Portrait In Death

"No." Crack lifted his fists to the glass, pounded once, twice. "No, no, no." Then he rounded on Eve, would have leaped on her if Roarke hadn't anticipated and muscled Crack back, slapped him against the glass.

"This isn't what Alicia would want." Roarke spoke quietly. "This won't help her."

"I'm sorry" was all Eve could say.

Though his face was murderous now, he made no move. "You let me in there. You let me in there with her right now, or I'll throw him through this glass and you after him. You know I can do it."

He could, and she could stun him. But the grief was already raging up to smother the fury on his face.

"I'll take you in," she said calmly. "I have to be with you, and the cameras have to stay on. That's procedure."

"Fuck you, and your procedure."

She signaled Roarke back, spoke into the speaker again. "I'm bringing in the next of kin. Please vacate the area. Come with me." She motioned with the hand low at her side for Roarke to stay where he was.

She moved through the doors, down a short corridor, and through another set.

There were other tables here, other victims waiting to be viewed. And more, she knew, in the refrigerated drawers lined in a steel wall along the back. She couldn't shield him from them, could only walk directly to Alicia, and rest her hand on the butt of her weapon in case he lost control.

But he stepped to the table, looked down at the pretty face with its sharp cheekbones. He stroked the glossy black hair gently, so gently.

"This is my baby. My baby girl. My heart and my soul." He leaned over, touched his lips to her forehead.

Then he simply slid down, nearly seven feet of solid mass, into a weeping puddle on the floor.

Eve knelt beside him, put her arms around him.

Through the glass, Roarke watched as the huge man curled into her like a baby wanting comfort. And she rocked him while he wept.

She pulled more strings and commandeered an office, got him water, and sat, holding his hand while he drank.

"I was twelve when Mama came up pregnant again. Some bastard made her all kinds of promises, and she believed them. He didn't stay around long after the baby came. Mama did domestic work, and whored some on the side. She put food on the table, a roof over our heads, didn't have time for much more. Alicia, she was the prettiest baby you'd ever seen in your life. Good as gold, too."

"And you took care of her," Eve prompted.

"Didn't mind it. Guess I wanted to. Alicia was about four when Mama died. Wasn't the whoring that did it. Some asshole she was cleaning for got hold of a bad batch of Zeus and chucked her out a ten-story window. I was working in clubs already, picking up change. Got some breaks, got some money. I took care of my baby. Just because I run clubs and crack heads doesn't mean I didn't take care of my girl."

"I know that. I know you took good care of her. You saw she got into college. She was going to be a doctor."

"Smart as a whip, my girl. Always wanted to be a doctor. Wanted to help people. Why would anybody hurt that sweet girl?"

"I'm going to find out. I'm promising you. I'm giving you my word that I'm going to take care of her now. You have to trust me to do that."

"If I find him before you-"

"Don't." To cut off the words, she tightened her grip on his hand. "If you think I don't know how you feel, you're wrong. But it won't help Alicia. She loved you as much as you loved her, didn't she?"

"Called me her big, bad brother." Another tear slid down his cheek. "She was the best thing in my life."

"Then you help me help her. I want names of people she knew. People she worked with, played with. Did she have a boyfriend, anyone special?"

"No. She'd've told me. She liked boys all right, wasn't any prissy thing, but she studied hard, worked all she could at the health center. She'd go out with friends, let off steam. Not in my place," he said with what passed for a smile. "Didn't want her in my place."

"Other clubs, though. Did she mention any specifically? Did she ever mention spending time at a place called Make The Scene?"

"Data place, sure. Lots of the college crowd go there. And she liked this little joint near the health center. Coffee bar called Zing."

"Crack, did she have her picture taken, professionally, any time recently. For any reason. Work maybe, or something at school. Maybe at a wedding or a party."

"For my birthday last month. She asked what I wanted, and I said I wanted a picture of her, in a gold frame. Not just one of those snap-it-yourself jobs, but a real portrait where she was all dressed up fine, and the photographer knew what he was up to."

She kept her voice cool as she noted it down. "Do you know where she had the portrait done?"

"Someplace called Portography, uptown. Classy. I-" He broke off as his brain started to work through the grief. "I've been hearing this on the news. This is that son of a bitch who's killing college kids. Taking their picture and killing them. He killed my baby."

"Yes, he did. I'm going to find him, Crack. I'm going to stop him and see he's put in a cage. If I think you're going to get in my way on this, I'll have you put in one until I do."

"You can try."

"I won't just try," she said evenly. "You know me, and you know I'll stand for her now, no matter what it takes. Even if it means locking you away until I do what's right for her. She's mine now, too. Mine as much as yours."

He tried to hold back the tears. "Any other cop said that to me, I wouldn't believe it. Any other cop said that to me, I'd say whatever I needed to say to shake him loose so I could do what I wanted to do. But you're not any other cop, white girl. You take care of my baby sister. You're the only one I'd give her to."

"What can I do?" Roarke asked her when they stood at her car outside the morgue.

"You got any pull at the East Side Health Center?"

"Money, Lieutenant, always has pull."

"Here's what I'm thinking. Maybe he tagged her from the files at Portography. That's a link. Maybe he tagged her from the data club. It pops every time. But, if he's sick, and I think he's sick, she might have recognized him from the health center. If he uses it, or has used it, the staff might not notice him hanging around. If he took her out there, it was because people are used to seeing him, or recognized his face and didn't think anything of it. I've got Louise asking around, but she's going at it from the doctor angle-no names, patient privacy, and blah blah."

"And you'd like someone who isn't so particular about privacy."

"Three dead kids. Yeah. I don't give a flying fuck about privacy. Grease whatever palms you need to grease and see if you can find me somebody-male, twenty-five to sixty-no, forty. He's younger. That age span, with a serious, perhaps fatal neurological condition. Get me a name."

"Done. What else?"

"Isn't that enough for you?"

"No, I'd like to keep busy right now."

"Summerset-"

"I've spoken to him via 'link. What else?"

"You could use that twisty brain and those clever fingers to dig me up all you can on Javert. Any combination with Henri or Luis. Anything that pops around the dump sites, the data club, the colleges, Portography and the suspect names I'm going to give you that I shouldn't be giving you."

"Smells like drone work."

She smiled. "So?"

"Happy to be of assistance, Lieutenant."

"Question. You own parking ports, garages, lots, undergrounds."

"I believe I have a few in my vast empire, why?"

"Get me the ones that do sidelines?"

His brow lifted. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you're insinuating."

He was back, she thought. Slick as ever. "Save it, pal. I especially want ones within a ten-block radius of Eighteenth and Seventh. He saw us roust Billy. He knew we were there, watching the van, so he found alternate transpo. He plans, so he had a backup already earmarked, and I'm betting he had it close. I'm looking for a backdoor rental, nondescript vehicle in good condition, probably another van. You pop me something good, and you'll get a reward."