Portrait in Death (26 page)

"Sir; my initial run of the list from Portography-Hastings's assistants. Some of the names are bogus. Some of these people just make them up, because they think they sound better. But the one who was on during the wedding where Howard was photographed rings false. I'm going to push on that. I'm also going to try some sources, see if I can narrow down the images the killer's produced to style and equipment. I've got a lot of lines to tug, which may keep my people scattered for a while, until I can pull them all in again."

"Do what's necessary to close this down. Keep me updated."

"Yes, sir." She started to step back, then stayed where she was. "Commander, there's one more thing. As I mentioned last month, I'd like to have Officer Peabody's name put in for the next detective's test."

"She's ready now?"

"She's had about eighteen months of homicide experience under me. She's worked, and closed, a cold case on her own. She's clocked more field time than some of the guys in the bull pen. She's a good cop, Commander, and deserves her shot at a gold shield."

"On your recommendation then, Lieutenant."

"Thank you."

"I'd tell her to start prepping. As I recall the exam isn't a walk on the beach."

"No, sir." This time Eve smiled. "More like a run through a war zone. She'll be prepped."

***

She went down to the conference room, taking the time before her team arrived to sit on the edge of the table and study the board.

The images looked back at her. She focused first on Rachel Howard. Smiling, sunny, cheerfully at work. Typical college-age job-clerking at a 24/7. Wanted to be a teacher. Studied hard, made friends, good solid family life. Middle class.

Subway shot-heading home to that solid family life, or maybe off to school. Confident, pretty. Vital.

Wedding shot. Dolled up for the event. Fussier hair, darker lips, longer eyelashes. Big, celebratory smile that just plain popped out from the rest. You noticed this girl. Couldn't help it.

Even in death, Eve thought. Sitting so neat, so pretty, with the light on her hair, her eyes staring out.

And Kenby Sulu, exotic, striking. Fairly typical job as well, particularly for the theater type. Ushering. Wanted to be a dancer, worked hard, made friends easily, good solid family life. Upper class.

Standing outside of Juilliard. Ready to go in, just coming out. Big smile for his friends.

Then the formal cast shot. Dark and intense, but still, oh yeah, still, you saw the light in him. Anticipation, health, energy.

The death shot mirrored it, she noted. The way he was posed in a dance, as if still on the move. And the light shimmering like a halo around him.

Healthy, she thought. Had to be healthy, had to be innocent, young, well-adjusted. Clean. There was something else the two victims had in common, she decided. They were clean. No history of illegals, no major illnesses on medical records. Good sharp brains, nice healthy young bodies.

She turned to the computer and started a run on any imaging business with Light in the name. She got four hits, noted them, then ran books on imaging with Light in the title. At some time, she was certain, her killer had been a student.

She hit several, and was about to print them out when one caught her eye.

Images of Light and Dark, by Dr. Leeanne Browning.

"Okay," Eve said aloud. "Time to go back to school, one more time."

When the conference door opened, she spoke without looking up. "Peabody, requisition and download a copy of a photographic text book titled Images of Light and Dark, by Leeanne Browning. Use the auxiliary computer. I'm not done here."

"Yes, sir. How did you know it was me?"

"You're the only one who walks like you. Find out if there's an actual book copy available while you're at it. It may be helpful."

"Okay, but what does that mean? How do I walk?"

"Quick march in cop shoes. Working here."

Eve didn't have to look up this time either to know Peabody was scowling at her shoes. She did a cross-check to locate and highlight any other book, paper, or published images by Browning, ran them through.

Sulu had gone to Juilliard, but lived only a few blocks away from the Browning/Brightstar apartment. Could be another connection, she mused.

"I can get it in both e and print versions, Lieutenant."

"Get both. While it's downloading, you might want to check the schedule for upcoming detective exams. You've been cleared to take the next one."

"I need to wait until the requisition clears, then..." Her voice trailed off.

"I said get both. Screw the requisition. Order them. I'll cover it until the red tape clears."

"The detective exam." Peabody's voice was a squeak. "I'm going to take the detective exam?"

Eve swiveled in her chair, kicked out her legs. Her aide had gone ice pale, right down to the lips. Good, Eve thought. It wasn't a step any good cop should take lightly. "You're cleared for it, but it's your call. You want to stay in uniform, you stay in uniform."

"I want to make detective."

"Okay. Take the exam."

"Do you think I'm ready?"

"Do you?"

"I want to be ready."

"Then study up, take the exam."

Her color was coming back, slowly. "You put my name up, cleared it with the commander."

"You work under me. You're assigned to me. It's up to me to put your name up if I think you do good work. You do good work."

"Thanks."

"Now keep doing good work and get me what I told you to get me. I've got to go drag Baxter and Trueheart into this."

Eve walked out. She didn't have to look back to know Peabody was grinning.

Chapter 14

Eve found Leeanne Browning at her apartment. The professor wore a long red shirt over a black skinsuit, and had her hair bundled back in a braid.

"Lieutenant Dallas. Officer. You just caught me. Angie and I were about to head out." She gestured them inside as she spoke. "We're going to spend a few hours working in Central Park. The heat brings out all sorts of interesting characters."

"Including us," Angie said, hauling a large toolbox into the room.

Leeanne laughed, low and lusty. "Oh, absolutely including us. What can we do for you?"

"I have some questions."

"All right. Let's sit down and try to answer them. Is this about poor Rachel? There's a memorial service for her tomorrow evening."

"Yes, I know. I'd like you to look at these. Do you recognize the subject?"

Leeanne took the image of Kenby, standing in front of Juilliard. "No." While Eve watched her face, Leeanne pursed her lips. "No," she said again. "I don't think he's one of mine. I'd remember this face. Striking face."

"Good form," Angie added, leaning over the back of the sofa. "Nice, graceful body type."

"An excellent study. Very well done. The same, isn't it?" Leeanne asked. "It's the same portrait artist. Is this handsome young man dead?"

"How about this one?" Eve offered the picture of the dance troupe.

"Ah, a dancer. Of course. He's built like one, isn't he?" She made a small sound, a little breath of distress. "No, he's not familiar to me. None of them are. But this isn't the same photographer, is it?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Different style, technique. Such drama, and a wonderful use of shadows here. Of course, you'd want drama in this study, but... It seems to me that whoever took this dance study is more experienced, more trained, or simply more talented. Both, by my critique. Actually, at a guess, I'd say this was a Hastings."

Intrigued, Eve sat back. "You can look at a photo and identify the photographer."

"Certainly, if the artist has a distinct style. Of course, a clever student or fan could copy it very well, digital manipulation and so on. But this first isn't what I'd call a stylistic homage."

Setting them side-by-side, she studied them again. "No. It's very distinct and different. Two artists, interested in the same subject, and seeing it through different perspectives."

"Do you know Hastings, personally?"

"Yes. Not well, I doubt anyone does. Such a temperamental soul. But I use his work quite often in class, and he's allowed me, with some considerable persuasion, to conduct some workshops for my students in his studio over the years."

"She had to pay him out of pocket," Angie chimed in. She was still leaning over the sofa, with her chin nearly resting on Leeanne's shoulder. "Hastings likes his money."

"That's true." Leeanne's tone was cheerful. "When it comes to his art, he doesn't compromise, but he's firm on making a profit. His store, his commercial work, his time."

Eve began to play another angle in her head. "Any of your students ever work for him as models or assistants?"

"Oh yeah," Leeanne answered with a chuckle. "And most had a maxibus full of complaints afterward. He's rude, impatient, cheap, violent. But they learned, I can promise you that."

"I'd like the names."

"My God, Lieutenant, I've been sending students to Hastings for more than five years."

"I'd like the names," Eve repeated. "All you have on record, or in your memory. What about this one?" She held out the death photo.

"Oh." Her hand lifted, linked with Angie's. "Macabre, horrible. Brilliant. He's getting better at his work."

"Why do you say that?"

"So stark. It's meant to be. Death Dances. That's what I'd call it. The use of shadow and light here. The fact that he chose black-and-white, the fluid pose of the body. He could have done more with the face-yes, untapped potential there-but overall it's brilliant. And terrible."

"You often choose black-and-white. Most of your book is dedicated to the art of black-and-white photography and imaging."

With a look of surprise, Leeanne glanced up again. "You've read my book?"

"I've looked it over. There's a great deal about light-the exploitation of it, the building or taking of it, the filtering of it. The absence of it."

"Without light, there is no image and the tone of the light determines the tone of the image. How it's used, how the artist manipulates it or sees it, will be a part of his skill. Wait just a moment."

She rose and hurried out of the room.

"You suspect her." Angie straightened, studying Eve. "How can you? Leeanne would never harm anyone, much less a child. She isn't capable of evil."

"Part of my job is asking questions."

Angie nodded, and coming around the sofa sat across from Eve. "Your job weighs on you. It puts pity in your eyes when you look at death." She turned the portrait of Kenby over. "It doesn't stay there, not in your eyes. But I think it stays inside you."

"He doesn't need my pity anymore."

"No, I suppose not," Angie replied as Leeanne came back in carrying a small box.

"Hey, it's a pinhole camera." Peabody blurted it out, then flushed a little at her own outburst. "My uncle had one, showed me how to make one when I was a kid."

Eve was studying the odd little box and said simply, "Free-Ager," by way of explanation.

"Ah, yes. This is a very old technique." Leeanne set the box on a table, removed a bit of tape, then aimed the tiny hole that had been shielded beneath it toward Eve. "A handmade box, the photographic paper inside, the light outside with the pinhole as the lens that captures that light, and the image. I'd like you to keep still," she told Eve.

"That box is taking my picture."

"Yes. It's the light, you see, that creates the miracle here. I ask each of my students to make a pinhole camera like this, and to experiment with it. Those that don't understand the miracle, well, they may go on to take good pictures, but they'll never create art. It isn't all technology and tools, you see. It isn't all equipment and manipulation. The core is the light, and what it sees. What we see through it."

"What we take out of it?" Eve asked, watching her. "What we absorb from it?"

"Perhaps. While some primitive cultures feared that the camera, by reproducing their image, stole their souls, others believed that it gave them a kind of immortality. We have, in many ways, blended those two beliefs. Certainly, we immortalize with imaging, we steal moments of time and hold them. And we take something from each subject, each time. That moment again, that thought, that mood, that light. It will never be exactly the same again. Not even a second afterward. It's gone-and it's preserved, forever, in the photograph. There's power in that."

"There's no thought, no mood, no light in a photograph of the dead."

"Ah, but there is. The artist's. Death, most certainly death, would be a defining moment. Here, let's see what we've got."

She covered the hole on the box again, then slid out a sheet of paper. On it, Eve's image was reproduced, almost like a pale pencil sketch.

"The light etches the image, burns it into the paper, and preserves it. The light," she said, handing the paper to Eve, "is the tool, the magic. The soul."

***

"She's really interesting," Peabody commented. "I bet she's a terrific teacher."

"And as someone who knows how to manipulate images, she had the skill to dick with the security discs on her building, shift the time stamp. Her alibi, therefore, has holes. So we give her, potentially, opportunity. Means-she clicks there. Method, another click. Give me motive."

"Well, I don't..."

"Set aside the fact you like her." Eve merged into traffic. "What's her motive for selecting, stalking, and killing two attractive college students?"

"Art. It all deals with art."

"Deeper, Peabody."

"Okay." She wanted to take off her cap, scratch her head, but resisted. "Controlling the subject? Controlling the art in order to create?"

"On one level," Eve agreed. "Control, creation, and the accolades that result. The attention, anyway, the recognition. In this case we have a teacher. She instructs, she gives her knowledge, her skill, her experience, and others take it and go on to become what she hasn't. She's written a couple of books, published some images, but she isn't considered an artist, is she? She's considered a teacher."

"It's a very respected, and often under-appreciated vocation. You're a really good teacher, for instance."