Portrait in Death

  “You may not be as stupid as you look.” Eve snitched one of his slices of bacon. “Hard to believe, but you may not be. Light. Energy, health, vitality. I was playing with it last night, and got distracted. Maybe our boy’s sick. What if he’s convinced himself that by absorbing vital life through photography, he can be cured?”

  “It’s out there.”

  “Yeah, well, so is he. Peabody and I will follow this up. Baxter and Trueheart stick with the clubs.”

  “It’s a tough job.” Baxter drained his coffee. “Hanging out in clubs, watching all the nubile young bodies.” He winked at Trueheart. “Right, kid.”

  Trueheart’s blush turned his young, smooth face rosy pink. “There’s a lot going on there. The dancing, the music, the bar scene, the data flood.”

  “He got hit on three times,” Baxter added. “Two were girls.”

  “Talk photography,” Eve told him. “Bone up some on this Henri Javert and work the conversation around to him when you’re being hit on.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Lieutenant. They were just talking to me.”

  “I love this guy.” Baxter wiped an imaginary tear away. “Just fucking love him.”

  “If Baxter hits on you, Trueheart, you have permission to kick his ass. Moving on. Memorial service this evening for Rachel Howard. Baxter and Trueheart will be dancing among the nubiles, but I want the rest of us there. Our boy may show. Let’s move out. Peabody, I have a personal matter to deal with downstairs. Be ready in ten.”

  Eve went downstairs, and found Summerset in the middle of a fight with the PA.

  “If you want the cast off, you will cooperate and let me transport you to the health center. You require a doctor’s authorization and supervision for its removal.”

  “I can have this irritant off in two minutes. Move aside.” He started to haul himself up. She shoved him back down.

  Fascinated, Eve watched the show. “Madam, I have yet to strike a woman, despite considerable provocation. You are about to be my first.”

  “You piss him off even more than I do,” Eve commented and had two furious faces turning toward her. “I think we may have to keep you.”

  “I expect some cooperation,” Spence began, lifting her chin so high her curls bounced.

  “I will not have this person drag me to a health center for a simple procedure.”

  “It requires a doctor.”

  “Then bring the doctor here,” Eve suggested. “And get it done.”

  “I’m hardly going to request a doctor make a home call for something as minor as a skin cast removal.”

  “If it’s so minor, why do we need a doctor?”

  “Ah!” Summerset raised one long, bony finger. “Exactly.”

  “I bet I can zap it off with my weapon.” Thoughtfully, Eve drew it. “Why don’t you stand back, Spence, and I’ll just—”

  “Put that thing away,” Summerset snapped. “You lunatic.”

  “Might’ve been fun.” With a shrug, Eve holstered it. “Tag the doctor,” she ordered Spence. “Tell him Roarke wants him to come here and remove the cast, and do whatever the hell else is necessary to get this pain in my ass on his feet, and out of the house.”

  “I fail to see why—”

  “You’re not required to see, you’re required to do it. If the doctor has a problem with this,” Eve added, “he can speak to me.”

  Spence huffed off, and Eve stuck her hands in her pockets. “Sooner you’re on your feet, sooner you’re on vacation somewhere that’s not here. And I can start turning cartwheels.”

  “Nothing would please me more.”

  With a nod, she nudged at Galahad who left Summerset’s lap long enough to wind around her feet. “Roarke called last night. From Brian Kelly’s place in Dublin. He was drunk. Seriously drunk.”

  “Playfully so, or dangerously so?”

  “The first mostly. I guess.” Frustrated, she dragged a hand through her hair. “But not in control of himself, and that’s dangerous enough. He said something about getting some information out of one of his father’s old friends. You know who that might be?”

  “I didn’t know Patrick Roarke well. I tended to avoid him, and his like. I had a child to look after.” He paused a moment. “For a time, I had two to look after.”

  She said nothing to that. There was nothing to be said. “He said he’s going to Clare today. That’s in the west. That’s where she was from, his mother. He’s not looking for a warm welcome.”

  “If they blame him, it’s their loss. The father couldn’t break the child, nor could he turn the child into a monster. Though he tried.” He studied Eve, and wondered if she understood he wasn’t referring only to Roarke now.

  But her eyes showed him nothing as she stepped forward, leaned down, spoke quietly. “Did you kill Patrick Roarke?”

  Like hers, his face stayed blank. “There is no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “It’s not the cop who’s asking you.”

  “I had children to protect.”

  She let out a short breath. “Roarke doesn’t know, does he? You never told him.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. That’s old business, Lieutenant. Shouldn’t you be off, taking care of new?”

  Their eyes held another moment. “Yeah.” She straightened, turned. “Just remember, you won’t be sitting around on your flat ass much longer, and this house will be Summerset-free for three glorious weeks.”

  He smirked, then lifted a hand to stroke down Galahad’s back when the cat leaped back into his lap. “I believe she’ll miss me.”

  Chapter 16

  When you had connections, you used them. Doctors, as a breed, were one of Eve’s least favorite species, yet somehow she’d managed to develop personal relationships with two of them.

  For this line of the investigation, she’d tug on Louise Dimatto.

  Knowing Louise’s scattershot schedule, she tagged her by ’link first, pinned down her location, then wheedled an appointment.

  The Canal Street Clinic was Louise’s baby. She might have gone against her family’s uptown grain to establish and run a free clinic on the verges of Sidewalk City where sidewalk sleepers made their beds in packing crates and unlicensed beggars trolled for marks, but she’d dug in with her manicured fingers.

  She’d put her own time and money on the line, and then had launched a campaign to drag more time, more money from every source at her disposal. Louise, Eve knew, had a lot of sources.

  She’d ended up being one herself. Or more accurately, Roarke had, she thought as she double-parked beside an ancient, rusted two-seater that had been stripped of its tires, seats, and one of its doors. It was his money, even if the sneaky bastard had dumped it into her account.

  Whatever the sources, it was money well spent. The clinic was a steady beam of light in a very dark world.

  The building was unimposing, unless you considered the fact it was the only one on the block with windows that were clean, and walls that were graffiti-free.

  Across the street a funky-junkie wearing thick black sunshades sat with her muscles jerking to whatever tune she crooned. A couple of badasses stood hip-shot in a doorway looking for trouble that was never far away in this sector.

  Behind their riot bars most of the upper-story windows were thrown open in the doomed hope that a lost breeze might stumble in on its way uptown. Out of them vomited the wail of babies, the burn of trash rock, and voices already raised in petty furies.

  Gauging her ground, Eve flipped on her On Duty sign, then strolled over to the badasses. They straightened and fixed appropriate sneers on their tough guy faces.

  “You know Dr. Dimatto?”

  “Everybody knows the doc. Whatiz to you?”

  “Anybody comes around here to hassle the doc,” his companion warned, “they gonna get hassled.”

  “Good to know, because the doc’s a friend of mine. I’m going in to talk with her. See that police vehicle?”

  One of them snorted. ??
?Piece of shit cop car.”

  “My piece of shit cop car,” Eve acknowledged. “I want it in the same shitty condition it is now when I come out. If it’s not, well, the hassling will begin, starting with each of you fine gentlemen. Clear?”

  “Ooh, Rico, I’m shaking.” The first elbowed the second as he cracked up. “This skinny girl cop here, she’s gonna slap my face if somebody pisses on her tires.”

  “I prefer the term ‘bitch cop from hell.’ Isn’t that right, Peabody?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peabody called back from her stance by the vehicle. “It is absolutely correct.”

  With her eyes shifting from one badass face to the other, Eve asked, “And why is that, Peabody?”

  “Because, sir, you’re so damn mean. And rather than slap someone’s face for relieving his bladder on your official tires, you are more likely to twist off said reliever’s balls, then use them to strangle him.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. And what would I do then, Peabody?”

  “Then, sir? Then you would laugh.”

  “I haven’t had a good laugh today, so keep that in mind.” Satisfied her vehicle would remain untouched, Eve sauntered back across the street and into the clinic.

  “The laugh was a good touch, Peabody.”

  “Thanks. I thought it added just the right tone. Boy.” She scanned the waiting area. It was full, jammed with people in varying forms of distress. A good many of them made the badasses across the street look like boy scouts, but they sat, and they waited.

  The room was clean. Fresh paint, spotless rug, thriving plants. A portion was sectioned off and held child-sized chairs and toys. In it she saw a boy of about four rhythmically bashing a boy of about two over the head with a foam mallet. He punctuated each bash with a cheerful: “Bang!”

  “Shouldn’t somebody make him stop doing that?” Eve wondered.

  “Huh? Oh, no sir. He’s just doing his job. Older siblings have to beat on younger ones. Zeke used to just about drill a hole in my ribs with his finger. I really miss him.”

  “Whatever.” Baffled, Eve walked to the reception desk.

  They were shown into Louise’s office. However much the clinic had evolved, Louise’s space was still small, still cramped. The clinic’s benefactors needn’t worry that the doctor was using their contributions to plump her own work nest.

  Eve used the wait time to check on any voice or e-mail that had come into her unit at Central, stewing when she found one, very brief transmission from Roarke.

  Louise dashed in, a pale green lab coat over jeans and a white T-shirt. Something that looked like curdled milk dribbled down the breast of the lab coat.

  “Hi, gang. Coffee! I’ve got ten minutes. Spill it.”

  “You’ve already spilled it.” Eve gestured to the dribble.

  “Oh, I’m running peds today. Just a little baby puke.”

  “Oh. Bleck.”

  With a chuckle, Louise grabbed coffee from the AutoChef. “I imagine you come home some days with a lot more interesting bodily fluids on your clothes than a little harmless baby puke. So?” She sat on the edge of the desk, then sighed. “Ah, I’m off my feet. Feels almost better than sex. What can I do for you?”

  “Are you up on the story about the two murdered college kids?”

  “I’ve caught the media reports. Nadine’s particularly.” She blew on her coffee, drank. “Why?”

  “I’m working on a theory that the individual who killed them may be sick, even dying. Some disease, some condition.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a complicated theory.”

  “I’ve got ten minutes.” She dug in her lab coat pocket and came up with a red lollipop to go with her coffee. “You’ll have to simplify it.”

  “There’s an old superstition about absorbing the soul through the camera. I think he may be taking it to another level. He talks about their light—pure light. And how they belong to him now. It could be reaching, but what if he thinks he needs their light to live?”

  “Mmm.” Louise sucked on the lollipop. “Interesting.”

  “If he does, then it may follow he got some bad news regarding his life expectancy at some point. Don’t you guys call tumors and masses, the bad stuff, shadows?”

  “A tumor, a mass, would show as a kind of shadow—a dark spot—on an X ray or ultrasound.”

  “Those are like images, right? Like pictures?”

  “Yes, exactly. I see where you’re going, but I’m not sure how I can help.”

  “You know doctors, and they know other doctors. You know hospitals and health centers. I need to know who’s gotten bad news in the last twelve months. I can fine-tune that to male patients between the ages of twenty-five and sixty.”

  “Oh well then, piece of cake.” Louise shook her head, and drained her coffee. “Dallas, even with cancer vaccines, early diagnosis, the success rates of treatments, there are quite a number of people who fall to incurable or inoperable conditions. Add to those, the ones who for whatever reason refuse treatment—religious reasons, fear factor, stubbornness, ignorance—and you’ve got hundreds just in Manhattan. Maybe thousands.”

  “I can cull through that.”

  “Maybe you can, but there’s one big problem. It’s called doctor–patient confidentiality. I can’t give you names, and neither can any other reputable doctor or health care provider.”

  “He’s a killer, Louise.”

  “Yes, but the others aren’t, and are entitled to their privacy. I’ll ask around, but no one’s going to give me names and I couldn’t, in good conscience, give them to you.”

  Irritated, Eve paced the limited confines of the office while Louise pulled another lollipop out of her pocket and offered it to Peabody.

  “Lime. Thanks.”

  “Sugar-free.”

  “Bummer,” Peabody replied, but ripped off the clear wrapping.

  Eve huffed out a breath, settled herself. “Tell me this. What kind of shadow is most usually a death sentence?”

  “You don’t ask easy ones. Assuming the patient took the recommended vaccines, went in for routine annual exams so early detection was a factor, I’d go for the brain. Providing the mass hasn’t spread, we can remove, kill, or shrink most bad cells, or if necessary, replace the involved organ. We can’t replace the brain. And,” she added, setting her empty cup aside, “this is ridiculously hypothetical.”

  “Gotta start somewhere. Maybe you can talk to your brain doctor pals. The individual remains highly functional, able to plan and execute complicated acts. He’s articulate and he’s mobile.”

  “I’ll do what I can. It’s going to be very little. Now I’ve got to get back to my own front lines. By the way, I’m thinking of having a little dinner party. Just friends. Both of you, Roarke and McNab, me and Charles.”

  “Um,” Eve managed.

  “Sounds great. Just let us know when. How’s Charles?” Peabody added. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him in a while.”

  “He’s great. Busy, but who isn’t. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Hey. Give me a damn sucker.”

  With a laugh, Louise tossed Eve one, then bolted out of the room.

  Outside, Eve walked around her vehicle. Crouched as if to examine the tires. Then sent the two men still in the doorway a big, toothy smile before popping the lollipop into her mouth. She didn’t speak until she and Peabody were pulling away.

  “Okay, none of my business, but why aren’t you weirded out by the idea of a cozy little dinner party with Louise and Charles?”

  “Why should I be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, let me think.” As if contemplating, Eve rolled the round of candy in her mouth. Grape, she thought. Not bad. “Could it be that at one time you were dating Charles, and the fact that you were hanging around with our favorite licensed companion made your current bedmate swing so far out of orbit he knocked Charles on his undeniably adorable ass?”

  “Kind of spices up the stew, doesn’t it. Anyway, Charles, of the und
eniably adorable ass, is a friend. He loves Louise. I like Louise. I wasn’t sleeping with Charles, and even if I had been, it shouldn’t matter.”

  Playing mattress tag always mattered, no matter what anyone said. But Eve kept that opinion to herself. “Okay. If it shouldn’t matter, why haven’t you told McNab that you and Charles never did the mattress mambo?”

  Peabody hunched her shoulders. “He acted like such a moron.”

  “Peabody, McNab is a moron.”

  “Yeah, but he’s my moron now. I guess I should tell him. I hate to give him the satisfaction though. It gives him the hand.”

  “What hand?”

  “The upper hand. See, now I have the hand because he thinks I was sleeping with Charles and I stopped sleeping with Charles because of him. McNab. But if I tell him I never did the deed with Charles anyway, I lose the hand.”

  “Now my head hurts. I should never have asked.”

  She went back to the beginning. Rachel Howard.

  Carpet fibers. They’d identified the make and models of the vehicles that came standard with the type found on both victims, and the list of registered owners. Diego Feliciano’s uncle’s work van didn’t match, nor did Hastings’s.

  So far, this had been a dead end, but she’d push harder against the wall.

  There was the tranq. A prescription opiate, not street buzz. If her theory about the killer held, odds are it was his prescription. Something recommended to help him sleep, calm his nerves, block whatever pain he might have due to his condition.

  She’d cross-check the vehicle owners with local pharmacies. Cross-check both against imaging equipment purchases over the last twelve months.

  A tedious proposition, and time consuming. More so as she had to wait for the authorization to do some of the searches.

  Would she have cut through that if Roarke had been around? she wondered. Would she have used him, let him talk her into involving himself in the case, let him man his far superior equipment with his far superior skill, and his habit of bypassing the standard security and privacy codes?

  Probably.

  But he wasn’t around, so it wasn’t an option. Time was weighing on her. The killer had taken two lives within a week, and he wasn’t finished.