Portrait in Death (16 page)

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 have." 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."

"So you were alone, here, alone, all evening. All night."

"I just said so. I worked until about midnight, I'd think. I don't watch the freaking clock. I probably had a drink, then took a long, hot bath to relax the body and mind. Was in bed around one."

"Do you own a vehicle, Hastings?"

"I don't understand these questions. Yes, I own a vehicle. Of course I own a vehicle. I have to get around, don't I? Do you think I'd depend on public transportation? I have a car, and a four-person van used primarily for consignments when more equipment and assistants are required."

"When did you first meet Rachel Howard?"

"I don't know anyone by that name."

She rose, walked over to Peabody. "Receipts?"

Hastily, Peabody stopped sucking in her cheeks. "Two. She used a debit card on two occasions for small purchases. June and July."

"Okay. Go check on the other two. Just peek in, look intimidating."

"One of my favorites."

Eve went back to the stool. "Rachel Howard is on record as a customer of your business."

After a long stare, Hastings let out a snort. "I don't know the idiot customers. I hire people to deal with idiot customers."

"Maybe this will refresh your memory." She pulled out the candid shot from the 24/7, and offered it.

There was a flicker, very brief, but she caught it. "A good face," he said casually. "Open, naive, young. I don't know her."

"Yes, you do. You recognize her."

"I don't know her," he repeated.

"Try this one." With her eyes on his, Eve drew out the posed photo.

"Almost brilliant," he murmured. "Very nearly brilliant." He rose with the print, moved to the window to study it. "The composition, the arrangement, the tones. Youth, sweetness, and that openness still there, even though she's dead."

"Why do you say she's dead?"

"I photograph the dead. The funerals people want preserved. And I go to the morgue now and then, pay a tech to let me photograph a body. I recognize death."

He lowered the print, glared at Eve. "You think I killed this girl? You actually think I killed her? For what?"

"You tell me. You know her."

"Her face is familiar." Now, he wet his lips as he looked back at the print. "But there are so many faces. She looks... I've seen her before. Somewhere. Somewhere."

He came back, sat heavily. "I've seen her face somewhere, but I don't know her. Why would I kill someone I don't know, when I know so many people who irritate me, and haven't killed any of them?"

***

It was a damn good question, to Eve's mind. She pressed and probed another fifteen minutes, then stashed him in a room while she pulled out the young male assistant.

"Okay, Dingo, what do you do for Hastings?"

"I-I-I-I-I-"

"Stop. Breathe. In and out, come on."

Once he'd gulped in air, he tried again. "I'm working as studio and on-site assistant. I-I-" He sucked in air when Eve pointed her finger at him. "I have the camera ready, set the lights, change the set, whatever he wants."

"How long have you worked for him?"

"Two weeks." Dingo looked cautiously at the door of the room where Hastings waited. Then leaning closer to Eve, he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Mostly his assistants don't last long. I heard the one before me was in and out in three hours. That's kind of a record. The longest was six weeks."

"And why is this?"

"He freaks, man. Complete meltdown. Nuclear. You screw up, you don't screw up, whatever, if something doesn't fly right for him, he's orbital."

"Violent?"

"He breaks shit, throws shit. I saw him beat his own head against the wall last week."

"Seen him beat anybody else's?"

"Not so far, but I heard he threatened to throw this guy in front of a maxibus during a field shoot. I don't think he actually did it, or anything."

"Have you seen this girl around here? In person, in portraits?"

Dingo took the print. "No. Not my type."

"Oh?"

"She doesn't look like she'd party."

"Would you say she's Hastings's type?"

"For party-time?"

"For any time."

"Not for partying. Don't think the dude parties much. But he'd go for the face."

"You own a vehicle, Dingo?"

He glanced up at her again. "I got an airboard."

"A vehicle, with doors?"

"Nah." He actually grinned at the idea of it. "But I can drive. That's one of the reasons I got the job, because I can drive Hastings to consignments and shit." He paused a minute, frowned down at the print. "He didn't really throw somebody in front of a maxi, did he?"

"Not that I know of. What were you doing night before last?"

"Just hanging, I guess."

"And where would this hanging have taken place?"

"Um... I dunno. I was just.." The light dawned, turning his eyes into wide, glassy saucers in a face gone dead pale. "Oh man, oh Jesus, I'm like a suspect?"

"Why don't you tell me where you were, what you were doing, who you were with?"

"I-I-I, jeez! Loose and Brick and Jazz and me, we hung at Brick's place for a while, then we cruised The Spot, this club we go to mostly, and Loose, he got pretty messed up, so we dumped him home about, jeez, about one, maybe? Then we hung a little more, and I went home and crashed."

"Do these hanging buddies have actual names?"

"Oh, oh, yeah."

"Give them to the officer, along with your address. Then you're free to go."

"I can go? Just go?" His face underwent rapid changes, from shock to suspicion, from relief to disappointment. "I don't have to, like, get a lawyer or something?"

"Just stay available, Dingo."

***

She had to pick her way through the same minefield of nerves with Liza Blue, who turned out to be hair and enhancement consultant. When her teeth started chattering. Eve heaved a long, long breath.