Portrait in Death

  “Some might say very similar things about cops.” He gave the dent in her chin a quick flick with his fingertip. “If you’re still at it when I’m done, I’ll give you a hand.”

  She fixed a smirk on her face. “If you’re still at it when I’m done, I’ll give you a hand.”

  “That’s a very nasty threat.”

  In her office, Eve headed straight to the kitchen and the AutoChef to order up coffee. At her desk, she loaded the discs from the data club, then absently picked up the statue of the goddess Peabody’s mother had given her.

  Maybe it would bring her luck, she thought, and setting it down again, ordered the disc images on screen.

  She spent the first hour threading her way though the disc, studying the crowd, the movement. The lighting was poor, dim in corners, harsh and jerky on the dance floor. If she needed to ID anyone specifically, she’d probably need the EDD magicians to clean it up. But for now what she saw was a young crowd, mixing, mingling, cruising.

  As advertised Steve Audrey was at the bar until nine when the light show burst into being and the music went from merely loud to eardrum damage. He did his job competently enough, spending a lot of time chatting with the customers, but managing to fill their orders without delays.

  Most of the cruisers, male or female, traveled in pairs or packs, she noted. There weren’t many solos. The killer, Eve figured, would be alone. He didn’t troll with a friend.

  She plucked out the few singles she noted, marked the section of the disc.

  And there, zeroing in, was Diego. She’d bet the bank on it. Swaggering little guy, slicked up in a red silk shirt and pegged trousers. Heeled boots. Oh yeah, thinks he’s a god.

  She watched him scan the crowd, pick his marks for the night’s hustle.

  “Computer, freeze image. Magnify section twenty-five through thirty.” She pursed her lips as she studied the face. Dark, handsome, if you went for the macho-slick, pretty-boy type. “Computer, run standard ID program on this image. Get me a full name,” she murmured.

  It would take time, so she shifted to other work.

  Somebody in that club had transmitted those images to Nadine. Someone who’d walked through those lights, those shadows, had plugged that data into one of the units, coded in Nadine’s number at 75 and sent it on.

  While EDD went over the stations, picked their way through the drives until they found the echoes, whoever had killed Rachel Howard was preparing for the next portrait.

  I am so full of energy. It can’t be an exaggeration to say I’ve been transformed. Even reborn. She is in me now, and I can feel her life inside me. The way a woman must feel with a child in her womb. And yet, more than that. More. For this is not something that needs me to live, that needs to grow and develop. She is whole and complete in me.

  When I move, she moves. When I breathe, she breathes. We are one now, and we are forever.

  I have given her immortality. Is there any greater love?

  How amazing it was, with her eyes locked on mine in that moment when I stopped her heart. I could see in them that all at once she knew. She understood. And how she rejoiced when I drew her essence inside me so her heart would beat again.

  Forever.

  See how she looks in the images I created of her, one after another in the gallery I’ve given her. She will never grow old now, or suffer, or know pain. She will always be a pretty young girl with a sweet smile. This is my gift to her, in exchange for hers to me.

  There must be more. I must feel that flood of light again, and give my gift to one who deserves it.

  Soon. Very soon, other images will grace my personal gallery. We will join together, Rachel and I, and the next.

  One day, when the time is right, I will share the whole of this journal with the world instead of short passages. Many will condemn or question, even curse me. But by then, it will be too late.

  I will be legion.

  Chapter 5

  Eve woke from a dream of being pinned under a train wreck to find the cat sitting on her chest. Purring ferociously, he stared. When she only stared back, he shifted his considerable weight and bumped his head against hers.

  “Feeling pretty lousy, huh?” She lifted a hand to scratch under his chin where he liked it best. “You didn’t mean to do it, and he’ll be home today. Then you can sit on him.”

  Still stroking the cat, she sat up. She and Galahad were alone in bed. It was still shy of seven, she noted, and Roarke was already up. He’d still been working when she’d climbed into bed at one.

  “Man or machine?” she asked the cat. “You be the judge. But either way, he’s mine.”

  She frowned at the sitting area. He was often awake before her, and the first thing she’d see in the morning was Roarke having coffee and checking the stock reports on-screen, with the sound muted. It was a kind of routine she’d become accustomed to.

  But not today.

  Hefting Galahad, she rolled out of bed and headed to Roarke’s office.

  She could hear his voice, cool and Irish, before she reached the doorway. The content was another matter, and seemed to have something to do with cost analysis, projections, and outlay. She peeked in and saw him standing in front of his desk, already dressed for business in a dark suit. Three of his wall screens were running, filled with numbers, schematics, diagrams. God knew.

  There were holo-images of two men and a woman seated in chairs, and another, just off to the side, of Roarke’s admin, Caro.

  Curious, Eve stifled a yawn, and leaned against the doorjamb with the cat in her arms. She didn’t often see him in full Roarke the Magnate mode. If she was following the topic—and some of it was in, she thought, German—they were discussing the design and manufacture of some sort of all-surface vehicle.

  He was using a human translator rather than a program. More personal, she imagined. And he was very much in charge.

  The discussion moved into the nitty-gritty of thrusters and aerodynamics, hydroponics, so she tuned it out.

  How the hell did he keep it all straight? she wondered. When she’d glanced in before she’d gone to bed, he’d been hip deep in some high-end resort complex he was opening in Tahiti. Or maybe Fiji. Now it was road to air to water vehicles for the sports enthusiast.

  And before oh seven hundred.

  She clicked back in as he wound the meeting to a close. “I’ll need reports from each department by Thursday noon. I expect to start production within the month. Thank you.”

  The holograms winked away, but for Caro.

  “Leave a disc of this business on my desk,” he told her. “And I’ll need you to handle the Tibbons’s matter.”

  “Of course. You have an eight-fifteen, EDT, with the Ritelink Group, and a ’link conference at ten with Barrow, Forst, and Kline regarding the Dystar Project. I also have your afternoon schedule.”

  “We’ll deal with that later. Set Ritelink up for holo, here, and the ’link as well. I need to be clear from noon till three, and expect anything else that needs doing will have to be done from here today. Possibly tomorrow as well.”

  “Certainly. I’m sure Summerset will be glad to be home. You’ll let us know how he’s doing?”

  “I will, yes. Though I don’t know how glad he’ll be when he’s told he’ll have round-the-clock care for the next few days. He’ll kick at me for it, even if he breaks the other leg doing it.”

  “Well, you should be used to that.” She smiled, turned her head. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Caro.” Galahad leaped out of Eve’s arms, pranced over to ribbon himself through Roarke’s legs. The admin’s tidily perfect suit, the beautifully coiffed white hair, had Eve realizing she was standing there in the sloppy gray sweats she’d slept in. “Early start for you today.”

  “Not if you’re in Frankfurt.” She glanced down, laughed a little as the cat sidled over to sniff at her image and poked his head through her calf. “So this is the culprit.” She crouched, cocked her head as Galahad stared at her.
“A big one, aren’t you?”

  “He eats like a draft horse,” Roarke said. “I’m grateful, Caro, for you coming in at such an ungodly hour.”

  “I stopped noticing the time working for you years ago.” She straightened. “I’ll take care of Tibbons. Give my best to Summerset.”

  “I will.”

  “Have a good day, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah. Bye.” Eve shook her head when the holo vanished. “Does she ever look messed up? Hair out of place, coffee stain on the jacket?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “I didn’t think so. What are you calling it?”

  “What would that be?”

  “The vehicle. You were talking about a vehicle, right? With the German guys.”

  “Ah, well, we’re still kicking that about. Coffee?”

  “Yeah,” she said as he moved to the AutoChef. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A couple hours.” He glanced back as he retrieved the cups. “Are you worried about me, Lieutenant? That’s very sweet.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your plate. You’ve always got a lot on your plate,” she added as he brought her the coffee. “I just don’t usually notice.”

  “Once you’ve been hungry, you prefer a full plate to an empty one.” He leaned down to kiss her. “How’s your plate doing?”

  “I’ve got plenty of portions left. Listen, if I can manage it, I’ll try to swing home this afternoon for a bit. To—I don’t know—help you out or something.”

  His smile was warm and gorgeous. “See there. You’re acting like a wife.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I like it,” he said, backing her against the door. “Quite a bit. Next thing I know you’ll be down in the kitchen, baking.”

  “Next thing you know I’ll be kicking your ass, and you’ll be the one who needs round-the-clock care.”

  “Can we play doctor?”

  She lifted her cup to hide a reluctant smile. “I don’t have time for your perverted fantasies. I’m going to grab a swim before I leave.” But she grabbed his chin, planted a hard kiss on his mouth. “Feed the cat,” she told him, and walked away.

  To save time, Eve swung by to pick up Peabody and headed straight for the lab. It was easier to squeeze results out of lab-tech king Dickhead Berenski in person.

  Stopped in traffic, Eve studied her aide. The rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes didn’t quite blend with the spit and polish of the uniform and hard, black cop shoes.

  “Why are you smiling all the time? It’s starting to make me nervous.”

  “Am I?” Peabody kept on grinning. “I guess I had a really enjoyable wake-up call this morning. That’s a euphemism for—”

  “I know what it’s a euphemism for. Christ.” Eve punched through a gap in traffic, then braked a breath away from the bumper of a Rapid Cab. “Just get your mind out of bed with the rest of you.”

  “But it really likes it there. It’s all warm and soft and . . .” She trailed off at Eve’s fulminating look, and studied the roof of the vehicle. “Somebody didn’t get their enjoyable wake-up call this morning.”

  “You know, Peabody, when you started to have regular sex, if such a term can be used to describe whatever it is that goes on with you and McNab, I figured you’d stop thinking and talking about sex all the damn time.”

  “Isn’t it nice to be surprised? But since it’s making you grouchy we’ll talk about something else. How’s Summerset doing?”

  “I’m not grouchy,” Eve muttered. “Old men who hang out in the park and shake their fists at small children are grouchy. Summerset’s all right. Well enough to give Roarke a shitload of grief about being in the hospital in the first place.”

  “Well, Roarke should be used to that.”

  Eve sucked air through her nose. “The next person, the very next person, who says that is going to know my wrath.”

  “I’m on a first-name basis with your wrath, sir. I guess this isn’t the best time to tell you that McNab and I are thinking of cohabitating.”

  “Oh my God. My eye.” Desperate, Eve pressed her fist to the twitch. “Not while I’m driving.”

  “We’re going to start to look for a place because both of our apartments are too small.” Peabody spoke in a rush, wanting to get it all out before her lieutenant imploded. “So I was wondering, after things calm down at your place, maybe you could ask Roarke if he has any units available downtown. Anything within, say, a ten-block radius of Central would be great.”

  “My ears are ringing. I can’t hear you because there’s this strange ringing in my ears.”

  “Dallas,” Peabody said, pitifully.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I hate when you look at me like that. Like a damn cocker spaniel. I’ll ask, I’ll ask. Just don’t, in the name of all that’s holy, talk about it anymore.”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” Though she pressed her lips together, Peabody couldn’t quite defeat the smug grin.

  “Wipe that smile off your face.” Eve wrenched the wheel and managed a full block before traffic slowed down again. “Maybe you’d be mildly interested in some pesky investigative work I’ve been toying with in my free time.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m all nonringing ears.”

  “Diego Feliciano. Works in a family-owned Mex eatery called Hola. Off Broadway at 125th. Between City College and Columbia. Lots of college trade. Diego’s a bit of an entrepreneur and has, allegedly, picked up extra credit supplying some of the coeds, and their dedicated teachers, with Zoner and Push along with their burritos. Several arrests, but no convictions on that score.”

  “Does this mean tacos for lunch?”

  “I like a good taco. Get Feeney on the ’link. I want to know what EDD’s got on the transmission to Nadine.”

  “They’d eliminated thirty percent of the stations by twenty-two hundred last night, and were resuming the search and scan through Make The Scene at oh eight hundred this morning. They expect to have the unit tagged by midday.”

  “And how does my aide come by this information before I do?”

  “Well, you know . . . pillow talk. See, sex—in this case—is an advantage to you. McNab said they’d get through faster, but at data clubs like that, the units are totally clogged. But he’s on it and it’s his top priority.”

  She cleared her throat when Eve made no comment. “Should I still contact Captain Feeney?”

  “Oh, Feeney and I appear to be superfluous at this point. You and McPecker can fill us in whenever you feel it’s appropriate.”

  “McPecker.” Peabody snorted. “That’s a good one. I’m going to use it on him.”

  “Happy to help.” She shot Peabody a deceptively friendly look. “Perhaps I’m wasting my time going to the lab. Have you and Dickie also had a liaison?”

  “Eeeuw.”

  “My faith in you is, at least, partially restored.”

  Dickie Berenski wore his white lab coat over a yellow shirt with blue polka dots. His thin, dark hair was slicked back over his egg-shaped head. His attention was focused on one of his many screens while he munched on what was left of a strawberry bagel.

  He nodded when Eve came in. “Finally, she walks into my joint again. Can’t stay away from me, can you, sunshine?”

  “I had to get my inoculations first. Spill.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask where I got this fine, tropical tan?”

  “No. Rachel Howard, Dickie.”

  “I just got back two days ago from a fun-filled week at The Swingers’ Palace, that elegant all-nude resort on Vegas II.”

  “You walked around without anything covering up that body, and no one died or went mad?”

  “Hey, I’m built under my clothes. Any time you want to check it out—”

  “Stop now, before things get ugly. Tell me about Rachel, Dickie.”

  “Work, work, work.” Shaking his head, he scooted on his stool to another screen. “Morris gave you the lowdown on time of death, cause, and blah-de-blah-blah. Opes in the system
, last meal, no sexual contact. Kid was driven snow. Got some fibers off her clothes and shoes.”

  He played his long, spider fingers over a keyboard until the image popped. “Off the bottom of the shoes I got carpet fibers. Vehicle carpet. Bagged the brand for you. Trouble is it’s way common. Find this type, this color, in lots of lower-end vehicles. Mostly vans, SUVs, trucks manufactured between ’52 and ’57. Newer stuff’s been ungraded, but you can still buy this carpet for replacement. See, it’s a brown, beige, black mix.”

  He tapped the screen where a sample of the fiber was magnified so it looked like a frayed hunk of rope. “Pretty much a horseshit color. You get the carpet, we can match it, but it’s not a lot of help unless you do.”

  “Give me something better.”

  “A little patience, a little respect.” He stuffed the rest of the bagel in his mouth and talked over it. “Fibers on her clothes from the chair he had her in. Colors match the image he shot, and are again typical of low-end upholstery fabric. Our guy doesn’t spend a lot of money on vehicles and furniture if these are representative. But . . .”

  He moved to another image. “He doesn’t stint on the enhancements. Look, here are shots of her taken before. The shot of her taken post-mortem. He made up her face for the portrait.”

  “Yeah, I got that already.”

  “None of these products used match anything she had at home. Fact is, you can see from the candids she didn’t wear much face paint. Didn’t need it. Got a fresh look about her. But he polished her up for this shot. Samples taken from the body are top-drawer, professional enhancements. The sort of stuff models and actors use. This brand of lip dye—counter name Barrymore, shade First Blush? It goes for a hundred-fifty smackeroos retail.”

  “I’ll need the list of all identified products.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He flipped her a disc. “And we got another interesting tidbit. Traces of NuSkin bandage on her chest.”

  “Yeah, so Morris said.”

  “The unmedicated kind. He bandaged the wound, but no point in medication because, hey, dead girl. But he didn’t want her bleeding on her shirt.” He brought up a close-up image of the wound on-screen. “No corresponding hole in the shirt she was wearing. He didn’t stab her through the shirt or the bra.”