“Depends.” She flipped her jacket to show the badge she’d hooked to her belt. “I got some questions.”
“Christ on a crutch I paid those traffic citations. I got a receipt.”
“Good to know. This isn’t about traffic citations. I have some questions about cameras. About photographs, imaging.” She drew out the candid shot of Rachel at work. “What do you think of this?”
He took it—fingertips and thumb—at the corners. Then immediately huffed out a breath. “I saw this. On the news. This is that girl they found downtown. It’s a dirty shame. A damn, dirty shame.”
“Yeah, it is. What about the photograph. Is it any good? Artistically speaking.”
“I sell cameras. I don’t know dick about art. It’s good resolution. Wasn’t taken with a throwaway. Hold on.”
He hustled away again, signalled to a woman behind the counter. “Nella. Take a look at this.”
The woman was thin as a stick with magenta hair that rose up in a six-inch loop that curled back into the crown of her head. Beneath the arrangement, her face was a triangle of absolute white relieved by magenta lips and eyes.
She studied the photo, then Eve.
“This is the dead girl.” Her voice was nasal Queens. “I saw her on the news. The sick fuck who killed her take this?”
“That’s the theory. How’s the sick fuck as an imager?”
Nella laid the photo on the counter, examined it. Held it up to the light, put it down again, and looked at it through a hand-held magnifier.
“Good. Pro or talented amateur. It’s got excellent resolution—good texture, light, shadows, angles. Shows a connection with the subject.”
“What do you mean, connection?”
Nella opened a drawer, took out a pack of gum. She continued to study the print as she unwrapped a stick. “He’s not just snapping shots of the family dog or the Grand fucking Canyon. This shows an affection and understanding of the subject. An appreciation for her personality. It’s a good candid portrait done with a good eye and a steady hand.”
“What kind of camera did he use?”
“What am I? Sherlock fucking Holmes?” She cackled at her own wit and folded the gum into her mouth.
“What would you use, if you took yourself seriously? If you wanted to document a subject without her knowledge?”
“Bornaze 6000 or the Rizeri 5M, if I had bags of money. The Hiserman DigiKing, if I didn’t.” She pulled a camera the size of her palm out of the display. “This here’s the Rizeri. Top-of-the-line pocket model. You want candid, you need small. But you want art, you probably don’t go for the lapel or spy size, so if you’re any good, this is your baby. Especially for serious work. This interfaces with any comp.”
“How many of these do you sell in a month’s time?”
“Hell, we maybe sell a dozen of these in a year. The good news is they are damn near indestructible. And that’s the bad news, too. You buy one, you got it for life unless you upgrade. And at this point, there’s nowhere to upgrade.”
“Got a client list for the three models you mentioned?”
Nella snapped her gum. “You think that sick fuck bought something here?”
“Gotta start somewhere.”
“We’ll run the three brands,” Eve told Peabody when they walked out. “Start citywide, see if anyone pops. I’ll do a probability on them, but I’m betting top-of-the-line. We cross the cameras with the enhancements, and maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“What if he rented the equipment?”
“Don’t burst my bubble.” But she leaned on the car before opening the door. “Yeah, I thought of that, but we go with purchase first. How many professional photographers do you figure are in the city?”
“Can this be a multiple choice question?”
“We’re going to find out. We’ll start with four sectors. Crime scene, victim’s residence, college, data club. He had to see her to want her. She had to know him, at least by sight, to go with him. Once we get that, we go back to interviews. People who knew her, taught her, worked with her. Area photographers, imaging artists.”
Her dash ’link beeped as she merged with traffic, and McNab’s pretty face popped on.