Portrait In Death

"You, naked, and a large quantity of chocolate sauce?"

"Pervert. Round up your own transpo, pal. I've got to scoop up Peabody and get into the field."

He grabbed her for one hot kiss first. Oh yeah, she thought as the top of her head flew off, he was definitely back.

"Nice being in tandem with you again, Lieutenant."

"Is that what we are?" She paused, studying him as he stood on the sidewalk. "You get Summerset on his feet and out of the country, and I'll bring the chocolate sauce."

"There's a date," he murmured as she slid into her vehicle and drove away.

"I'm sorry about Crack, Dallas."

"So am I."

Seated in the passenger seat, Peabody lifted her hands. "I didn't even know he had a sister. It feels like I should've."

"She'd still be dead," Eve said flatly.

"Yeah, she'd still be dead. Do you think we should, I don't know, send flowers? Something."

"No, not flowers." She thought of Siobhan's cherry tree. "Put it away, Peabody. We do the job."

"Yes, sir." Peabody struggled against the resentment. Crack was a friend. You didsomething for a friend. "I just want him to know we're thinking about him, that's all."

"The best thing to do for him is to close the case, see that the person who did his sister is locked away. Flowers aren't going to comfort him, Peabody. Justice might, at least a little."

"You're right, it's just hard when it hits this close."

"It's supposed to be hard. When you start thinking it's easy, turn in your badge."

Peabody opened her mouth, insulted by the tone, then saw the fatigue, and the anger just under the shield. "Where are we going? I should know, I should be able to figure it out." The detective's exam loomed over her head like an ax. "But I can't."

"How did he transport her?"

"We don't know. Yet," she added.

"Why don't we know?"

"Because he didn't use the van we had under surveillance."

"Why didn't he use the van we had under surveillance?"

"Because… because he knew we were watching it." At the last minute she managed to change the tone from a question to a statement. "Do you think Billy tipped him?"

"Do you?"

She struggled with it for a moment, worked it through. "No, sir. At least not deliberately. Billy's small-time. He's not holding hands with a serial killer. He copped to the sideline, he cooperated. He's got a kid and the kid matters. He doesn't want this kind of trouble."

"So, how did our guy know to steer clear of Billy's garage?"

"Somebody else could have tipped him." But that didn't gel for her. "He might've gotten nervous, using the same van. But no," she continued, working it out, "he sticks to pattern. He likes his routine. So he had to know we'd made the van and were waiting. He had to see us there. He saw you. Recognized you from the screen, knew you were primary on this case, spotted my uniform. Jig's up on the gray van."

"And how did he see us?"

"Because… shit. Because he lives or works in the area! You already said you figured he did, and this adds weight. He spotted us from the street, or a window."

"Gold star for you."

"I'd settle for a gold shield."

Eve pulled up a half-block from the parking port. She'd wanted to see the area firsthand rather than on a computer screen. She wanted the feel of it, the rhythm of the sector, the viewpoints.

Not too close, she mused. He'd be careful about picking his transpo from a port right next door. But close enough so he could watch it, see the deals being made, the operation. Scope it out, choose his mark.

Yeah, the nice gray van driven by the old lady. Runs like a top, no special features. Blends. Plenty of space if things start going south and he has to muscle his mark into the back.

"He lives here," Eve said. "Not his work space. He sees the van go out on Sundays. He watches the port at night to see how the deals go through. He lives around here, keeps to himself, doesn't bother his neighbors. Low profile. Blends, just like his vehicle of choice."

She climbed back in her unit and prayed the climate control would hold back the heat while she worked. "Start ru

"Which buildings?"

"All of them. The whole block."

"Going to take some time."

"Then you'd better get started." Eve sca

Using her 'link, she began a run of her own.

Chapter 20

Nothing popped for her, and when the climate control began to waffle, she ignored it and kept working. Ugly clouds rolled in, shooting the street into a sludgy gloom. Fat, mean splats of rain began to pound the windshield, heralded by a long growl of thunder.

"Storm looks nasty." Peabody mopped at the back of her neck and shot a glance at her lieutenant's profile. There was a light dew of sweat on Eve's face, but it could have been the result of that vicious concentration as much as the heat. "Maybe it'll cool things off."

"We'll just have wet heat. Fucking August." But she said it absently, almost affectionately. "He's here, Peabody, but where's his bolt-hole? Someplace nice and safe, where everything's tidy, everything's in its place.

"Pictures," she muttered, staring through the rain-washed window into the gloom. "Images tacked up all over the walls. He needs to see his work. Judge it, admire it, critique it. His work is his life. His work is life."

"Matted and framed."

"What?"

"Not tacked up," Peabody said. "Matted and framed. He'd want the best of it well presented, right?"

With a considering frown, Eve turned her head. "Good. That's damn good. Matted and framed. Where does he get the material? Local? Online? He'd want good stuff, wouldn't he? The best he could afford. Lots of frames. Probably unified. He's got a specific style, so he'd want them framed in a specific style. Get me the top ten outlets in the city to start."

"Yes, sir. Where are we going?" she asked as Eve pulled away from the curb.

"Home office. Better equipment."

"Woo-hoo. Sorry." But Peabody didn't bother to suppress the grin. "Better food, too. Jesus." She jumped when lightning lashed through the sky. "Serious stuff. Did you ever hide under the covers during a storm when you were a kid and count the seconds between the flash and boom?"

She'd been lucky if she'dhad covers as a kid, Eve thought. And storms weren't the scary part of her life. "No."

"We did. I still do sometimes-habit. Like…" She watched the next flash and began to count out loud. "One, two, three. Pow." She gave a quick shudder at the boom. "Pretty close."

"If you hear it, it's not close enough to worry about. Outlets, Peabody."

"Sorry, coming up. I got three uptown, one midtown, two in Soho, one Tribeca-"

"Cull it to ones near the parking port or the universities. Five-block radius." While Peabody worked, Eve followed the next hunch and called Portography. "Give me Hastings."

"He's in session," Lucia said primly, and with a dislike not quite veiled. "I'd be happy to take a message."

"He gets out of session, or I come in and pull him out of session. Choose."

Lucia scowled, but switched the 'link to Hold where Eve was treated to shifting images of Hastings's work and a musical accompaniment. He came on looking sweaty and red-faced.

"What? What? Do I have to murder you in your sleep?"

"Dumbass thing to say to a cop, pal. Where do you get your frames?"

"What? What?"

"Stop saying that. Frames? Where do you get the frames for your photographs. Your personal work?"