaging class. She might have bought supplies here.”
“Well, we can certainly check on that. Would you like me to call downstairs and have one of the clerks check the receipts?”
“Yes. For Rachel Howard—let’s try for over the last two months.”
“It shouldn’t take long.” She went back around the wall, and as Eve followed she saw there was a kind of cube setup, using the display walls as barriers.
Lucia went to the ’link on a small, glossy desk, and contacted the sales floor, giving them the instructions.
“Can I get you anything while you wait? Some spring water perhaps?”
“No, thanks,” Eve said before Peabody could open her mouth. “This building—commercial and residential space—has use of the parking deck next door?”
“Yes. Our building and four others.”
“Security cams?”
“No. There used to be, but someone was always jamming them or zapping them, until it was more cost prohibitive to continually repair than to put up with a few parking poachers.”
“The owner lives upstairs?”
“Hastings has the fourth floor for his living quarters, and his studio on three.”
“Is he around today?”
“Oh yes. He has a session in studio right now.”
“Any of this stuff his work?”
“All of it. Hastings is very, very talented.”
“I’ll need to talk to him. Peabody, come up after you’ve got the data from Sales.”
“Oh, but—he’s working,” Lucia protested.
“Me, too.” Eve started toward the elevator with Lucia, now animated, clipping after her. “But Hastings is in a session. He can’t be disturbed.”
“Wanna bet?” She glanced down when Lucia clamped a hand on her arm. “You really don’t want to do that.”
The tone, utterly flat, had Lucia snatching her hand back again. “If you could just wait until he’s finished—”
“No.” Eve stepped on the elevator. “Level Three,” she ordered, and watched the horrified Lucia until the doors whispered closed.
She stepped off again into a blast of high-tech music that pumped, hot as summer, into the white-walled studio. Equipment—lights, filters, fans, gauzy screens—was centered around a staged area where a buck-naked model draped herself, in various athletic positions, over a huge red chair.
The model was black, and Eve’s estimate put
her at six feet tall. She was lean as a greyhound, and appeared to have joints made of jelly.
There were three cameras on tripods, and another held by a burly man in baggy jeans and a loose blue shirt. Two others, a tiny woman in a sleeveless black skinsuit and a young man with a tumbling crop of orange hair, looked on with expressions of concentrated concern.
Eve stepped toward the set, started to speak. The young woman turned slightly, spotted her. Shock covered her face first, and was immediately chased by horror.
If Eve hadn’t seen the same look on Lucia’s face, she might have drawn her weapon and spun to confront whatever terrible danger lurked at her back.
Instead, she kept moving forward, close enough to catch the guppy gulps of distress from the woman, then the choked gasp from the young man. The model met Eve’s eyes with a bright glint of humor, and smirked.
“No smile!” This exploded from the man with the camera in a tone that had both assistants jumping, and the model simply relaxing her lips as she bowed her body like a long supple willow branch over the chair.
“You’ve got company, honey.” She purred it, velvet-voiced, as she gestured with an endless and fluid arm.
He whirled, lowering his camera.
The snarl came first, and she had to admit, it was impressive. She’d never seen an actual bear, but she’d seen pictures. He had the look, and with the snarl, the sound of one.
He was a solid three inches over six feet, and a generous two-eighty, by her estimate. Wide of chest, thick of arm, with hands as big as serving platters.
And dead ugly. His eyes were small and muddy, his nose flat and spread over much of his face, his lips were flabby. At the moment, veins were bulging and pulsing in his domed-forehead, and over the shiny ball of his shaved head.
“Get out!” He banged a fist on his own bald head as he shouted as if he were trying to dislodge small demons that lived in his brain. “Get out before I kill you.”
Eve pulled out her badge. “You want to be careful using that particular part of speech to a cop. I need to ask you some questions.”
“A cop? A cop? I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re a cop. I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re God Almighty come for Judgment Day. Get out, or I’ll twist your arms off your shoulders and beat you to bloody death with them.”
She had to give it to him, that was a good one. As he started toward her, she shifted her weight. And when one of his beefy hands reached for her, she kicked him, full out, in the balls.
He went down like a tree, face first, bounced once. She imagined he was groaning and/or gasping, but she couldn’t hear over the blasting music.
“Shut that shit off,” she ordered.
“End music program.” The young man sputtered it out as he danced in thin-heeled boots. “My God, my God, she’s killed Hastings. She’s killed him. Call the MTs, call somebody.”
The music dropped away during his shouts, so they echoed around the room.
“Oh, pull yourself together, you asshole.” The model rose, walked—graceful and naked—to a bottle of water on a high counter. “He’s not dead. His balls are probably in his throat, but he’s still breathing. Excellent stopping power,” she said to Eve, then drank deeply.
“Thanks.” She crouched down to where the felled tree was now wheezing. “Dirk Hastings? I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I’ve just spared you from an arrest for assaulting an officer. I’m happy to counteract that by hauling your idiot ass down to Central in restraints, or you can get your breath back and answer my questions here, in the comfort of your own home.”
“I . . . want . . . a . . . lawyer,” he managed.
“Sure, you can have that little thing. Call one up, and he can meet us at Central.”
“I don’t . . .” He sucked in air, expelled it. “Don’t have to go anywhere with you, vicious bitch.”
“Oh yeah. You do. Know why? I’m a vicious bitch with a badge and a weapon, so I’m as good as God Almighty come for Judgment Day. Here or there, pal. That’s the only call you’ve got.”
He managed to roll onto his back. His face was still sheet-white, but his breathing was steadier.
“Take your time,” she told him. “Think about it.” She straightened, lifted her brows at the still-naked model. “You got a robe or something?”
“Or something.” She strolled over to a swatch of blue-and-white material hanging on a hook. With a few liquid moves, she shimmied it over her head where it slid down and turned itself into a microdress.
“Names,” Eve said. “You first.”
“Tourmaline.” The model walked back to the chair, stretched herself out. “Just Tourmaline. I had it changed legally because I liked the way it sounded. Freelance artist’s model.”
“You do regular sessions with him?”
“This is my third this year. Personality-wise he’s a jerk, but he knows what he’s doing with a camera, and he doesn’t try to bang the model.”
Eve turned slightly as Peabody came off the elevator. Peabody let her eyes widen at the sight of the enormous man sprawled on the floor, but walked to Eve briskly. “I have that data for you, Lieutenant.”
“Hold on to it a minute. Tourmaline, give the officer your information, address, contact number. Then you can either find somewhere to wait, or take off. We’ll get in touch if we need to speak with you.”
“Might as well take off. He won’t be shooting any more today.”
“Up to you. Next.” She pointed at the young man.
“Dingo Wilkens.”
“Dingo?”
“Well, um, Robert Lewis Wilkens, but—”
“Fine. What’s in that room?” she asked, pointing toward a door.
“Um. Dressing area. It’s—”
“Good. Go there. Sit down. Wait. You.” She gave the girl a come-ahead gesture. “Name?”
“Liza Blue.”
“Jesus. Does everybody make up names here? Go with the dingo.”
They scurried off as Eve put her hands on her hips and looked back down at Hastings. He had his camera again, and was aiming it at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Strong face. Good form. Lots of attitude.” He lowered the camera, spread his lips in a smile. “I’ll call it Bitch Cop.”
“Well, you’ve got your breath back. You want to stay down there, or are you going to get up?”
“You going to kick me in the balls again?”
“If you need it. Take the chair,” she suggested, and snagged a stool by the high counter, dragged it over. Still holding the camera, Hastings limped over to the red chair, then sprawled in it.
“You interrupted my work. I was in the zone.”
“Now, you’re in my zone. What kind of camera is that?”
“Rizeri 5M. What’s it to you?”
“That your usual tool?”
“Depends, for Christ’s sake. I use a Bornaze 6000 for some shots. Still pull out the Hasselblad Twenty-First when the spirit moves. You want a fricking imaging lesson or what?”
“How about the Hiserman DigiKing.”
“Piece of shit. For amateurs. Jesus.”
“So, Hastings,” she said conversationally, “you like following people around? Following pretty women, taking their pictures.”
“I am a portographer. It’s what I do.”
“You’ve got two stalking busts.”
“Bogus! Bullshit! I’m a freaking artist.” He leaned forward. “Listen, they should have been grateful I found them of interest. Does a rose file charges when its image is captured?”
“Maybe you should snap pictures of flowers.”
“Faces, forms—they are my medium. And I don’t snap pictures. I create images. I paid the fines.” He dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “I did the community service, for Christ’s sake. And in both cases, the portraitures I created immortalized those ridiculous and ungrateful women.”
“Is that what you’re looking for? Immortality?”
“It’s what I ha
ve.” He glanced over at Peabody, swung the camera up again, framed her in, took the shot, all in one smooth move. “Foot soldier,” he said and took another before Peabody could blink. “Good face. Square and sturdy.”
“I was thinking, if I had some of the pudge sucked out of the cheeks.” Peabody sucked it in herself to demonstrate. “I’d get a little more cheekbone, then—”
“Leave it alone. Square is righteous.”
“But—”
“Excuse me.” With what she considered heroic patience, Eve raised a hand. “Can we get back to the point?”
“Sorry, sir,” Peabody muttered.
“What point? Immortality?” Hastings heaved his mountainous shoulders. “It’s what I have. What I give. Artist, subject. The relationship is intimate, more than sex, more than blood. It’s an intimacy of spirit. Your image,” he said, tapping the camera, “becomes my image. My vision, your reality in one defining moment.”
“Uh-huh. And it pisses you off when people don’t understand and appreciate what you’re offering them.”
“Well, of course it does. People are idiots. Morons. Every one.”
“So you spend your life immortalizing idiots and morons.”
“Yes, I do. And making them more than they are.”
“And what do they make you?”
“Fulfilled.”
“So, what’s your method? You shoot here, in the studio with a professional.”
“Sometimes. Or I wander the streets, until a face speaks to me. In order to live in this corrupt world, I take consignments. Portraits. Weddings, funerals, children, and so on. But I prefer a free hand.”
“Where were your hands, and the rest of you, on the night of August eighth, and the morning of August ninth?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Think about it. Night before last, starting at nine P.M.”
“Working. Here, and up in my apartment. I’m creating a montage. Eyes. Eyes from birth to death.”
“Interested in death, are you?”
“Of course. Without it, what’s life?”
“Were you working alone?”
“Absolutely.”
“Talk to anyone, see anyone after nine?”
His lips peeled back. “I said I was working. I don’t like to be disturbed.”