Chapter 12

At her desk, Eve studied Yancy's latest sketch. Like Misty Polinsky, Mason had described a narrow face. The scarf still blocked the lower part of the face, but with this one, she got the shape of the nose, the style of wraparound sunshades, and a hint of the top lip.

She agreed with Yancy's notes. If Mason was accurate—and Yancy believed he was—that hint indicated a wide mouth, on the thin side, at least on the top lip.

Like putting a frigging puzzle together, she thought, when most of the pieces were missing.

Yancy had extrapolated, using probability percentages and merging both sketches. With that he'd given her seven most likely faces, filling in features.

Still too nondescript for facial recognition match, and far too vague for her to say, with any confidence, if any of them seemed familiar.

So it wouldn't be the face, not for now, she decided. She had to count on the words. A quick glance at the time told her it was too soon to nag Roarke about any progress there.

Instead, she opened Carmichael and Santiago's first report.

"Holy shit."

She sat back, stared, repeated, "Holy shit."

"My timing's good," Roarke said as he walked in.

"Over two thousand people who applied to law enforcement and were denied—for various reasons—or washed out sent me communication over the past two years."

"And that surprises you?"

"Well, yeah. Don't they have better things to do—that's one. The estimate is about fifteen percent of them figured I could pull some strings and get them in after all. First, just no. And second, why would I? Nearly nine hundred contacted me more than once, and a full three hundred and seventy-three live in the New York area.

"And I got seventy-eight requests for sex, ninety-three if you count the ones who had sex with me in their dreams or in another dimension, and nine marriage proposals."

"Having sex with someone who's not me in an alternate dimension is grounds for divorce."

"In one case we were dragons. Golden dragons who had sex in mid-flight over a sea the color of port wine."

"And still." He sat on the corner of her desk. "You are in a very real sense a—" He checked the word celebrity.

No point making her head explode.

"Public figure," he amended. "People will fantasize, and the majority of the time a little fantasizing is healthy and creative."

"Dragon sex," Eve repeated.

"It's creative," he pointed out. "Should I tell you about my correspondence?"

"You get stuff like this? Of course you get stuff like this," she said before he could answer. "You've probably had dragon sex in every dimension."

"Animals, mythical and otherwise, are standards. Food is also quite popular as seduction or sexual kink. Combinations of the two can be inventive."

He only smiled when she stared at him. "It can make for entertaining reading when you've time for it."

"People are deeply disturbed. I'm giving the ones here who live in the area priority, the ones involving sex, hit the bottom. Sex doesn't seem to be a major player here. Maybe we can check on the comp lab, see the status."

"Give it another thirty," Roarke began, "we can—"

He broke off as her communicator signaled.

She pulled it out, stared at it for a moment. "Hell," she murmured. "Dallas."

"Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, report to 358 West One Hundred and Eighth Street, fourth level. See officers on scene regarding assault."

"Assault?" Eve repeated, already on her feet. "The victim is alive?"

"The victim, Hastings, Dirk, sustained minor injuries. Probable connection to your current investigation is ninety-eight-point-three."

"Contact Peabody, Detective Delia." Eve pushed away from the desk as she spoke. "I'm on my way."

She cut it off before Dispatch acknowledged. "Hastings—photographer—asshole, hell of a temper. I looked at him, you remember, summer before last."

"Portrait murders—I thought of them that way," Roarke added as they rushed down the steps.

She hadn't asked if he intended to go with her—a waste of both their time.

"Right. Turned out the killer had been, briefly, one of his assistants. He goes through them like—"

"You go through sparring droids?" Roarke suggested as he got their coats.

"Something like that. I kicked him in the balls when he came at me—first time I saw him. Interrupted his work. His zone, he called it. He had a lot of uncomplimentary things to say about that, and me."

The wind caught her as she stepped outside, still dragging on her coat. And she hissed when the car wasn't there.

"I've sent for it," Roarke told her. "Give it a moment—and put this on."

She grabbed the scarf rather than argue. "He's a big guy," Eve speculated. "Maybe the stun didn't take him out, maybe he got a piece. And maybe I should know better than to speculate."

She jumped into the passenger seat of a burly All-Terrain in gunmetal gray before it fully stopped.

"Retail area on ground level," she remembered. "Offices and portrait-gallery-type thing on two, studio on three—that's where I dropped him—and he lives on four. They'd have been closed—not speculation, basic deduction. Narrow iron steps, exterior—more like fire escape. No outside glide or elevator. You'd have to walk up those dark stairs. Good cover from the street. Portography. Yeah, that's what he calls it. Portography."

"A photographer, particularly a portographer,should have an eye for faces—the details."

"You'd think. There's a lot right behind the place," Eve told him, and guided him there.

···

The uniform must have been watching for her as he pulled open the door on the studio level as Eve—feeling a little like a lizard climbing a rock—climbed the last of the open iron steps.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, Hastings just told us there's an inside access from the street."

"Done now."

"He took a hard jolt, Lieutenant. It happened down here, but we've got him upstairs in his apartment to keep this area secure. The MTs cleared him, but they recommended he go in for observation. He won't budge."

"Stunner?"

"Yes, sir, along with a mild concussion from cracking his head on the floor when he dropped. He's a lot more pissed off than hurt."

"He's always pissed off," Eve said, and walked past the uniform and up the stairs, where Hastings sat on a black sofa drinking what looked like a couple fingers of whiskey, straight up.

None of his portraits graced the white walls. Maybe he got tired of looking at faces, having them look at him. Instead he'd fashioned a kind of gallery of black-and-white cityscapes, empty benches, storefronts, alleyways.

Another time, she'd have found them interesting and appealing. But another time she might not have netted a live witness.

Potentially two, she thought, as a long-legged blonde with a half mile of glossy hair curled beside Hastings on the sofa. The plush white robe she wore was so big on her she might have been swallowed by a polar bear.

She sipped brandy from an oversized snifter.

Hastings gave Eve a hard stare out of his tiny, mud-colored eyes. "Bitch cop." He took a deep drink. "What the hell kind of city are you running when a man can't even do a night's work in his own house without getting attacked?"

"My crime-fighting signal for this building's on the fritz. Who are you?" she asked the blonde.

"Matilda Zebler. I was here when it happened."

Eve waited a beat, arched her eyebrows. "Working late tonight, Hastings?"

"Yeah, so the fuck what? I work when I want to work."

Didn't make sense, Eve thought. The killer was too careful, too thorough to try for Hastings when he was with a model.

"No assistant, no hair and makeup person?"

"I was imaging, for Christ's sake. I work the hell alone when I'm imaging."

"But you weren't alone."

And to Eve's surprise, he blushed like a young girl. "I was the fuck alone in my studio when the asshole who zapped me interrupted me. I should've thrown the fucker off the landing right off."

"Dirk." Matilda rubbed a hand over his arm in a way that told Eve she hadn't been there for work. "Didn't the MTs tell you to stay calm? Your system's been whacked, baby. You have to watch your blood pressure."

Instead of snarling at her, Hastings brooded into his whiskey. "Brought your man with you," he muttered at Eve. "Where's the square, sturdy face with the bowl of hair?"

"Peabody, and she's on her way. My man is also an expert consultant, civilian. Take it from the top, Hastings."

"I don't know why they called you. I've still got a pulse."

"Let me worry about that. From the top."

"I was fucking working, didn't I say?" He scrubbed a hand over his shining bald pate as if pressing his brains back in place. "Asshole hits the buzzer. Nobody uses those steps anyway, and nobody sane uses them at night. Goddamn city makes me keep them for fire code or some shit. But this fucker kept buzzing until I figured, well, there's a death wish and I'll oblige it."

Beside him, Matilda smirked into her brandy, patted his knee.

"Said it was a delivery. Well, fuck a fucking delivery. Next thing I know, Matilda's leaning over me with a kitchen knife in one hand, slapping the shit out of me with the other. Then the christing MTs are running in, and the cops, and everybody's all over me."

Eve tracked her eyes to Matilda. "A knife?"

"I wasn't coming back down unarmed. I heard him running away—clattering down the steps—and I wasn't going to leave Dirk lying there in case he came back. So as soon as I had the cops on the 'link, I grabbed the knife and came back down. And I was tapping your face." She poked Hastings in the belly. "I took his pulse—scariest moment of my life, next to starting downstairs and seeing Dirk on the ground and that maniac coming at him. I threw the bottle of pinot noir I was bringing down at him."

And that explained the broken bottle and pool of wine just inside the door of the studio, Eve thought.

"I think he tried to stun me. I saw him raise the stunner when I threw the bottle."

At this Dirk took her hand, and the perpetual anger on his face died away into sick fear. "You didn't tell me that. Jesus, Matilda."

"I told the other police. You were busy cussing out the MTs, and yelling at me to get some clothes on. I was only wearing... a little," Matilda said with a quick grin.

"You both saw this individual?"

"Since we both got eyes that's a damn fool question," Hastings snapped. "And I'm tired of questions. The dickwad figured to rob me, and instead had to hightail. That's that. Now go away."

"Dirk."

He sighed at Matilda's scolding tone. "Thanks for coming, now go away." And smiled a little when Matilda laughed.

"Matilda, I want you to step into another room with Roarke, and describe the person you saw."

"Why does she have to go with him?" Hastings demanded.

"Because you're going to stay here and describe the person you saw, and this way neither of you will influence each other's memory or impressions. Argue, we do it at Central. Remember Central?"

"I get zapped, and you're threatening me?" Temper flashed, the strike of a lightning bolt. He lunged to his feet.

Matilda said, "Dirk!" in the tone that reminded Eve of her endurance coach from the Academy.

He rumbled like a volcano about to erupt, then hissed. Then sat.

"I'm the one who got zapped," he muttered.

"And she's the one trying to find out who and why," Matilda reminded him.

"Some lowlife scumbag looking to rob me. What good's she going to do?"

"If I thought this was armed robbery, would I be here? Murder cop," Eve said.

"You see any dead people?" Hastings was on his feet again, then his eyes widened. He sat again, but this time put a protective arm around the blonde. "You think somebody wants to kill me? For what?"

"How many people have you thrown something at, or threatened to skin alive, boil in acid, toss out the window—just for instance—since the last time I saw you?"

"I don't keep a ledger on it."

"Right. Ms. Zebler, if you don't mind?"

"Sure." She took a long breath. "I didn't think it was robbery. It didn't feel like it. Dirk, behave, please."

She took his face in both her hands, kissed him lightly. "For me." When she got to her feet, Roarke offered a hand.

"I've admired your work," he said.

"Thanks. We've almost met a couple times," she began, causing Eve to lift her brows again as Roarke led her off.

Now Eve sat. "How long have you and Matilda been involved?"

"None of your business."

"I wouldn't give a rat's ass if it wasn't my business. How long? Two people are dead," she said flatly. "You were going to be the third. If things had gone different, maybe Matilda would've been the bonus round."

"What the fuck for? Anybody comes near her, I'll rip out their throat and stuff their head in the hole."

"Nice. I'm working on what the fuck for. How long?"

"Eighteen days. You don't have to say what's somebody who looks like her doing with somebody who looks like me."

"You may have a face a mother would have a hard time loving, Dirk, but you make up for it with your cheerful, outgoing personality and sparkling charm."

"Shit." He huffed. He puffed. "We're keeping it quiet, okay? It's personal. It's... new, and it's personal. The media gets hold of it, they'll hound her on it."

"Who is she?"

Dirk rolled his eyes. "Christ, you live in a cave? Matilda. über-model. And more than a face, a body. She started her own line of hair and face enhancements—she's not just the public face of it, she runs it. She's got brains. And balls," he said quietly, looking over at the carving knife. "I'm not going to let anything happen to her, whatever I got to do. That includes beating whoever's trying to kill me to a bloody pulp then setting fire to what's left of them."

"Why don't you start doing what you have to do by describing this person?"

He closed his eyes.

She saw then the pallor, and the dark circles under the eyes. Taking a solid stun could wear out the system, leave you exhausted and raw. Shaky and sick.

She ought to know.

"You'd be better off with a protein drink than the alcohol."

"Kiss my flabby white ass," he said, but without heat. "About your height, maybe an inch or two taller. Brown coat, scarf—brown, too—wrapped around the neck, up around the lower part of the face. Voice was muffled with it. I thought about ripping it off, strangling her with it."

Eve's spine went rigid. "Her?"

"Yeah, I think. Brown eyes—something in the eyes looked female to me. Looked... like yours, now that I think of it. Maybe I got my brain sideways from the stun, and since I'm looking at yours, I'm putting them there."

He shook his head. "I was pretty steamed, seeing—you know, red—and not paying attention. I wasn't framing a portrait of an asshole delivery girl."

"Faces are your business," Eve pointed out, nudging his ego.

"Yeah, yeah. Brain's sideways," he said again, closed his eyes again. "Narrow face, narrow nose, early to mid-thirties at a guess. A lot of bulk, but thinking... a lot of bulk was maybe the coat, whatever she had on under it. Not so much her, I think. Brown ski cap, pulled low. Couldn't see any hair. Good skin, soft-looking skin. Says female to me. Soft, creamy brown, café au lait—heavier on the lait."

His eyes opened. "I saw it."

"Saw what?" Eve prompted.

"She said I had to sign—something like that. Man, I was pissed enough to break her in two. But I saw it, right before the jolt." He rubbed a hand over his chest. "Jesus Christ on a tricycle it hurts. It fucking burns. But I saw it, in her eyes."

"What?"

"Excitement."

When Peabody arrived, Eve turned Hastings over to her partner. She called for sweepers—had a moment of relief she wasn't calling for a morgue team with them. Then went toward the kitchen.

She could hear Roarke and Matilda had moved on to other things and were talking about distribution, markets, advertising, and God knows.

"We're about done here," Eve said. "But I'd like you to run it through for me. What happened, what you heard, what you saw."

"No problem. Whatever I can do."

Eve listened, made notes. And considered if the timing had been off, even a little, Hastings might not be stewing on the sofa drinking whiskey.

"I appreciate the cooperation. You can go back out if you like, Ms. Zebler."

"Oh, thanks. Can I ask you—if Dirk's really in danger, can we leave, just leave New York for a while? I actually have a shoot next week in Australia. I could talk him into going with me."

"I've asked him to work with a police artist tomorrow, and I'm hoping you'll agree to do the same."

"Absolutely."

"After that, you're free to go where you like. I'd appreciate your contact information, in case I need to speak to either of you."

"That's no problem at all. Did that man really come here tonight to kill Dirk?"

Man, Eve thought, frustrated. She had two eye-wits. One saw a man, one saw a woman.

"I believe Dirk's lucky you were coming down with a bottle of red, and thought quick, thought smart."

"Australia," Matilda said, then walked back to Hastings.

Eve saw Peabody glance over, double take. Then nearly bump her jaw into her toes.

"Peabody!"

"Sir."

"Head down to the studio. I'll coordinate with the police artist and get back to you," she told Hastings. "We'll get out of your way as soon as we can. We're done up here."

"We appreciate you getting here so quickly," Matilda began, and sent Dirk a long look.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"You're going to have some soup," Matilda began as Eve walked away. "And lie down."

"I'd nearly finished the imaging on—"

"Dirk. Not tonight, baby."

"Okay. Okay, Matilda."

The calm tone and easy agreement had Eve rolling her eyes.

Love turned everybody's brain sideways, just like a stunner.

When she got down to the studio a pair of sweepers were working the door, the landing, so the cold air blew through.

They wouldn't find anything, Eve thought, but it had to be done.

She studied the splatter of red on the wall beside the door. Lucky for Hastings and Matilda it wasn't blood but a very nice red wine.

"We'll have a uniform sit on them tonight," she told Peabody.

"That's Matilda."

"I'm aware."

"Matilda," Peabody repeated. "She's like the face of the decade."

"The decade that's not quite a year old?"

"Yeah, but still. She's on McNab's list. She bumped Lorilee Castle off—and she'd been on there for three years."

"List?"

"The list of who you're allowed to have sex with if the opportunity comes up. He's going to pass out when I tell him. I don't blame him. I use her hair mask."

"Why do you need a mask for your hair? If you want to hide it, wear a hat."

"A hydrating mask. It's mag—and all natural. And she—"

"Peabody, Matilda's only relevant because she was here, and because by being here and thinking fast, she deflected the UNSUB from the target."

Eve gauged the distance from the steps to the stained wall. "And she has an excellent arm."

Hands on her hips, she circled around. She saw the comp station, still running—the imaging Hastings had been doing.

Lights on, as they had been, privacy screens engaged.

"Not hard to keep tabs on Hastings, get a sense of his routine—not if you're patient, you're determined. You could sit in the parking lot between the buildings. You could browse in the retail section, get employee routines. Maybe you even risk going up to the offices, make inquiries about having a portrait done, take information."

"This is a night he works late in the studio," Peabody offered. "He gave me that. Every week, he works the same two nights alone, and tonight's strictly for the imaging—his sideline.

"But for the last couple weeks, Matilda's been sneaking in the side door, coming up. Two or three, sometimes four nights a week if they can manage it. Maybe she does a little work upstairs, while he works in the studio. Or she'll have brought in some carryout, and she'll put a meal together."

"That's what she was doing tonight," Eve replied. "Setting up a sexy little dinner for two. Heard all this noise. Hastings shouting, then a loud thump, which would've been him hitting the floor. Down she comes, carrying the bottle of wine, sees him here."

Eve crouched by the small smear of blood. "Smacked his head good," she commented. "Matilda sees him, sees the UNSUB."

Eve looked over at the door. "UNSUB sees her. Both fire—the stun stream goes wide, the bottle hits the wall, explodes. You've got to admire her instincts, her aim. I bet the brown coat has some pinot noir stains on it. And the UNSUB's aim? Not so good. Has to be in close to do the job. No real skills there, or whatever skills crumbled in pure panic. Coward."

Because it was routine, Eve put a marker by the bloodstain. "You're going to need to take a sample," she called to the sweepers. "We need to verify it's the wit's blood."

Eve circled one last time. "Figured Hastings was sewn up. Creature of habit, and one who didn't have any personal ties, didn't like people as a species. Then along comes Matilda."

She studied the stained wall again, then the clean one across from her.

A good spot for the message, she thought. A good, clean, wide space. And it would be here—you'd have done it here. Where he worked was more important to him than where he lived.

What would you have written this time? Eve wondered.

She turned to Peabody. "His exterior security cams are crap, and most of them don't work, but we've got good interior cams in the retail space, and a couple on the office level. So let's get those, see if there's anything to see. I want uniforms canvassing again in the morning, with the sketches we have. Then you take a pass with both wits tomorrow. They'll be calmer then, and a second interview with you might shake out another detail."

Eve glanced around again. A couple of sweepers on what would be grunt duty, and no morgue team. All in all, it had to be considered a good night.

"Until then," she said, "we're done here."

In the car, Eve went over her notes, highlighted some, circled some.

"It's a woman," she said.

Roarke glanced at her. "Matilda seemed fairly certain it was a man."

"She was ten feet away. The first thing she really saw was Hastings, on the floor—that's what impacted the most. She saw the person—the bulk, the brown, the box—and the big guy she's sleeping with—big, wild-tempered guy out cold—or dead, for all she knew for sure. So she'd see male. It doesn't occur that a woman's going to break in, or get in and take down Hastings. Women, most, are more afraid of men than other women."

"And you think a man would've gone after Matilda?"

"Not necessarily. Gender doesn't determine cowardice, and this one's a coward. But Hastings was close, in close—face-to-face—and he sees female. Not a lot of face showing, but he senses female. Her skin—he said she had really nice skin."

Eve paused a moment, thoughtful as she studied Roarke. "You've got really nice skin, but... it doesn't read female."

"Thanks for that."

"He could be wrong—he was raging, and a stun hit rattles the brain. But I'm inclined to go with his instincts. And there's no sexual component here. Friends, partners, my backup, so to speak. No sexual edge to any of it. So a female, a straight female, makes sense."

"Or a gay man with good skin."

"Shit. Yeah, yeah, that's a factor." Eve rubbed at her temple, annoyed she hadn't thought of it yet. "But... such care to conceal body type as well as the face? Maybe it's a leap, but I'm going to try this eliminating straight men, and anyone younger than thirty, older than forty. I'll pass anyone outside those parameters on to somebody, narrow it down."

"It's not just Hastings's instincts you're going with."

"No. She's strong, she's capable, she's smart. She's in law enforcement, in the periphery, or she's studied it like a religion. She lives alone. She has a responsible job—she is responsible. Does what's expected of her, doesn't draw attention. She blends. She won't have close friends. No children, no particular lover."

"She won't go back for Hastings," Roarke said. "Not now."

"No, not now. But she's patient. She can wait. Once she gets over this failure, this scare, she'll regroup. She'll need to set Hastings aside for now. But in a couple months, three or four maybe, tops, people get comfortable again, fall back into routine again. She just has to wait for that."

Roarke parked in front of the house, turned to her. "You got physical with Hastings—when you met—because he was about to get physical with you. Who knows that?"

"There was a model there, an assistant, the hair and—"

"No, who fits your parameters who knows that?"

"I can't say. It went in my report. A cop kicks a civilian in the balls, she has to write it down, and she'd better have a good reason for it. One of the people who witnessed it may have told someone else."

"Eve. What are the chances one of them told someone who is somehow connected to someone who witnessed or talked about Ledo clocking you with a pool cue?"

"Zero." She shoved out of the car. "It's someone who could access my reports. I know that."

She would have stormed straight into the house, but Roarke grabbed her, pulled her in, held even when she tried to push away.

"I'm fine."

"You're not, and why would you be?" Despite the wind, he eased her back, looked into her face in the festive lights that shone around the house. "How many females between thirty and forty have access to your reports?"

"Probably a handful. A couple handfuls, but—"

"People talk."

"And cops are people," she agreed. "A story over a brew, a laugh in the locker room. Some snot in IAB doing some digging. Hell, techs talk, the civilian support talk. For all I know... Maintenance. The cleaning crews. Any of them could get into my office, my files, if they had some e-skills and wanted to. I don't have the same comp I used during the Barrow mess—and they're supposed to wipe them clean. But—"

"But," Roarke agreed. "It's a bit late to lock the barn door, but you should have Feeney or McNab put a block and wall on your machine, one that takes more than basic skills to break down. Or I'll do it for you myself."

"I'll probably end up locking myself out," she muttered.

Laughing, he turned her toward the house. "We'll make sure that doesn't happen."

"I need to see if we've got something solid from the word search."

"Then we will."

···

While Eve worked into the night, worked through it until Roarke simply carried her, half sleeping, to bed, the killer paced.

No mistakes, no mistakes, no accidents. What had happened? Unpredictable. The unpredictable could and did happen.

But it shouldn't! It shouldn't when you've done everything right. When you'd studied and planned and practiced.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

It should have been easy, should have been right. It should have been done.

Third time was supposed to be the charm!

Where had the woman come from? The model. The star. Oh, the face was immediately recognizable—one to be coveted and admired. Admired for nothing more than fortunate DNA.

Who could have known someone like Matilda would be with an ugly man—inside and out—like Hastings?

No accounting for taste. No accounting for sense.

Hands shaking now, shaking now in the solitude, in the quiet.

Did Eve tremble in the quiet?

Of course not! So the trembling must stop. The work must continue.

To soothe there were candles to be lighted, and their glow illuminated the wall. The wall covered with photographs, drawings, clippings of Eve. Always watching, always vigilant.

In the room stood a board—like Eve's. Exactly like Eve's.

Many faces there, so many. Two looked out with a thick red X across their faces.

Hastings should have looked through that thick red X tonight.

One day he would, yes, he would, and he'd suffer first. Because tonight had been a humiliation. Failure scarred. Failure burned.

But no matter, he'd have his day with justice. For now, there were others.

There were so many others.

And maybe it was time to be more bold. To make a bigger statement.

But first there was an apology to write. Sitting, the killer poured out regret and shame—and fury—in the words written to Eve.