Portrait In Death

"We've only got the location for another hour." Elsa jogged over and was already dragging paperwork out of a satchel. "I've got everything right here."

"Save it. Tell me about Dirk Hastings."

Elsa's sweaty face went stony. "I'm not paying for that window. He threw the bottle atme. Crazy son of a bitch. He can sue me, you can lock me up, but I'm not paying for the broken window."

"You worked for him in February. From…" Eve perused her notes. "… February fourth to February eighteenth."

"Yeah, and I should put in for combat pay." She took a bottle out of the holster she wore on her hip, glugged. "I don't mind hard work-hell, I like it. I don't mind temperament, got one of my own. But life's too short to deal with crazy people."

"Do you recognize this person?" She held out the image of Sulu.

"No. Terrific face. Nice shot. Very nice. What's this about?"

"Did you have access to Hastings's disc files and records when you worked as his assistant?"

"Sure. Part of the gig was filing the shots, or locating one he wanted to finesse. What is this? Is he saying I took something of his? Took his work? That's just crap. Hell, I knew he was crazy, but he wasn't vindictive."

"No, he's not saying you took anything of his. I'm asking if you did."

"I don't take anything that's not mine. And I sure as hell don't put my name on somebody else's work. Shit, even if I was some sleazy bitch, I'd never get away with it. He's got a look. Hastings has a style, the bastard, and anybody with an eye would know."

"Is this his work?"

Elsa glanced at the photo again. "No. It's good, real good, but it's not over the edge into great. This one?" Elsa tapped a finger on her shoulder to indicate the photographer behind her. "She's good. Very competent. Gets the shot, produces the look the client's after. Straight commercial stuff. Hastings can do this blindfolded. But she'd never be able to do his artwork. Maybe you have to be crazy to cross that line. He qualifies."

"He attacked you."

She sighed, shuffled her feet. "Okay, not exactly. I didn't move fast enough when he was in the zone. Didn't anticipate, and yeah, anticipation's part of my job. He yelled, I yelled back. I got a temper, too. He threw the bottle, and okay, so he didn't actually throw it at me. He just winged it through the window. Then he says how I'm paying for it, and starts hurling insults. I walked out, didn't go back. Lucia sent me my pay, in full. She keeps things sane around there. As much as possible."

Eve detoured back to Portography to pigeonhole Lucia.

"I won't say a bad word about Hastings. I'm sure you'll find plenty who will. If he'd listened to me he'd have a lawyer and he'd be suing you for false arrest."

"He hasn't been arrested."

"All the same." She sniffed, then sat at her desk. "The man is a genius, and geniuses don't have to abide by the same rules as the rest of the world."

"Would one of those rules include murder?"

"Accusing Hastings of murder is so ridiculous I won't respond."

"He threw one of his assistants, bodily, into the elevator. Heaved a bottle at another. Threatened to pitch another out of the window. The list goes on."

Her red, red lips bowed up. "There were reasons for all of that. Artists, true artists, have temperaments."

"Okay. Putting Hastings's genius artist temper aside for the moment, what about security on his files, his records, the image discs?"

She shook her head, fluffed at her white hair. "All but nonexistent. He won't listen to me, or anyone about it. He can't remember passcodes and procedure and gets upset when he isn't able to access an image when he wants it."

"So anyone can."

"Well, they have to get up there first."

"Which narrows that down to models, clients, the revolving assistants, the staff, and employees of the retail end."

"Cleaning crew."

"Cleaning crew."

"Maintenance." She shrugged. "They're only allowed in when he's not. They make him edgy. Occasionally he allows students. They have to pay, and aren't allowed to speak."

Eve bit back a sigh. "Do you have a list of the cleaning crew, the maintenance crew, the students."

"Of course. I have a list of everyone."

Back at Central, Eve closed herself in her office. She put up a board. She hung the images of the victims, the texts Nadine had received, the lists of people she'd questioned, and had yet to question. Then she sat down, spread out her notes, and let her mind drift.

She'd re-interviewed Jackson Hooper and Diego Feliciano, and this time their stories were almost identical. Didn't know nor recognize Kenby Sulu, and had been home, alone, on the night in question.

Possible co

Eve shook her head. She was letting her mind drift too far, she thought, and reined it back.

The killer wanted something from the victims. Their light. Hastings had said he wouldn't put that light out. Was the killer putting it out, or was he transferring it? Into himself.

For what purpose?

Glory, he wanted glory, acknowledgment, acclaim. But that wasn't all.

The victims had been chosen for specific reasons. Youth, vitality, i

Bright lights.

The killer used the data club to transmit. So he frequented the club. He knew how it worked, knew it drew the college crowd.

Was he one of them, or did he want to be?

Couldn't afford college? Kicked out of college? Taught at college instead of being acknowledged as an artist?

He knew imaging, was skilled in the art. Her mind wandered to Leea

She added to her notes: Possible co

Using the computer, she called up a city map, ordered pertinent locations highlighted. The two crime scenes, the two universities, Portography, the parking port, Browning's apartment, Diego's apartment, the club, and the two victims' residences, the two dump sites.

Both victims had been dumped near their place of employment. Why was that?

Where was his place of employment? she wondered. Where did he do his work? This very personal, very important work.

Near the club? He's mobile, but why go too far afield to troll, to hunt, to observe, then to transmit?

Both victims had recognized their killer. She was sure of that. Casual acquaintance, good friend, fellow student, teacher. Someone they'd seen before. Yet they hadn't run in the same circles, known the same people.

Except for Hastings, and the club.

She did a search for imaging studios within a five-block radius of the data club. Tried a cross match with the registered owners to her lists from Lucia and came up goose egg.

She'd have Peabody get an employee list, then crosscheck that.

Rubbing absently at the headache dead center of her forehead, she contacted Peabody in the bull pen. "Get me something from vending, will you? I don't have any credits on me and those damn machines won't take my code anymore."

"It's because you kick them."

"Just get me a damn sandwich."

"Dallas, you're off shift five minutes ago."

"Don't make me come out there," Eve warned and clicked off.

She worked through the change of shift, hearing the rise and fall of it through her open door. She ate at her desk, washing the lousy sandwich down with superior coffee.

She filed her updated report, harassed the lab, left two snippy messages for Morris, then turned to stare at her board again.

He'd already picked the next, and unless she found the co