Portrait In Death

Chapter 5

Eve woke from a dream of being pinned under a train wreck to find the cat sitting on her chest. Purring ferociously, he stared. When she only stared back, he shifted his considerable weight and bumped his head against hers.

"Feeling pretty lousy, huh?" She lifted a hand to scratch under his chin where he liked it best. "You didn't mean to do it, and he'll be home today. Then you can sit on him."

Still stroking the cat, she sat up. She and Galahad were alone in bed. It was still shy of seven, she noted, and Roarke was already up. He'd still been working when she'd climbed into bed at one.

"Man or machine?" she asked the cat. "You be the judge. But either way, he's mine."

She frowned at the sitting area. He was often awake before her, and the first thing she'd see in the morning was Roarke having coffee and checking the stock reports onscreen, with the sound muted. It was a kind of routine she'd become accustomed to.

But not today.

Hefting Galahad, she rolled out of bed and headed to Roarke's office.

She could hear his voice, cool and Irish, before she reached the doorway. The content was another matter, and seemed to have something to do with cost analysis, projections, and outlay. She peeked in and saw him standing in front of his desk, already dressed for business in a dark suit. Three of his wall screens were running, filled with numbers, schematics, diagrams. God knew.

There were holo-images of two men and a woman seated in chairs, and another, just off to the side, of Roarke's admin, Caro.

Curious, Eve stifled a yawn, and leaned against the door-jamb with the cat in her arms. She didn't often see him in full Roarke the Magnate mode. If she was following the topic-and some of it was in, she thought, German-they were discussing the design and manufacture of some sort of all-surface vehicle.

He was using a human translator rather than a program. More personal, she imagined. And he was very much in charge.

The discussion moved into the nitty-gritty of thrusters and aerodynamics, hydroponics, so she tuned it out.

How the hell did he keep it all straight? she wondered. When she'd glanced in before she'd gone to bed, he'd been hip deep in some high-end resort complex he was opening in Tahiti. Or maybe Fiji. Now it was road to air to water vehicles for the sports enthusiast.

And before oh seven hundred.

She clicked back in as he wound the meeting to a close. "I'll need reports from each department by Thursday noon. I expect to start production within the month. Thank you."

The holograms winked away, but for Caro.

"Leave a disc of this business on my desk," he told her. "And I'll need you to handle the Tibbons's matter."

"Of course. You have an eight-fifteen, EOT, with the Ritelink Group, and a 'link conference at ten with Barrow, Forst, and Kline regarding the Dystar Project. I also have your afternoon schedule."

"We'll deal with that later. Set Ritelink up for holo, here, and the 'link as well. I need to be clear from noon till three, and expect anything else that needs doing will have to be done from here today. Possibly tomorrow as well."

"Certainly. I'm sure Summerset will be glad to be home. You'll let us know how he's doing?"

"I will, yes. Though I don't know how glad he'll be when he's told he'll have round-the-clock care for the next few days. He'll kick at me for it, even if he breaks the other leg doing it."

"Well, you should be used to that." She smiled, turned her head. "Good morning, Lieutenant."

"Caro." Galahad leaped out of Eve's arms, pranced over to ribbon himself through Roarke's legs. The admin's tidily perfect suit, the beautifully coiffed white hair, had Eve realizing she was standing there in the sloppy gray sweats she'd slept in. "Early start for you today."

"Not if you're in Frankfurt." She glanced down, laughed a little as the cat sidled over to sniff at her image and poked his head through her calf. "So this is the culprit." She crouched, cocked her head as Galahad stared at her. "A big one, aren't you?"

"He eats like a draft horse," Roarke said. "I'm grateful, Caro, for you coming in at such an ungodly hour."

"I stopped noticing the time working for you years ago." She straightened. "I'll take care of Tibbons. Give my best to Summerset."

"I will."

"Have a good day, Lieutenant."

"Yeah. Bye." Eve shook her head when the holo vanished. "Does she ever look messed up? Hair out of place, coffee stain on the jacket?"

"Not that I recall."

"I didn't think so. What are you calling it?"

"What would that be?"

"The vehicle. You were talking about a vehicle, right? With the German guys."

"Ah, well, we're still kicking that about. Coffee?"

"Yeah," she said as he moved to the AutoChef. "Did you get any sleep?"

"A couple hours." He glanced back as he retrieved the cups. "Are you worried about me, Lieutenant? That's very sweet."

"You've got a lot on your plate. You've always got a lot on your plate," she added as he brought her the coffee. "I just don't usually notice."

"Once you've been hungry, you prefer a full plate to an empty one." He leaned down to kiss her. "How's your plate doing?"

"I've got plenty of portions left. Listen, if I can manage it, I'll try to swing home this afternoon for a bit. To-I don't know-help you out or something."

His smile was warm and gorgeous. "See there. You're acting like a wife."

"Shut up."

"I like it," he said, backing her against the door. "Quite a bit. Next thing I know you'll be down in the kitchen, baking."

"Next thing you know I'll be kicking your ass, and you'll be the one who needs round-the-clock care."

"Can we play doctor?"

She lifted her cup to hide a reluctant smile. "I don't have time for your perverted fantasies. I'm going to grab a swim before I leave." But she grabbed his chin, planted a hard kiss on his mouth. "Feed the cat," she told him, and walked away.

To save time, Eve swung by to pick up Peabody and headed straight for the lab. It was easier to squeeze results out of lab-tech king Dickhead Berenski in person.

Stopped in traffic, Eve studied her aide. The rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes didn't quite blend with the spit and polish of the uniform and hard, black cop shoes.

"Why are you smiling all the time? It's starting to make me nervous."

"Am I?" Peabody kept on grinning. "I guess I had a really enjoyable wake-up call this morning. That's a euphemism for-"

"I know what it's a euphemism for. Christ." Eve punched through a gap in traffic, then braked a breath away from the bumper of a Rapid Cab. "Just get your mind out of bed with the rest of you."

"But it really likes it there. It's all warm and soft and…" She trailed off at Eve's fulminating look, and studied the roof of the vehicle. "Somebody didn't get their enjoyable wake-up call this morning."

"You know, Peabody, when you started to have regular sex, if such a term can be used to describe whatever it is that goes on with you and McNab, I figured you'd stop thinking and talking about sex all the damn time."

"Isn't it nice to be surprised? But since it's making you grouchy we'll talk about something else. How's Summerset doing?"

"I'm not grouchy," Eve muttered. "Old men who hang out in the park and shake their fists at small children are grouchy. Summerset's all right. Well enough to give Roarke a shitload of grief about being in the hospital in the first place."

"Well, Roarke should be used to that."

Eve sucked air through her nose. "The next person, the very next person, who says that is going to know my wrath."

"I'm on a first-name basis with your wrath, sir. I guess this isn't the best time to tell you that McNab and I are thinking of cohabitating."

"Oh my God. My eye." Desperate, Eve pressed her fist to the twitch. "Not while I'm driving."

"We're going to start to look for a place because both of our apartments are too small." Peabody spoke in a rush, wanting to get it all out before her lieutenant imploded. "So I was wondering, after things calm down at your place, maybe you could ask Roarke if he has any units available downtown. Anything within, say, a ten-block radius of Central would be great."

"My ears are ringing. I can't hear you because there's this strange ringing in my ears."

" Dallas," Peabody said, pitifully.

"Don't look at me like that. Ihate when you look at me like that. Like a damn cocker spaniel. I'll ask, I'll ask. Just don't, in the name of all that's holy, talk about it anymore."

"No, sir. Thank you, sir." Though she pressed her lips together, Peabody couldn't quite defeat the smug grin.

"Wipe that smile off your face." Eve wrenched the wheel and managed a full block before traffic slowed down again. "Maybe you'd be mildly interested in some pesky investigative work I've been toying with in my free time."

"Yes, sir. I'm all nonringing ears."

"Diego Feliciano. Works in a family-owned Mex eatery called Hola. Off Broadway at 125th. Between City College and Columbia. Lots of college trade. Diego's a bit of an entrepreneur and has, allegedly, picked up extra credit supplying some of the coeds, and their dedicated teachers, with Zoner and Push along with their burritos. Several arrests, but no convictions on that score."

"Does this mean tacos for lunch?"

"I like a good taco. Get Feeney on the 'link. I want to know what EDD's got on the transmission to Nadine."

"They'd eliminated thirty percent of the stations by twenty-two hundred last night, and were resuming the search and scan through Make The Scene at oh eight hundred this morning. They expect to have the unit tagged by midday."

"And how does my aide come by this information before I do?"

"Well, you know… pillow talk. See, sex-in this case-is an advantage to you. McNab said they'd get through faster, but at data clubs like that, the units are totally clogged. But he's on it and it's his top priority."

She cleared her throat when Eve made no comment. "Should I still contact Captain Feeney?"

"Oh, Feeney and I appear to be superfluous at this point. You and McPecker can fill us in whenever you feel it's appropriate."

"McPecker." Peabody snorted. "That's a good one. I'm going to use it on him."

"Happy to help." She shot Peabody a deceptively friendly look. "Perhaps I'm wasting my time going to the lab. Have you and Dickie also had a liaison?"

"Eeeuw."

"My faith in you is, at least, partially restored."

Dickie Berenski wore his white lab coat over a yellow shirt with blue polka dots. His thin, dark hair was slicked back over his egg-shaped head. His attention was focused on one of his many screens while he munched on what was left of a strawberry bagel.

He nodded when Eve came in. "Finally, she walks into my joint again. Can't stay away from me, can you, sunshine?"

"I had to get my inoculations first. Spill."

"Aren't you going to ask where I got this fine, tropical tan?"

"No. Rachel Howard, Dickie."

"I just got back two days ago from a fun-filled week at The Swingers' Palace, that elegant all-nude resort on Vegas II."

"You walked around without anything covering up that body, and no one died or went mad?"

"Hey, I'm built under my clothes. Any time you want to check it out-"

"Stop now, before things get ugly. Tell me about Rachel, Dickie."

"Work, work, work." Shaking his head, he scooted on his stool to another screen. "Morris gave you the lowdown on time of death, cause, and blah-de-blah-blah. Opes in the system, last meal, no sexual contact. Kid was driven snow. Got some fibers off her clothes and shoes."

He played his long, spider fingers over a keyboard until the image popped. "Off the bottom of the shoes I got carpet fibers. Vehicle carpet. Bagged the brand for you. Trouble is it's way common. Find this type, this color, in lots of lower-end vehicles. Mostly vans, SUVs, trucks manufactured between '52 and '57. Newer stuff's been ungraded, but you can still buy this carpet for replacement. See, it's a brown, beige, black mix."

He tapped the screen where a sample of the fiber was magnified so it looked like a frayed hunk of rope. "Pretty much a horseshit color. You get the carpet, we can match it, but it's not a lot of help unless you do."

"Give me something better."

"A little patience, a little respect." He stuffed the rest of the bagel in his mouth and talked over it. "Fibers on her clothes from the chair he had her in. Colors match the image he shot, and are again typical of low-end upholstery fabric. Our guy doesn't spend a lot of money on vehicles and furniture if these are representative. But…"

He moved to another image. "He doesn't stint on the enhancements. Look, here are shots of her taken before. The shot of her taken post-mortem. He made up her face for the portrait."

"Yeah, I got that already."

"None of these products used match anything she had at home. Fact is, you can see from the candids she didn't wear much face paint. Didn't need it. Got a fresh look about her. But he polished her up for this shot. Samples taken from the body are top-drawer, professional enhancements. The sort of stuff models and actors use. This brand of lip dye-counter name Barrymore, shade First Blush? It goes for a hundred-fifty smackeroos retail."

"I'll need the list of all identified products."

"Yeah, yeah." He flipped her a disc. "And we got another interesting tidbit. Traces of NuSkin bandage on her chest."

"Yeah, so Morris said."

"The unmedicated kind. He bandaged the wound, but no point in medication because, hey, dead girl. But he didn't want her bleeding on her shirt." He brought up a close-up image of the wound on-screen. "No corresponding hole in the shirt she was wearing. He didn't stab her through the shirt or the bra."

"He took them off her first," Eve murmured. "Maybe not off, maybe just loosened them. Stabbed her. Pressure bandage to stop the bleeding so it didn't get on her clothes for the shot. Buttoned her back up, posed her. But when he's done, he takes the bandage off again. Why?"

She paced away to think. "Because he was done. He's finished with her and she's just garbage now. Maybe he worries about fingerprints on the bandage, or that it can somehow be traced back to him. Or maybe he doesn't think or worry about that, and just kept it back as a fucking souvenir." She dragged a hand through her hair.

"I've seen sicker," Dickie commented.

"Yeah, there's always sicker."

"Trina'd be a good source on the enhancements," Peabody said as they got back into the car. "She'd know all the local and online sources for the products."

"Yeah." Eve had already thought of that. And of what would happen if she contacted the stylist. She'd be trapped into some sort of horrifying and sadistic session that involved haircuts and facials and body treatments.

She shuddered.

"You talk to her."

"Coward."

"That's right. Want to make something of it?"

Peabody studied Eve's hair. "You could probably use a little trim."

"Maybe you could use a good colonic."

Peabody hunched her shoulders. "Just saying."

"Contact her when you're back in your cube. I don't want to be anywhere in the vicinity. If she asks, tell her I'm on a top-secret investigation off planet. I may not be back for weeks. No, years."

"Check. Meanwhile?"

"Diego."

"It's not lunchtime."

"You can have a breakfast burrito."

But Peabody knew she was doomed to go hungry within five minutes of entering the pretty cantina. It smelled great. All spicy and exotic. Kids were chomping down their morning meals in booths and four-tops, giving the place a buzzy chatter while the waitstaff moved along efficiently, topping off mugs of fancy coffees.

Diego didn't work the breakfast shift they were told by one of the busy waitresses. Nobody saw him until noon when he surfaced from his apartment above the cantina.

"Works the lunch and dinner shifts," Eve said as they headed up to the apartment. "Better tips, more action. Comes from having an uncle as a boss. See if he's got a vehicle registered under his name, Peabody. Then check the uncle, or the business for a van."

"On it."

Peabody started the search as Eve knocked on the door. There was silence, so she used her fist. Moments later there was a spate of Spanish. From the tone, she took it to be curses. She pounded again, and held her badge up to the Judas hole.

"Open up, Diego."

"Nothing under his name," Peabody said under her breath. "Uncle's got a late-model sedan, and a service van."

She broke off when Diego opened the door and she was treated to a blast of color from a pair of electric blue pajamas.

McNab, she thought, would totally dig on them.

"What's this about?" His eyes were dark and slumberous, his stance both lazy and cocky. As he scanned Eve, his full lips set in a leering smile while he lifted a finger to run it over the dot of beard on his receding chin.

"Questions. Want me to ask them out here, or inside?"

He shrugged, using one shoulder, then swept his hand in what was supposed to be a courtly gesture as he stepped back. "I always welcome ladies into my home. Coffee?"

"No. Night before last. You know the drill."

"I'm sorry?"

"Where were you night before last, Diego? Who were you with, what were you doing?"

She got a look at the room while she spoke. Small, furnished in sex-god style of red and black. Overly warm and smelling too strongly of some musky male cologne.

"I was with a lady, of course." He flashed brilliantly white teeth. "And we were making sweet, sweet love all night long."

"Lady got a name?"

He cast his heavily lashed eyes downward. "I'm too much of a gentleman to say."

"Then I'll give you one. Rachel Howard."

He continued to smile, and lifted his hands, palms up.

Eve gestured to Peabody, and took the picture of Rachel, held it out. "Refreshed?"

"Ah, yes. Pretty Rachel of the dancing feet. We had a brief and beautiful romance, but I had to end it." He laid a dramatic hand on his heart, and a gold ring winked on his pinky. "She wanted too much of me. I have to give myself to all the ladies, not just one."

"You ended it? By stabbing her in the heart and tossing her in a recyler?"

The smirk vanished as his jaw dropped, and his expression went bright with fear. "What is this?"

"She was killed night before last. Word is you were hassling her, Diego."

"No. No way." The slight Spanish accent disappeared, and his voice was all New York. "We danced a few times, that's all, in that data club a lot of the college crowd hangs in. I hit on her, okay, no crime in that."

"You came by her place of employment."

"So what? So the hell what? Wanted a taste, that's all."

"What about your brief and beautiful romance?"

He sat now, looking slightly ill. "We never got down to it. I took her to dinner, showed her a nice time, then she brushed me off. Challenged me, so I put the squeeze on. Figured she was playing me, wanted a pursuit."

"Want to give me that lady's name now?"

"I don't know it. Jesus. I was on the bounce, club to club. Got a little action with some girl at her place. On the East Side. Shit. Second Avenue. Halley, Heather, Hester. Fuck if I know. Just some blondechica who wanted a bang."

"You're going to want to do better."

"Look." He put his head in his hands a moment, then scooped them through all the glossy black. "We were wasted, okay? Scored a little Zoner, dipped a little Erotica. Went to her place. Second, I know it was Second, maybe in the Thirties. Near a subway, 'cause I caught a train home at three, maybe four in the morning. It was just a one-night bang. Who pays attention?"

Eve nodded toward the pictures of naked and scantily clad woman that graced his walls. "You like to take pictures, Diego?"

"Huh? Oh. Man, whatis this? I download them from the Net, frame ' em up. I like looking at women, so what? Ilike women, and they like me. I don't go around killing them."

"Slimy," was Peabody 's opinion when they walked back to the car.

"Yeah, slimy's an offense, but it's not a crime. We'll get a search for the uncle's vehicles, see if we get a fiber match. But I can't see him planning this out. Popping her in the heat of the moment, maybe, but putting all the parts in play? He's a petty operator. Still, he'd be able to score the opiates, had contact with the victim, a reason to be annoyed with her, played in the club where the transmission was sent, and has access to a vehicle that fits the general type we suspect was used for transport. We'll keep him on the short list."

"What now?"

"We're going shopping."

"Sir, have you had a blow to the head recently?"

"Cameras, Peabody. We're going to take a look at cameras."

She'd run a list the night before of the top outlets for cameras and imaging supplies in the city. This was someone who considered himself a professional, even an artist, and who took pride in his work. To Eve, that meant he'd take pride in his tools.

A good investigator had to understand the murder weapon. A camera had killed Rachel, every bit as much as the knife through her heart.

She stepped into Image Makers on Fifth.

Businesslike, she noted, scanning the shelves and counters. Organized. In addition to products there were two wall screens that ran various still photos, all very colorful and artsy.

A small, dark-haired man in a limp white shirt hustled right over to her. "Something I can show you?"

"Depends." She flipped her jacket to show the badge she'd hooked to her belt. "I got some questions."

"Christ on a crutch Ipaid 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 city wide, 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.

He had his long blond hair pulled back to show off the trio of silver hoops in his earlobe.

"Lieutenant… Officer. I've pegged your unit. If you want to swing by and-haha-make the scene, I'm-"

"Get it to Central," Eve told him. "The transmission to Nadine was sent at one-twenty with a hold. Run the security disc. I want to see who was using that station at that time. I want that individual ID'd asap. I'm on my way in."

"Yes, sir. But it might take me a little while to-"

"Status meeting at eleven hundred. I'm booking a conference room now." She shot a look at Peabody who obediently pulled out her communicator to do so. "Be there, with the data." She waited a beat. "Fast work, Detective."

His face brightened again before she cut him off.

"Conference room A, Lieutenant," Peabody told her.

"Fine. Contact Feeney and ask him to join us."

She had time to organize her own data, to run probabilities, to study both the lab and ME reports before updating her own. Then guilt had her contacting Nadine.

"I wanted to bring you up to speed, but there isn't a hell of a lot I can tell you."

"Willtell me," Nadine corrected.

"Can or will. I've got angles I'm working, and a lead I'm about to look at more closely."

"What lead?"

"If anything breaks out of it, I'll tell you. You have my word. I'm not cutting you out, I just don't have anything to give you."

"There's always something. Give me something."

Eve hesitated, then blew out a breath. "You can say that a source at Cop Central confirmed that there was no sexual assault, and investigators believe that the victim knew her killer. The primary is unavailable for comment at this time."

"Slick. See, there's always something. Has the body been released to the family?"

"The Medical Examiner will release the body to the victim's family tomorrow. I've got to go, Nadine. I've got a meeting."

"One more thing. Will you confirm that the primary, and the investigative team, believe Rachel Howard's killer will kill again?"

"No, I will not. Don't play that card, Nadine. Don't play that card until it falls."

She broke transmission, rubbed her hands over her face. Because, she thought, it was going to fall soon enough.

She was the first to arrive in the conference room, so she settled down, took out her notebook, and began to write and review.

Images, youth, pure, portrait, light.

Her light was pure.

Virginity?

How the hell would the killer know her sexual status?

Had the killer been a confidant? A potential lover? Counselor, authority figure?

Who did Rachel trust? Eve wondered and brought the pretty, smiling face back into her mind.

Every damn body.

Had she herself ever trusted people so completely, so simply? Hardly, Eve thought. But then again, she hadn't come from a nice, stable home, with nice, stable parents and a perky kid sister. Everything had been almost preternaturallynormal in Rachel's life. Up until the last hours of it. Family, friends, school, a shitty part-time job, a settled neighborhood.

At Rachel's age Eve had already graduated from the Academy, had already donned a cop's uniform. Had already seen death. Had already caused it.

And she hadn't been a virgin, not since she'd been six. Seven? How old had she been the first time her father had raped her?

What difference did it make? Her light had sure as hell never been pure.

That's what had drawn him to her. What he'd wanted from her. Her simplicity, her innocence. He'd killed her for them.

She looked over as McNab came in, carting the bulky unit from the data club.

She couldn't stop herself from checking the rhythm of his walk. The previous month he'd taken a direct hit with a police issue, and it had taken several worry-filled days until the feeling had started to come back in his left side.

He wasn't quite back to prancing again, Eve noted. But there was no limp, no drag in the step. And the stringy muscles in both arms were bulging satisfactorily at the effort of carrying the unit.

"Sorry, Lieutenant." He puffed a bit, and his cheeks were already red from hauling the weight. "Just take me a minute to set up."

"You're not late yet." She watched him as he worked.

He wore summer-weight pants in grass green with a skin top that had green-and-white stripes. The vest over it was hot pink, like his gel sandals.

Rachel had been wearing jeans and a blue shirt. Slip-on canvas shoes. Two little pinprick studs, silver, in each ear.

Victim and cop, she thought, might have come from different planets.

So why did a conservative young girl frequent a data club? She wasn't a geek or a freak, a nerd or a cruiser. What was the draw?

"You hit the data clubs on your off-time, McNab?"

"Nah, not so much. Boredom city. I did some when I was a kid, and fresh into the city. Figured I'd find action, and skirts who'd be impressed with my magical skills with the comps."

"And you found them? Action and skirts?"

"Sure." He sent her a quick and wicked grin. "All pre-She-Body era."

"What was she doing there, McNab?"

"Huh? Peabody?"

"Rachel." She scooted the picture down the table toward where he was working. "What was she looking for in that club?"

He angled his head to study the picture. "It's a big draw for students, especially under drinking age. You can go in and play grownup. Nonalcoholic drinks with snappy names, hot music. You got the comps so you can do homework, break, take a spin on the dance floor, talk about classes, flirt. Whatever. It's like, I don't know, a bridge between being a kid and being an adult. That's why you don't see many over-thirties in those places."

"Okay. I get that." She stood, heading for coffee as Peabody hurried in a few steps ahead of Feeney.

"Looks like the gang's all here." Feeney dropped down at the table. "How about a hit of that shit, kid?"

Eve got a second mug. Kid, she thought. Feeney was the only one who ever-had ever-called her that. Odd that she'd just noticed it.

If she'd had a bridge, Eve realized, it had been Feeney.

She set the mug down in front of him. "Okay, this is what I've got."

Once they were briefed, she gestured to McNab. "Over to you, hotshot."

"The transmission was sent from this unit to Nadine Furst's station at 75. We have the time stamp on Nadine's machine, and the correlating stamp on this. When reviewing the security disc for the time in question, we see… a lot of flashing lights, bodies, and mass. On-screen," he ordered.

"This unit is-wait." He dug in several of his many pockets until it came up with a laser pointer. "Here." He circled a section of the screen. "It's blocked by people moving around, back and forth, crowding in. But here, yeah, pause disc. Here you get a glimpse of the operator. Split screen, display enhanced image. Didn't take much, just bumping out the light show, magnifying."

"Female." Eyes cool, Eve rose to step closer to the screen. "Mid-twenties, tops, mixed race. She weighs a hundred pounds if she's hauling a full field pack and wearing jump boots. No way this girl killed Howard, and hauled her up and into that bin. She's a fucking toothpick."

"Data junkie," McNab said.

"A what?"

"Data junkie. They get off on data. Can't get enough of the machine. Some of them hole up in some little room and have little to no actual contact with human beings. It's all the machine. Others like to be around people, or have people around. They pick up some change sending and receiving, or doing reports-business, school, whatever. Anything that gives them a reason to deal with data."

"Like EDD geeks," Eve commented.

"Hey." But Feeney's lips twitched. "Data junkies rarely hold actual jobs. Or don't keep them." He drummed his fingers as he watched the screen. "Yeah, there you go. There's a drop. See, the waitress dropped off a stack of discs. Waitress probably takes a cut-club might, too-of what the dj charges per transmission or per job."

"It's not illegal," McNab added. "It's like I say to you, hey, Dallas, can you send these transmissions for me-my unit's down, or I'm squeezed for time, and I give you ten bucks for the time and trouble."

"Or if you're an illegals dealer, for instance, you dump discs on a junkie, transmissions are sent from any number of locations that can't be traced back to you."

McNab lifted his shoulders. "Yeah, there's that. But who's going to trust a junkie for serious business?"

Eve hissed out a breath. "The killer did. Let's get her ID'd. We'll still need to talk to her. Peabody, call the data club, see if anyone there can give us a name on their resident dj. Does she look at what she's sending?"

"Sometimes they do, part of the thrill," Feeney said. "You get peeks into other people's lives or thoughts without having to deal with people."

"I can get behind that part," Eve grumbled.

"You can block the data from the sender," McNab added. "If you want to keep something private. Still, a good dj could hack through a block. She's not hacking though. She's going through the disc stack too fast for that."

"What happens to the discs when she's done?"

"Waitress will pick them back up and give her a fresh supply if there is one. Done discs would go back on the bar, or a table specified for it. You pick it back up if you want it, or the club recycles. You're supposed to label them," he added. "If you want data generated or written, that request goes on a disc, and is set in another location. Fee's higher for that. She's just doing sends now."

"He could've come in any time, dropped the disc off. Hung around for a drink, watched her send it off. Bides his time," Eve said quietly. "Makes sure he stays in the crowd so he doesn't show up on the security. A drink, a dance-might even be trolling for the next one-and he picks up the disc, puts it in his pocket, and strolls on out. Goes home, gets himself a good night's sleep. I bet he slept just fine. And watches some screen so he can hear all about his fine work over morning coffee."

"It was easy for him," Feeney agreed. "It was all easy, straight down the line. He'll be looking forward to doing it again."

"We run the cameras, the enhancements, and the photographers in the three designated sectors. Check through any discarded discs the club hasn't already cycled in case he didn't pick it up. McNab, you hunt down the data junkie. You'd speak her language."

"I'm on it."

"I'm going back to the college, take a look at the Imaging class, try to reconstruct her last few hours. Then I need to take an hour's personal time. Peabody, you're with Feeney."

Eve picked up the photographs. She wasn't ready, not quite, to pin Rachel Howard to the dead board.

"I'll be back by fourteen hundred."