Portrait in Death

by J. D. Robb

Baxter tried to squeeze between cabs, listening as Eve called for Trueheart.

  He’d finished his drink, and was feeling a little flattered, a little nervous as the girl who’d come over to talk to him had asked for his number.

  She’d wanted to dance, too, but he was a terrible dancer. And he really had to get home, get a good night’s sleep. You never knew when the case was going to break.

  He knew he was blushing when he gave the girl, Marley, his private ’link number. He hated that color so easily washed into his face, and prayed he’d grow out of it. Soon.

  Cops didn’t blush. Dallas sure as hell didn’t. Baxter didn’t.

  Maybe there was some sort of medical treatment to prevent it.

  Amused at himself, he walked out of the club. Storm’s coming up, he thought, and found himself pleased. He loved a good booming storm. He debated whether to jump into the subway, head straight home underground, or walk a few blocks while the air turned electric.

  He wondered if—after the case was closed and he could tell Marley he was a cop—she would want to go out with him.

  Just pizza and a vid, maybe. Something really casual. You just couldn’t get to know somebody very well in a club when the music was loud and everybody was talking at once.

  He watched a snake of lightning uncoil overhead, and decided the subway was best. If he got home quick enough, he could watch the storm from his window. He started to walk south, still looking up at the sky.

  His communicator beeped. He pulled it out, engaged.

  “Hey! It’s gonna rain in a minute. Need a lift?”

  Trueheart looked over, felt the blush work up his throat again at being caught staring up at the sky like some kid in a planetarium. Automatically he palmed the unit, switched it to hold so it went silent and didn’t blow his cover.

  “Just about to catch the subway.” He gave the man he knew as Steve a friendly smile. “Done for the night?”

  “Actually, I’m heading to my other job. Did I see you talking to Marley?”

  “Yeah.” The color worked into his cheeks. “She’s nice.”

  “She’s very nice.” Gerry winked, chuckled, then stuck out a hand. “Good luck.”

  Without thinking, Trueheart took the offered hand. He didn’t need the quick prick in his palm to tell him he’d made a terrible mistake.

  It was in the eyes.

  He yanked his hand free, tried to reach for the weapon at the small of his back, but his balance was already gone. He stumbled, had the wit to close his fingers over the communicator even as they began to tingle.

  “Steve Audrey,” he mumbled as his tongue went thick. “Block south of Make The Scene.”

  “That’s right.” Gerry already had his arm and was leading him away. “Feeling a little dizzy? Don’t worry. I’ve got a car nearby.”

  Trueheart tried to pull away, tried to remember basic hand-to-hand, but his head was spinning, spinning. Gerry had an arm banded around his shoulder blades now.

  His vision was fading in and out, and all the lights, the headlights were blurring, haloing, speeding by him like comets.

  “Tranq’d,” Trueheart managed.

  “Don’t worry.” Gerry took his weight, like a brother-in-arms. “I’m going to take good care of you. You’ve got such a wonderful light, and it’s going to shine forever.”

  Chapter 22

  Fear wanted to ice her gut, her brain, her throat. She shut it down.

  “Baxter?”

  “I copy. I’m going the wrong fucking way.” She heard the clashing chorus of horns as he maneuvered. “Shit. Fuck. Heading back. I’m better than ten blocks away, Dallas. Goddamn it.”

  “Parking port,” she snapped at Roarke. “Closest to the data club, on the south.”

  “Getting it.” He already had his book out, keying in for the data.

  “Feeney! He’s got Trueheart. Let’s move, let’s move. Yancy, get that image out. Now!”

  “E-Z Park, on Twelfth, between Third and Fourth,” Roarke told her as cops bolted for the door en masse.

  “All units, all units, officer in distress. Code Red.” She relayed the location. “Suspect ID’s as Gerald Stevenson aka Steve Audrey. Image forthcoming. Subject is believed to be responsible for multiple murders. May be armed.”

  Her communicator squawked with responses as units began to roll. She paused only to bore one long look at Jessie as the woman rushed into the hallway.

  “He’s got one of my men. Anything happens to my officer. Anything, I’m coming back for you.”

  Still snapping out orders and data, she dived into the elevator.

  “Quiet.” She tossed up a hand to stop the chatter, heard Gerry’s voice, light and cheerful.

  Nope, no problem. My friend here’s been partying pretty hard. Just going to take him home.

  Parking . . . facil . . . level . . .

  She closed down another leap of fear as she heard Trueheart’s weak, slurred voice.

  That’s right. Got a ride parked. Let’s get you in. Maybe you should just lie down in the back. Don’t worry about a thing, I’m going to take care of you. Just relax.

  “He’s got him in the vehicle. Baxter?”

  “Six blocks from the port. Got some jams on Third, breaking through.”

  “Tell me what kind of vehicle, Trueheart. Tell me.”

  “Itza van,” he muttered as if he’d heard the order. It’s . . . dark. Tired.

  “Stay with me.” Eve raced out of the building. “You stay with me.”

  She jumped into the passenger seat. It never occurred to her to drive—not with Roarke there. He was better at it, faster and slicker. Without a word, Peabody leaped into the back while Feeney and McNab ran to another car.

  “He’s thinking, he’s still thinking like a cop.” She swiped at the sweat on her face as Roarke screamed away from the curb. “He’s left his communicator open. Peabody, monitor his transmissions. That’s all I want you to do? Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m on him. They’re on the move, Lieutenant. I can hear the engine, some traffic sounds. He’s got the radio on. Sirens. I hear sirens.”

  Come on, come on, come on, Eve chanted in her head while she continued to relay orders. “Subject is driving a van. Exiting parking facility.”

  Roarke punched into vertical, pushing the clunky police issue into a stomach pitching lift to skim over a clump of Rapid Cabs, and simultaneously wrenching to the left to take a corner at a speed that had Peabody bouncing in the back like dice in a cup.

  The tires kissed the top of an umbrella on the corner glide-cart, then hit the street again.

  “Holy God,” Peabody managed as buildings whizzed by.

  He was threading through traffic like a snake sliding around rocks. She didn’t have the courage to check out the speed.

  “Black van, Dallas. Trueheart said black van, no windows in the back. He’s fading.”

  “He’s not going to fade.”

  She wasn’t going to lose him. She wasn’t going to lose that young, fresh-faced, quietly dedicated cop who could still blush.

  “He needs to switch the communicator to homing pattern. That’s all he needs to do.” Her hand balled into a fist, bumped on her thigh. “Baxter, goddamn it!”

  “Block and a half. No van sighted.”

  Pizza and a vid, Trueheart thought as he rolled helplessly in the back of the van. Wished he could dance better. Woulda asked her to dance if he wasn’t such a klutzo.

  No, no, in a van. Black panel van. In trouble. Oh boy, in trouble. Steve. Bartender. Brown and brown, five-ten, a hundred and . . . what was it?

  Tranq’d me. Gotta think. Do something. Something . . .

  She was so pretty. Marley. Really pretty.

  But it was Eve’s face that blurred in his brain. Straighten up, Officer Trueheart. Report.

  Report, report. Officer down. I’m really down. Supposed to do something. He tried to reach the weapon at the small of his back, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate. Communicator, he
thought. He was supposed to do something with the communicator.

  The procedure floated in and out of his brain as the music played and the van drove smoothly through the night.

  Eve leaped out of the car at the parking port, sprang at Baxter who already had the operator in a choke hold against the kiosk.

  A half dozen cop cars and twice that many cops were blocking crosstown traffic. The air was full of sirens, shouts, threats, and the rolling boom of thunder.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t know.” The operator gasped out the words as his eyes bulged from a face going a dangerous shade of puce.

  “Stand down, Detective.” Eve grabbed Baxter’s arm.

  “My ass. You’re going to tell me, you flat-nose little shitfaced weasel, or I’m going to wring your neck like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

  “Stand down!” Eve boomed it out, knocked Baxter back two steps. Anticipating them both, Roarke locked Baxter’s arms behind his back as Eve stepped in to drill a finger into the operator’s heaving chest. “You got ten seconds, or I let him have you. Then I let the rest of these cops finish the job. I want the make, model, license number of the van you just sidelined.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  She leaned in, spoke very softly. “I will give you more pain than you can imagine. Your brains will leak out of your ears, and your bowels out of your ass. I will cause that to happen without leaving a mark, and every cop here will swear you died of natural causes.”

  He’d been afraid of Baxter, but it wasn’t fear he felt now. It was jittering, jelly-filled terror. The man cop had been all heat, and heat could give you a few bruises. But cold, this kind of cold killed.

  “Chevy Mini-Mule. 2051 model. Black, panel style. I gotta look up the license. I don’t want any trouble. Hey, the owners are out of town for two weeks. Guy just wanted a ride.”

  “Look it up, you pus-ball. You’ve got twenty seconds.”

  She pointed at a uniform to go with the operator into the kiosk. Baxter had stopped struggling against Roarke. He stood now, pale as ice, with grief already creeping into his eyes.

  “I was going the wrong way, Dallas. The wrong goddamn way. I left the kid in the club. Wanted to go home, put my feet up, have a beer. I left him there.”

  “What are you Psychic Cop now? You should’ve known this was coming down.” There was a sneer in her voice, a brutal one she knew would snap him out of it. “I didn’t know that about you, Baxter. We’ll have to have you transferred to Special Ops. They could use your talents.”

  “Dallas. He’s mine.”

  “We’re going to get him.” She let herself go long enough to take Baxter’s arm. “Pull yourself together, or you won’t be able to help him.”

  Her head was buzzing with the fear that wanted to sneak back, with the anger, with a sense of being just one step too late. Taking the license number, she drew it all in.

  “All units. All units. Subject vehicle is identified as a black Chevrolet Mini-Mule, 2051, panel style. License is NY 5504 Baker Zulo. Repeat. New York, 5504 Baker Zulo. Citywide APB on vehicle and on suspect Stevenson, Gerald, aka Steven Audrey. This is Code Red.”

  She slapped the communicator back in her pocket. “Peabody?”

  “Nothing for the last couple minutes, sir. They’re still in motion. I heard a tourist blimp. Pretty sure. Couldn’t catch much, but there was something about Chinatown.”

  “Downtown. He’s headed south. All units, sweep area south of Canal. Let’s move out. Baxter, you’re with me.”

  “I’ve got my ride—”

  “Leave it.” She didn’t trust him to drive, or to be on his own. “You’re with me. I’ll take the wheel,” she told Roarke. “You, Feeney, McNab, start working on finding residents below Canal. Look for something near West Broadway. Anything that pops. Javert, Stevenson, Audrey, Gerald. Single residents. It’ll be someplace that has parking close. Upper floors. He’ll want space, light, and a view.”

  She climbed into the car. She’d wasted time with Fryburn. Ten minutes sooner, five, and they’d have moved on him before he’d laid a hand on Trueheart.

  Minutes. It was coming down to minutes now.

  “Peabody?”

  “He’s still conscious, sir. He mumbles every once in a while. I can’t make much of it out.” But she’d made notes of every word. “Communicator. Bartender. Pizza and vid. Officer down. Report.”

  While she headed downtown Eve called in, requesting that Traffic give her the location of the tourist blimp.

  “You get any sense of the street, Peabody?”

  “It’s quieted down. I don’t hear many horns. I’m catching sirens, but nothing too close. Not yet. There’s some bumps. I think I’m getting them because the communicator’s on the floor of the van. I can hear the tires go over potholes. I think—”

  “Hold it. Wait.” Eyes straight ahead, Eve strained her ears. “Street crew. That’s an airjack.”

  “Ears like a cat,” Roarke murmured. “I’ll relay it to Feeney.”

  It took minutes, precious minutes, before Feeney’s voice punched through. “Street crews scheduled on West Broadway and Worth, Beekman and Fulton at Williams.”

  “We’ve got the blimp passing over Bayard.” She drew the map in her head even as Roarke brought it up on her ’link screen. “We split to all locations.” But she had to go with her gut. “Head west,” she told Roarke.

  “Lieutenant,” Peabody said from the back. “They’ve stopped.”

  As the van stopped, Trueheart closed his numb fingers over his communicator. Something he needed to do. Switch to homing. Thank God, thank God, he remembered. Finally remembered. But his fingers felt so fat, so gone. He couldn’t quite make them work. Struggling to stay awake, he tucked the unit into his palm as the doors opened.

  Gerry was very gentle. He didn’t want to cause bruises. He didn’t want to give pain. He explained that in comforting tones as he pulled Trueheart out of the back.

  “This is the most important thing either of us will ever do,” Gerry told him, supporting Trueheart’s weight, moving steadily forward as Trueheart’s civilian shoes bumped over the sidewalk.

  “Murder,” Trueheart mumbled. “You have the right to. . .”

  “No, no.” Patiently, Gerry drew out his key card, used it, then the palm screen to gain access to the building. “You’ve been listening to the news reports. I’m pretty disappointed with the angle they’re taking, but I expected it. It’ll all change once they understand.”

  Trueheart struggled to pay attention to the scene. The lights were dim, or maybe it was his eyes. “White walls, mail chutes, secured entrance, two elevators.”

  “Observant, aren’t you?” Gerry laughed lightly as he called the elevator. “Me, too. My mother always said I noticed everything, and saw things other people didn’t. That’s why I became an image artist. I wanted to show people what they didn’t see.”

  Inside the car, he requested the fifth floor.

  “I noticed you right away,” he went on.

  “Fifth floor.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. As soon as you walked into the club, I knew. You’ve got such strong light. Not everyone does. Not strong and pure, anyway, like yours. It’s what makes you special.”

  “Five . . . B,” Trueheart mumbled as his vision faded in and out on the apartment door.

  “Yep, just A and B up here, and A works nights. Makes it easier. Come on in. You can lie down while I set things up.”

  “Loft. Village? Soho? Where?”

  “Here now, just stretch out here.”

  He wanted to fight, but with arms and legs weak as a baby, his struggles were more petulant than defensive.

  “Relax, relax. I don’t want to give you any more soother just now. You have a right to know what you’re about to do. About to become. Just give me a few minutes.”

  He had to save his strength, Trueheart thought dimly. What there was of it. Save it and observe. Observe and report. “Converted loft
. Big space. Windows. Ah, God. Three large windows front, sky windows above. Top floor? Walls. Oh jeez, oh God. Walls . . . portraits. See the victims. I’m the victim. There’s me. I’m on the wall. Am I dead?”

  “He’s losing it, Dallas.”

  “He’s not.” Eve clenched her fist, rapped once against the wheel. “He’s doing the job. Roarke, give me something. Goddamn it.”

  “I’m working it.” His hair fell like a black curtain over his face as he raced his fingers over a minipad. “I’ve got five possibles so far, more coming. These are popular sectors for singles.”

  “Five-story building, lofts.”

  “I heard him, Lieutenant.” His voice was calm as a lake. “I need a few minutes.”

  She wasn’t sure Trueheart had a few minutes.

  Going with her gut, she drove across Broadway to skim along the cross streets. It was funkier, she thought. More welcoming to artists, Free-Agers, the young bohemians, and the well-heeled urbanites who enjoyed them.

  He was young enough to want that sort of scene, and he had a solid financial backing. Nobody would think twice about seeing a guy help another guy—or girl—into a building. Quiet neighborhood. Young residents. Nobody would question that someone had been partying, was drunk or blissed out. Half of them would be the same.

  Sirens and thunder rocked the night, and she watched lightning slice like a jagged-edge knife through the sky. The rain gushed out.

  “Let me explain,” Gerry said as he tested the lights and filters he’d set up. “My mother was an amazing woman. Pure and kind. She raised me on her own. She couldn’t afford to be a professional mother, but she never neglected me. She was a nurse, and she spent her life helping people. Then she got sick.”

  He stepped back, studied the stage he was setting. “It shouldn’t have happened. It’s wrong for someone so selfless and bright to have a shadow take her. They call them shadows, the medicals call tumors shadows. She had shadows in her brain. We did everything right, everything they said. But she didn’t get better. More shadows, deeper ones. It’s just wrong.”

  He nodded. “Just about ready here. Sorry to take so long, but I want this to be perfect. It’s the last one. You’re the one who’ll finish the work, so I don’t want to make a mistake. Light is so important to image. You can finesse it on the computer, and that’s an art, too, but the real art is in getting it right in the first place. I’ve studied for years, in school, on my own. Couldn’t get a showing in New York. It’s a tough town.”