She wiped her face, and rose to go to her desk. From a drawer she took a small photograph. “This is all I have. I took this myself of the two of you the day before she left the shelter. You should have it,” she said, and handed it to him.
He looked down, saw a young girl with red hair and green eyes still bruised from a beating. She wore a simple blue shirt with that red hair falling over its shoulders. She was smiling, though her eyes were sad and tired, she was smiling, with her cheek pressed against that of her baby. A face that was still rounded and soft with innocence, but unmistakably his own.
So he was smiling as well. A bright, happy smile. And the hand that cuddled him close had a silver claddaugh on its long, delicate finger.
Chapter 8
Portography was within easy walking distance from the college, Eve noted with some interest, and had a two-tiered parking port—shared by residents and patrons—jammed between the building and its neighbor.
“Check and see if there are any security cams for the parking facility,” she told Peabody. “If there are, I want the discs for the night of Howard’s murder.”
The sign on the lot flashed FULL, but Eve pulled in anyway to study the setup. And flipping on her On Duty light, parked behind an aged minitruck.
“We’ll run the vehicles registered to residents and staff. See if we get anything that carries the carpet fibers.” She scanned the lot, counting two vans and another truck. “Could he be this careless or this arrogant?” she wondered. “Plan it all out, then get busted because of his ride?”
“They always make mistakes, right?”
“Yeah.” Eve headed to the iron steps leading down to street level. “There’s always something. It’s doable. Get her
into the vehicle over by the college, tranq her enough to keep her quiet, drive to another parking deck. Get her inside, do it, then cart her back to the vehicle, drive downtown, dump her. And your work is done.
“Risks, lots of risks,” she said more to herself now. “But if you’re careful, if you’re driven, you factor in the risks. That’s what he does. Plans it out, plots it out. Times it. Runs computer programs, maybe, on probabilities, on routes. All the details.”
“It wasn’t that late when he took her,” Peabody pointed out. “Between nine and nine-thirty, right? Maybe somebody noticed him coming or going.”
Eve studied the street, the building, the steps and glides that serviced it, and the parking tiers. “How does he get a dead girl out of the building and into his ride? Takes his time, waits until it’s late, late enough that there’s not much activity on the street. Not so busy in the summer, so not too late. Not so many students hitting the clubs and cafés, and those that do are already in them by nine, for the most part. Music starts cooking at nine. You’re going to be exposed for a minute or two. No way around it. But if you’re quick, you’re careful, and willing to risk it.”
“And taking her all the way downtown puts a lot of distance between the murder scene and the dump site. It’s a good plan.”
“Maybe” was all Eve said as she approached the door.
The first level of Portography was sales. Cameras, supplies, gadgets that were alien to Eve, and software that made no sense to her. An employee was currently demonstrating and extolling the virtues of some sort of complex-looking, multitasking imaging unit to a customer. Another was making a sale on a jumbo box of discs.
Two small screens recorded all the activity in the store from different angles, and invited customers to: CLICK HERE FOR INSTANT SELF-PORTRAIT! Try out the user-friendly Podiak Image Master. On sale! Only $225.99.
There was bright and annoying music tinkling out of the demonstrator. The proud owner of the Podiak Image Master could scroll through a menu of musical choices already loaded on, or record favorites to serve as the score to the family’s home vids or stills.
Eve was idly wondering why anyone would want irritatingly happy tunes dancing all over their pictures when Peabody clicked.
“I just wanted to see,” she explained. “I don’t have any pictures of us.” She snatched the printout. “Look. Aren’t we cute?”
“Fucking adorable. Put that thing away.” She pointed toward the skinny elevator, and the sign announcing the Portography Gallery on Level Two, the Studio on Three.
“Let’s take a look upstairs.”
“I’m going to put this in my cube,” Peabody said as she tucked the printout away. “I can make you a copy. Maybe Roarke would like to have one.”
“He knows what I look like.” She stepped off on the second level.
There were faces and bodies lining the walls. Young, old, groups. Babies. Young girls in toe shoes, boys with sports gear. Family portraits, artsy shots of nude men and women, even several examples of family pets.
All were framed in thin silver.
To Eve, it was like having a hundred pair of eyes staring. She shook off the feeling and tried to judge if any of the images reminded her of the style used in photographing Rachel Howard.
“Good afternoon.” A woman in New York black with a short, straight fringe of white hair stepped around a display wall. “Are you interested in a portrait?”
Eve took out her badge. “Who took these shots?”