“Irascible,” Mira continued. “Contentious, irritable, amusing. And brutally honest.”
“So he’s clear?”
“In my opinion—and I believe in yours before you sent him to me.”
“I figure he might throw somebody off a roof in a tantrum, but he’s not the type to sit down and plan cold-bloodedly, or execute in the same fashion.”
“No, he’s not. He could use some anger therapy, but it would probably be lost on him. I rather like him.”
“So do I.”
“Your killer has Hastings’s arrogance, or its kin, but lacks his confidence, and his spontaneity. And while Hastings is more than content to be alone, the killer is lonely. He needs his images as much for companionship as for art.”
“The people in them become his companions?”
“In a way. He’s absorbing them—their youth and energy, and by the absorption who they are, who they know. Their friends, their families. He’s taking their life force.”
“He doesn’t abuse them. It’s all very neat and tidy. There’s no rage. Because they’re him or about to become him.”
“Very good.”
“He preserves their image, showing them at their best. Pretties them up for the camera, poses them in some flattering way. Part of that’s the art, right—look what I can do, look how talented I am. But part of it’s vanity. We’re one now, and I want to look good.”
“Interesting. Yes, very possibly. This is a complicated person, and one who sincerely believes he has a right to do what he’s doing. Perhaps even an obligation. But he doesn’t do it selflessly. It’s not a holy mission. He wants credit. He may have been disappointed in his art in the past, feels as though his talent’s been overlooked. By Hastings, or someone who preferred Hastings over him. If, as seems logical, he took the initial images of the victims from Hastings records, part of the motivation might be to outdo his competition.”
“Or his mentor.”
Mira raised her eyebrows as they walked into the garage. “I don’t see Hastings as a mentor.”
“Neither would he, but the killer might.”
“I’ll spend some more time on this if you like. I’d need your updated reports.”
“I’ll make sure you get them. I appreciate it.” To buy more time, she walked Mira to her car. “Dr. Mira, you’ve been married a long time.”
They’d come a long way together, Mira thought, for Eve to bring up something personal without prompting. “Yes, I have. Thirty-two years next month.”
“Thirty-two. Years.”
Mira laughed. “Longer than you’ve been alive.”
“I guess it has its ups and downs.”
“It does. Marriage isn’t for the weak or the lazy. It’s work, and it should be. What would be the point otherwise?”
“I don’t mind work.” At least, Eve thought, as she tucked her hands in her pockets, when she knew what she was doing. “People back away from each other sometimes, don’t they? It doesn’t mean they feel any different, just that they need a step back.”
“There are times we need to be by ourselves, or work something out on our own, certainly. In any partnership, the individuals require personal time and space.”
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
“Eve, is something wrong with Roarke?”
“I don’t know.” It spilled out before she could bite it back. “I’m being stupid, that’s all. He wasn’t acting like himself one night, and I’m blowing it into a BFD. But, damn it, I know how he looks at me, I know the tones of his voice, his body language. And it was off. It was all off. So he was having a bad day, why can’t I let it go at that?”
“Because you love him, so you worry about him.”
“We didn’t leave things on an easy level last night, then he never came to bed. I got called in early this morning, left him a memo. But I haven’t heard from him all day. He all but threw me out of his office last night, and I haven’t heard from him all day. That’s not right. That’s not Roarke.”