Portrait in Death

“We’ll see when we get the tox screen. No violence to the body but for the puncture. There are, however, very mild ligatures at the wrists, at the left knee, on the right elbow. See here.”

  He picked up a second pair of microgoggles.

  “Restraints?” she asked as she took the goggles. “It’s a funny way to restrain someone.”

  “We’ll discuss the fun and games of bondage another time. Take a look first.”

  She fit on the goggles, bent over the body. She could see them now, the faint and thin lines that showed blue through the light.

  “Wires of some kind,” Morris said. “Not rope.”

  “To pose her. He used the wires to pose her. You can see the way the wire wrapped over one wrist, under the other. He folded her hands on her knee. Yeah, crossed her legs, wired her to the chair. You can’t see them in the photograph, but he’d have taken that out during imaging.”

  She straightened, took one of the printouts from her bag. “This jibe for you with that theory?”

  Morris pushed up his goggles, scanned the image. “The positioning works. So he takes pictures of the dead. That was a custom a couple of centuries ago, and it came back into fashion early this century.”

  “What kind of custom?”

  “To pose the dead in an attitude of peace, then take their picture. People kept them in books designed for the purpose.”

  “It never fails to amaze me just how sick people are.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It was meant to comfort and remember.”

  “Maybe he wants to remember her,” Eve mused, “but I think more, he wants to be remembered. I want her tox screen.”

  “Soon, my pretty. Soon.”

  “She didn’t fight, or wasn’t able to fight. So she knew him and trusted him, or she was incapacitated. Then he transported her to wherever he took this.” She slid the image back in her bag. “She was either dead already, or he killed her there—I’m betting he did it there—bandaged her so she didn’t bleed through the shirt, then he posed her, took his shots. He transports her again and dumps her in a recycler across the street from where she worked.”

  She began to pace. “So maybe her killer’s from the neighborhood. Somebody who sees her every day, develops an obsession. Not sexual, but an obsession. He takes pictures of her, follows her around. He comes into the store, and she doesn’t think anything of it. She’s friendly. Probably knows him by name. Either that or someone from college. Familiar face, trusted face. Maybe he offers her a ride home, or a ride to school. Either way, he’s got her.

  “She knew his face,” she murmured, looking down at Rachel, “just as well as he knew hers.”

  Mildly refreshed by a spin in the detox tube at the morgue, Eve pulled up at the curb in front of Professor Browning’s high-dollar building.

  “I thought teachers got paid worse than cops,” she commented.

  “I can do a standard run on her financials.”

  Eve stepped out of the car, then cocked her head and her hip as the doorman rushed over.

  “I’m afraid you can’t leave . . . that here.”

  “That is an official vehicle. This,” she added, flipping it out, “is a badge. Since I’m going in there, on police business, that stays out here.”

  “There’s a parking facility very nearby. I’d be happy to direct you.”

  “What you’re going to do is open the door, go inside with me, and inform Professor Browning that Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, is here to speak with her. After that, you can come out here and direct people to Morocco for all I care. Clear?”

  It appeared to be as he scuttled to the door, coded through security. “If Professor Browning was expecting you, I should’ve been informed.”

  He was so prim and pompous about it Eve gave him a fierce grin. “You know, I’ve got one just like you at home. Do you guys have a club?”

  He merely sniffed, and danced his fingers over a keyboard. “It’s Monty, Professor. I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a Lieutenant Dallas at the desk. She’d like clearance to come up. Yes, ma’am,” he said into his earpiece. “I’ve seen her identification. She is accompanied by a uniformed officer. Of course, Professor.”

  He turned to Eve, lips so thin they could have sliced paper. “Professor Browning will see you. Please take the elevator to the fifteenth floor. You will be met.”

  “Thanks, Monty. How come doormen always hate me?” she asked Peabody as they moved to the elevator.

  “I think they sense your disdain, like pheromones. Of course, if you told them you were married to Roarke, they’d immediately fall to their knees and worship you.”

  “I’d rather be feared and hated.” She stepped inside. “Fifteenth floor,” she ordered.

  Chapter 3

  The elevator opened on fifteen where a domestic droid was waiting. He had black hair slicked back over a round head, and a thin mustache over his top lip. He was dressed in a formal suit, the kind Eve had seen characters wear in some of Roarke’s old videos. It had a jacket with a short front and long tails at the back, and the shirt beneath looked stiff and impossibly white.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Officer,” he said in a fruity voice, heavy on the Brit. “Might I trouble you for identification?”

  “Sure.” Eve pulled out her badge, watched a thin red line shoot through the droid’s eyes as he scanned it. “You’re topline security?”

  “I am a multifunction unit, Lieutenant.” With a slight bow, he offered the badge back to her. “Please follow me.”

  He stepped back to let them exit the elevator. There was a kind of lobby, or entrance area with white marble floor tiles, glossy antiques topped with urns that were elegant with flowers.

  There was a tall white statue of a nude woman, with her head tipped back and her hands in her hair as if she were washing it. There were artfully arranged flowers at her feet.

  On the walls were framed images—photographic and multi-media. Additional nudes, Eve noticed, that were more romantic than erotic. Lights of filmy draper and diffused light.

  He opened another set of doors and bowed them into the apartment.

  Though apartment, Eve mused, was a poor word for it. The living area was enormous, full of color and flowers and soft, soft fabrics. More art decorated the walls here as well.

  She noted wide doorways right and left, another leading down the side of the room and calculated that Browning and Brightstar didn’t live on the fifteenth floor. They were the fifteenth floor.

  “Please be seated,” the droid told them. “Professor Browning will be right with you. And might I offer you some refreshment?”

  “We’re fine, thanks.”

  “Family money,” Peabody said out of the side of her mouth when they were left alone. “Both of them, but Brightstar’s seriously loaded. Not Roarke loaded, but she can roll naked in it without worrying. Angela Brightstar’s the Brightstar of Brightstar Gallery on Madison. Swank artsy joint. I went to a showing there once with Charles.”

  Eve stepped up to a painting that was slashes of color, lumps of texture. “How come people don’t paint houses or something? You know, stuff that’s real?”

  “Reality is all perception.”

  Leeanne Browning entered. You couldn’t say she came in, Eve thought. When a woman was a good six feet tall, lushly built, and draped in a glistening robe of silver, she entered.

  Her hair was a long fall of sunlight to her waist, her face equally striking with its wide mouth and deeply indented top lip. Her long nose tipped up at the end, and her wide eyes were a vivid shade of purple.

  Eve recognized her as the model for the white statue in the entrance area.

  “Excuse my appearance.” She smiled in the way a woman smiled when she knew she made an impression. “I was posing for my companion. Why don’t we sit, have something cool, and you can tell me what brings the police to my door.”

  “You have a student. Rachel Howard?”

  “I have a number of students.” She arranged herself on a pop
py colored sofa, as cannily, Eve thought, as the art was arranged on the wall. And for the same purpose. Look at me, and admire. “But yes,” she continued, “I know Rachel. She’s the sort of student who is easily remembered. Such a bright young thing, and eager to learn. Though she’s only taking my course as a filler, she does good work.”

  Her smile was lazy. “I hope she’s not in any trouble—though I must admit, I think it’s a pity if young girls don’t get in some trouble now and then.”

  “She’s in a great deal of trouble, Professor Browning. She’s dead.”

  The smile vanished as Leeanne pushed herself straight. “Dead? But how did this happen? She’s just a child. Was there an accident?”

  “No. When did you see her last?”

  “At class, last night. God, I can’t quite think.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Rodney! Rodney, bring us something . . . something cold. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry to hear this.”

  The flirtation, the smug female arrogance was gone now. Her hand dropped into her lap, then lifted helplessly. “I can’t believe it. I honestly can’t believe it. You’re certain it’s Rachel Howard?”

  “Yes. What was your relationship with her?”

  “She was a student. I saw her once a week, and she attended a workshop I give the second Saturday of each month. I liked her. She was, as I said, bright and eager. A pretty young thing with her life ahead of her. The sort you see on campus year after year, but she was just a little brighter, just a bit more eager and appealing. God, this is horrible. Was it a mugging? A boyfriend?”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know. I really didn’t know very much about her personal life. A young man picked her up after class once, I recall. She was often in a clutch of young people—she was the sort who was. But I did notice her with another boy on campus a couple of times—that struck me because they looked so striking together. The Young American Hope. Thank you, Rodney,” she said as the droid set a tray with three glasses of frothy pink liquid on the table.

  “Is there anything else, madam?”

  “Yes, would you tell Ms. Brightstar I need her.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember her mentioning anyone named Diego?”

  “No. Honestly, we were not confidantes. She was a student, one I noticed particularly because of her looks and her vitality. But I don’t know what she did outside of class.”

  “Professor, can you tell me what you did last night, after class?”

  There was a hesitation, and a sigh. “I suppose that’s the sort of thing you need to ask.” She picked up her glass. “I came straight home, so I’d have gotten here about nine-twenty. Angie and I had a late supper, talked about work. I had no classes today, so we stayed up until nearly one. We listened to music, we made love, we went to sleep. We didn’t get up this morning until after ten. Neither of us has been out today. It’s so bloody hot, and she’s working in the studio.”

  She shifted, held out a hand as Angela Brightstar came into the room. She wore a blue smock that fell to mid-calf and was a rainbow of paint splotches. Her hair was a curling mass, the color of port wine, and currently bundled on top of her hair and anchored with a trailing scarf.

  Her face was delicate, fine-boned with a pink, doll-like mouth and vague gray eyes. Her body seemed very small and lost inside the baggy smock.

  “Angie, one of my students was killed.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Angie took her hand, and despite the paint splotches, sat beside her. “Who was it? How did it happen?”

  “A young girl, I’m sure I mentioned her to you. Rachel Howard.”

  “I don’t know. I’m so bad with names.” She brought Leeanne’s hand to her cheek, rubbed it there. “You’re the police?” she asked Eve.

  “Yes. Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Now see, I know that name. I’ve been puzzling over it since Monty called up, but I can’t put it in the right slot. Do you paint?”

  “No. Ms. Brightstar, would you verify what time Professor Browning got home last night?”

  “I’m not very good with time either. Nine-thirty?” she looked at Leeanne for confirmation. “Somewhere around there.”

  There was no motive here, Eve thought, no vibe—at least not yet. Curious, she opened her bag, selected one of the candid shots of Rachel.

  “What do you think of this, Professor Browning?”

  “It’s Rachel.”

  “Oh, what a pretty girl,” Angie said. “What a nice smile. So young and fresh.”

  “Could you give me your opinion on the image itself. Professionally.”

  “Oh.” Leeanne took a deep breath, angled her head. “It’s quite good, actually. An excellent use of light, and color. Nice angles. Clean and uncluttered. It shows the subject’s youth and vitality, centers that so the eye is drawn, as Angie’s was, to the smile, to how fresh she is. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes. Could you set up a shot like that without the subject being aware?”

  “Of course, if you have good instincts.” She lowered the image. “Did the killer take this?”

  “Possibly.”

  “She was murdered?” Angie wrapped an arm around Leeanne. “Oh, this is awful. How could anyone hurt a young, sweet girl like that?”

  “Sweet?” Eve echoed.

  “Just look at her face—look at her eyes.” Angie shook her head. “You can tell. You can look at her face and see the innocence.”

  As they rode back down in the elevator, Eve brought the images of Rachel into her head. As she’d been, and as he’d left her. “Maybe that’s what he wanted,” she murmured. “Her innocence.”

  “He didn’t rape her.”

  “It wasn’t sexual. It was . . . spiritual. Her light was pure,” she remembered. “It might mean her soul. Isn’t there some deal, some superstition about the camera stealing the soul?”

  “I’ve heard that. Where are we headed now, Lieutenant?” Peabody asked.

  “We’re going to college.”

  “Icy. A lot of college guys are totally hot.” She hunched her shoulders when Eve sent her a bland stare. “Just because McNab and I are in a committed, mature relationship—”

  “I don’t want to hear about your committed, mature anything with McNab. It gives me the creeps.”

  “Just because,” Peabody continued, undaunted as they crossed the lobby, “doesn’t mean I can’t look at other guys. Any woman with eyes looks at other guys. Okay, maybe you don’t because, hey, what would be the point?”

  “Perhaps I should point out that we’re investigating a homicide, not going off on a man-ogling spree.”

  “I like to multitask whenever possible. Speaking of which, maybe we could get some actual food. That way, we could investigate, feed the body, and ogle.”

  “There will be no ogling. Henceforth, ogling is forbidden at any and all junctures of active investigations.”

  Peabody pursed her lips. “You’re really mean today.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” Eve took a deep gulp of hideous air, and smiled. “I feel good about that.”

  The announcement of sudden, violent death drew many reactions. Tears were just one of them. By the time Eve had spoken to a half dozen of Rachel’s friends and instructors at Columbia, she thought she might wash away on the sea of tears.

  She sat on the side of a bed in a dorm room. The space was tight, she thought. A closet jammed with two beds, two desks, two dressers. Every flat surface was covered with what Eve thought of as mysterious girl stuff. The walls were plastered with posters and drawings, the desks with disc boxes and girl toys. The bedspreads were candy pink, the walls mint green. In fact, the whole place smelled like candy somehow and made her stomach rumble.

  She should’ve taken Peabody’s advice on the food.

  Two girls sat directly across from her, locked in each other’s arms like lovers as they wept, copiously.

  “It can’t be true. It can’t be true.”

  S
he couldn’t tell which one of them was wailing the words, but she did note that the longer they howled, the more dramatic their grief. She began to think they were enjoying it.

  “I know this is hard, but I have to ask you some questions.”

  “I can’t. I just can’t!”

  Eve pressed the bridge of her nose to relieve some of the pressure. “Peabody, see if there’s something to drink in the fridge over there.”

  Obediently, Peabody crouched down in front of the mini-coldbox and found several tubes of Diet Coke. She opened two, brought them over. “Here you go. Take a drink, and some deep breaths. If you want to help Rachel, you have to talk to the lieutenant. Rachel would do that for you, wouldn’t she?”

  “She would.” The little blonde didn’t cry well. Her face was blotchy, her nose runny. She slurped at the soft drink. “Rach would do anything for a friend.”

  The brunette, Randa, was still blubbering, but she had the presence of mind to get some tissues and stuff them in her roommate’s hand. “We wanted her to room with us next term. She was saving up for it. She wanted the whole, you know, college experience. And it’s not so bad when you split a triple.”

  “She’ll never come back.” The blonde buried her face in the tissue.

  “Okay, Charlene, right?”

  The girl lifted her gaze to Eve. “Charlie. Everybody calls me Charlie.”

  “Charlie, you need to pull it together, help us out. When did you see Rachel last?”

  “We had some dinner at the cafeteria, before her Imaging class last night. I’m on the food plan, and you never eat enough to use all the credits, so I treated her.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About six. I had a date with this guy I’m seeing, and we were hooking up at eight. So Rach and I had dinner, and she went to class. I came back here to change. And I’ll never, never see her again.”

  “Peabody.” Eve nodded toward the door.

  “Okay, Charlie.” Peabody patted the girl on the arm. “Why don’t we go for a walk? You’ll feel better if you get some air.”

  “I’ll never feel better again. Never, never.”

  But she let Peabody guide her away.