Portrait In Death

"Nothing for the last couple minutes, sir. They're still in motion. I heard a tourist blimp. Pretty sure. Couldn't catch much, but there was something about Chinatown."

"Downtown. He's headed south. All units, sweep area south of Canal. Let's move out. Baxter, you're with me."

"I've got my ride-"

"Leave it." She didn't trust him to drive, or to be on his own. "You're with me. I'll take the wheel," she told Roarke. "You, Feeney, McNab, start working on finding residents below Canal. Look for something near West Broadway. Anything that pops. Javert, Stevenson, Audrey, Gerald. Single residents. It'll be someplace that has parking close. Upper floors. He'll want space, light, and a view."

She climbed into the car. She'd wasted time with Fryburn. Ten minutes sooner, five, and they'd have moved on him before he'd laid a hand on Trueheart.

Minutes. It was coming down to minutes now.

"Peabody?"

"He's still conscious, sir. He mumbles every once in a while. I can't make much of it out." But she'd made notes of every word. "Communicator. Bartender. Pizza and vid. Officer down. Report."

While she headed downtown Eve called in, requesting that Traffic give her the location of the tourist blimp.

"You get any sense of the street, Peabody?"

"It's quieted down. I don't hear many horns. I'm catching sirens, but nothing too close. Not yet. There's some bumps. I think I'm getting them because the communicator's on the floor of the van. I can hear the tires go over potholes. I think-"

"Hold it. Wait." Eyes straight ahead, Eve strained her ears. "Street crew. That's an airjack."

"Ears like a cat," Roarke murmured. "I'll relay it to Feeney."

It took minutes, precious minutes, before Feeney's voice punched through. "Street crews scheduled on West Broadway and Worth, Beekman and Fulton at Williams."

"We've got the blimp passing over Bayard." She drew the map in her head even as Roarke brought it up on her 'link screen. "We split to all locations." But she had to go with her gut. "Head west," she told Roarke.

"Lieutenant," Peabody said from the back. "They've stopped."

As the van stopped, Trueheart closed his numb fingers over his communicator. Something he needed to do. Switch to homing. Thank God, thank God, he remembered. Finally remembered. But his fingers felt so fat, sogone. He couldn't quite make them work. Struggling to stay awake, he tucked the unit into his palm as the doors opened.

Gerry was very gentle. He didn't want to cause bruises. He didn't want to give pain. He explained that in comforting tones as he pulled Trueheart out of the back.

"This is the most important thing either of us will ever do," Gerry told him, supporting Trueheart's weight, moving steadily forward as Trueheart's civilian shoes bumped over the sidewalk.

"Murder," Trueheart mumbled. "You have the right to…"

"No, no." Patiently, Gerry drew out his key card, used it, then the palm screen to gain access to the building. "You've been listening to the news reports. I'm pretty disappointed with the angle they're taking, but I expected it. It'll all change once they understand."

Trueheart struggled to pay attention to the scene. The lights were dim, or maybe it was his eyes. "White walls, mail chutes, secured entrance, two elevators."

"Observant, aren't you?" Gerry laughed lightly as he called the elevator. "Me, too. My mother always said I noticed everything, and saw things other people didn't. That's why I became an image artist. I wanted to show people what they didn't see."

Inside the car, he requested the fifth floor.

"I noticed you right away," he went on.

"Fifth floor."

"Yeah, that's right. As soon as you walked into the club, I knew. You've got such strong light. Not everyone does. Not strong and pure, anyway, like yours. It's what makes you special."

"Five… B," Trueheart mumbled as his vision faded in and out on the apartment door.

"Yep, just A and B up here, and A works nights. Makes it easier. Come on in. You can lie down while I set things up."

"Loft.Village? Soho? Where?"

"Here now, just stretch out here."

He wanted to fight, but with arms and legs weak as a baby, his struggles were more petulant than defensive.

"Relax, relax. I don't want to give you any more soother just now. You have a right to know what you're about to do. About to become. Just give me a few minutes."

He had to save his strength, Trueheart thought dimly. What there was of it. Save it and observe. Observe and report. "Converted loft. Big space. Windows. Ah, God. Three large windows front, sky windows above. Top floor? Walls. Oh jeez, oh God. Walls… portraits. See the victims. I'm the victim. There's me. I'm on the wall. Am I dead?"

"He's losing it, Dallas."

"He's not." Eve clenched her fist, rapped once against the wheel. "He's doing the job. Roarke, give me something. Goddamn it."

"I'm working it." His hair fell like a black curtain over his face as he raced his fingers over a minipad. "I've got five possibles so far, more coming. These are popular sectors for singles."

"Five-story building, lofts."

"I heard him, Lieutenant." His voice was calm as a lake. "I need a few minutes."

She wasn't sure Trueheart had a few minutes.

Going with her gut, she drove across Broadway to skim along the cross streets. It was funkier, she thought. More welcoming to artists, Free-Agers, the young bohemians, and the well-heeled urbanites who enjoyed them.

He was young enough to want that sort of scene, and he had a solid financial backing. Nobody would think twice about seeing a guy help another guy-or girl-into a building. Quiet neighborhood. Young residents. Nobody would question that someone had been partying, was drunk or blissed out. Half of them would be the same.

Sirens and thunder rocked the night, and she watched lightning slice like a jagged-edge knife through the sky. The rain gushed out.

"Let me explain," Gerry said as he tested the lights and filters he'd set up. "My mother was an amazing woman. Pure and kind. She raised me on her own. She couldn't afford to be a professional mother, but she never neglected me. She was a nurse, and she spent her life helping people. Then she got sick."

He stepped back, studied the stage he was setting. "It shouldn't have happened. It's wrong for someone so selfless and bright to have a shadow take her. They call them shadows, the medicals call tumors shadows. She had shadows in her brain. We did everything right, everything they said. But she didn't get better. More shadows, deeper ones. It's just wrong."

He nodded. "Just about ready here. Sorry to take so long, but I want this to be perfect. It's the last one. You're the one who'll finish the work, so I don't want to make a mistake. Light is so important to image. You can finesse it on the computer, and that's an art, too, but thereal art is in getting it right in the first place. I've studied for years, in school, on my own. Couldn't get a showing in New York. It's a tough town."

He didn't sound resentful. But patient. As Trueheart struggled to make his fingers work, he watched Gerry step back to study his own work, the work that lined his walls.

Rachel Howard. Kenby Sulu. Alicia Dilbert. All posed and perfected. All dead in their thin silver frames.

There were other images of them, Trueheart saw dimly. The candid shots. He'd framed them as well, and grouped them on the wall.

"I had a little showing in Philadelphia a year ago," Gerry went on. "Just a little gallery, but still. It's a good start. I was going places, just as I was meant to. But after Mom got sick, I had to put that on hold. Drop out of grad school, concentrate on her. She didn't want me to, but how could I worry about fame and fortune when she was sick? What kind of a son would that make me?