J. Robb - Portrait In Death

The model was black, and Eve's estimate put her at six feet tall. She was lean as a greyhound, and appeared to have joints made of jelly.

There were three cameras on tripods, and another held by a burly man in baggy jeans and a loose blue shirt. Two others, a tiny woman in a sleeveless black skinsuit and a young man with a tumbling crop of orange hair, looked on with expressions of concentrated concern.

Eve stepped toward the set, started to speak. The young woman turned slightly, spotted her. Shock covered her face first, and was immediately chased by horror.

If Eve hadn't seen the same look on Lucia's face, she might have drawn her weapon and spun to confront whatever terrible danger lurked at her back.

Instead, she kept moving forward, close enough to catch the guppy gulps of distress from the woman, then the choked gasp from the young man. The model met Eve's eyes with a bright glint of humor, and smirked.

"No smile!" This exploded from the man with the camera in a tone that had both assistants jumping, and the model simply relaxing her lips as she bowed her body like a long supple willow branch over the chair.

"You've got company, honey." She purred it, velvet-voiced, as she gestured with an endless and fluid arm.

He whirled, lowering his camera.

The snarl came first, and she had to admit, it was impressive. She'd never seen an actual bear, but she'd seen pictures. He had the look, and with the snarl, the sound of one.

He was a solid three inches over six feet, and a generous two-eighty, by her estimate. Wide of chest, thick of arm, with hands as big as serving platters.

And dead ugly. His eyes were small and muddy, his nose flat and spread over much of his face, his lips were flabby. At the moment, veins were bulging and pulsing in his domed-forehead, and over the shiny ball of his shaved head.

"Get out!" He banged a fist on his own bald head as he shouted as if he were trying to dislodge small demons that lived in his brain. "Get out before Ikill you."

Eve pulled out her badge. "You want to be careful using that particular part of speech to a cop. I need to ask you some questions."

"A cop? A cop? I don't give a flying fuck if you're a cop. I don't give a flying fuck if you're God Almighty come for Judgment Day. Get out, or I'll twist your arms off your shoulders and beat you to bloody death with them."

She had to give it to him, that was a good one. As he started toward her, she shifted her weight. And when one of his beefy hands reached for her, she kicked him, full out, in the balls.

He went down like a tree, face first, bounced once. She imagined he was groaning and/or gasping, but she couldn't hear over the blasting music.

"Shut that shit off," she ordered.

"End music program." The young man sputtered it out as he danced in thin-heeled boots. "My God, my God, she's killed Hastings. She'skilled him. Call the MTs, call somebody."

The music dropped away during his shouts, so they echoed around the room.

"Oh, pull yourself together, you asshole." The model rose, walked-graceful and naked-to a bottle of water on a high counter. "He's not dead. His balls are probably in his throat, but he's still breathing. Excellent stopping power," she said to Eve, then drank deeply.

"Thanks." She crouched down to where the felled tree was now wheezing. "Dirk Hastings? I'm Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I've just spared you from an arrest for assaulting an officer. I'm happy to counteract that by hauling your idiot ass down to Central in restraints, or you can get your breath back and answer my questions here, in the comfort of your own home."

"I… want… a… lawyer," he managed.

"Sure, you can have that little thing. Call one up, and he can meet us at Central."

"I don't…" He sucked in air, expelled it. "Don't have to go anywhere with you, vicious bitch."

"Oh yeah. You do. Know why? I'm a vicious bitch with a badge and a weapon, so I'm as good as God Almighty come for Judgment Day. Here or there, pal. That's the only call you've got."

He managed to roll onto his back. His face was still sheet-white, but his breathing was steadier.

"Take your time," she told him. "Think about it." She straightened, lifted her brows at the still-naked model. "You got a robe or something?"

"Or something." She strolled over to a swatch of blue-and-white material hanging on a hook. With a few liquid moves, she shimmied it over her head where it slid down and turned itself into a microdress.

"Names," Eve said. "You first."

"Tourmaline." The model walked back to the chair, stretched herself out. "Just Tourmaline. I had it changed legally because I liked the way it sounded. Freelance artist's model."

"You do regular sessions with him?"

"This is my third this year. Personality-wise he's a jerk, but he knows what he's doing with a camera, and he doesn't try to bang the model."

Eve turned slightly as Peabody came off the elevator. Peabody let her eyes widen at the sight of the enormous man sprawled on the floor, but walked to Eve briskly. "I have that data for you, Lieutenant."

"Hold on to it a minute. Tourmaline, give the officer your information, address, contact number. Then you can either find somewhere to wait, or take off. We'll get in touch if we need to speak with you."

"Might as well take off. He won't be shooting any more today."

"Up to you. Next." She pointed at the young man.

"Dingo Wilkens."

"Dingo?"

"Well, um, Robert Lewis Wilkens, but-"

"Fine. What's in that room?" she asked, pointing toward a door.

"Um. Dressing area. It's-"

"Good. Go there. Sit down. Wait. You." She gave the girl a come-ahead gesture. "Name?"

"Liza Blue."

"Jesus. Does everybody make up names here? Go with the dingo."

They scurried off as Eve put her hands on her hips and looked back down at Hastings. He had his camera again, and was aiming it at her. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Strong face. Good form. Lots of attitude." He lowered the camera, spread his lips in a smile. "I'll call it Bitch Cop."

"Well, you've got your breath back. You want to stay down there, or are you going to get up?"

"You going to kick me in the balls again?"

"If you need it. Take the chair," she suggested, and snagged a stool by the high counter, dragged it over. Still holding the camera, Hastings limped over to the red chair, then sprawled in it.

"You interrupted my work. I was in the zone."

"Now, you're in my zone. What kind of camera is that?"

"Rizeri 5M. What's it to you?"

"That your usual tool?"

"Depends, for Christ's sake. I use a Bornaze 6000 for some shots. Still pull out the Hasselblad Twenty-First when the spirit moves. You want a fricking imaging lesson or what?"

"How about the Hiserman DigiKing."

"Piece of shit. For amateurs. Jesus."

"So, Hastings," she said conversationally, "you like following people around? Following pretty women, taking their pictures."

"I am a portographer. It's what I do."

"You've got two stalking busts."

"Bogus! Bullshit! I'm a freaking artist." He leaned forward. "Listen, they should have been grateful I found them of interest. Does a rose file charges when its image is captured?"

"Maybe you should snap pictures of flowers."

"Faces, forms-they are my medium. And I don'tsnap pictures. I create images. I paid the fines." He dismissed this with a wave of the hand. "I did the community service, for Christ's sake. And in both cases, the portraitures I created immortalized those ridiculous and ungrateful women."

"Is that what you're looking for? Immortality?"

"It's what I have." He glanced over at Peabody, swung the camera up again, framed her in, took the shot, all in one smooth move. "Foot soldier," he said and took another before Peabody could blink. "Good face. Square and sturdy."