J. Robb: Portrait In Death

"It's her you feel sorry for."

"A great deal. She would have loved him, wouldn't she? Loved him very much by all accounts. Wouldn't she love him still, even after all he's done?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I don't suppose we ever will. Here's Feeney now," he added, and stepped out.

Had he been talking about Gerald Stevenson's mother, Eve wondered, or his own?

She cleared the bedroom for the sweepers and huddled with Feeney. "Where's McNab?"

"Ah, he nipped into the other bedroom there. Said he'd give Peabody a hand."

"I bet it's not his hand he's hoping to give her."

Feeney could only wince. "Please. Don't put such pictures in my head."

"I like to share, since they keep getting jammed into mine. Pictures," she repeated and gestured to the wall. "I don't think he's here. No nice little photos sitting around his mother's room. There would've been. She'd have had some of him in there, or sitting around."

"Mothers tend to," Feeney agreed.

"Figures, especially given his line of work or interest. So he cleared out any images of himself, just in case."

Trying to ignore what may or may not be going on in the bedroom, she tapped an evidence bag. "The mother liked Barrymore products. He left her enhancements in her room."

She jerked her head toward the open hallway door. "Yancy's still working on the witness-stubborn twit. Hopefully, he'll have it done soon, but I figure you should start an image search on the faces here anyway, see if anything pops."

"Take awhile." He brightened. "I'll have McNab do it. Keep his hands, and everything else on him, where it belongs."

"Works for me. I'm going to goose Yancy in a minute. If he's making progress I'm taking Roarke and checking out the parking facilities he tagged for us. Be easier if we have the guy's face to show around.

"He's coming back here, Feeney. His mother's things are here, this gallery of photos, some of his clothes, his mom's girl stuff. There's still food in the kitchen, and he's too compulsive and well-trained to let it spoil. But he's got work to do. I think he wants to finish his work before he comes home. The neighbor was right. He's on assignment."

"How close is he?"

"Pretty close to done. He knows we're moving in. He's had to move to backup plans. It's not that he planned to kill until he got caught." Face set, she dropped the bag of enhancements back onto a table. "He planned to kill until he was finished. It's not the thrill that drives him, it's the work, so he has an endgame. He wants us to see it, wants us to see the finished work. He may have to move a little quicker now to get it done, so he can show it off before we stop him. He'll have the next target in sight by now."

"Lieutenant." Pretty-faced Yancy leaned against the doorway. "I think we've got it. Sorry it took so long. It's tougher when the witness figures we're, you know, full of shit."

"Are you confident she's not stringing you?"

"Oh yeah. I explained, really politely and apologetically, that she could be charged with obstruction and so forth if she knowingly gave me a false image. Her lawyer made lots of lawyer noises, then verified-that's another thing that delayed the result."

"Let's see what we've got."

He pulled out his Identi-pad, turned it so she could view the finished image.

"Jesus Christ." Her heart did a quick leap into her throat. "Transmit that image to Central. I want every black-and-white, every on-duty officer to have that image ASAP. Suspect is identified as Gerald Stevenson, aka Steve Audrey, employed as bartender at Make The Scene. Get it out, Yancy, now!"

She yanked her communicator out of her pocket and tried to raise Baxter.

He'd given it the hour, and saw nothing more than the usual scene. A crowd of mostly kids, preening and parading, sipping ridiculously named drinks and heating up the keyboards when they weren't jamming onto the dance floor.

Not that he didn't enjoy watching young, agile female bodies gyrate in skimpy summer clothes, but the music was too loud, too brash.

It gave him a mild headache, and worse-much worse-made him feel old.

He wanted to go home, prop up his feet, suck down a beer, and watch some screen.

Christ, when had he become his father?

What he needed was to get cozy with a woman again. A noncop type female with long lines and soft curves. The job had been eating up too much of his recreational time-which went to show what happened when you transferred to Homicide from Anti-Crime, ended up under Dallas-and not in a sexual way-and took on a green rookie.

Nothing wrong with Trueheart, though, he had to admit it as he tracked his gaze across the room and saw his boy sipping a soda water and chatting up some fresh-faced young thing.

Kid was bright as a polished star, eager as a puppy, and would work until he dropped. He'd never figured on taking on the responsibility of trainer, but by damn, he was enjoying it.

Made him feel good the way the kid looked to him for advice, listened to his stories, believed his bullshit.

Oh yeah, he was turning into his old man right in front of his own eyes.

Time to clock out and go home.

He paid his tab, noting the change of shift at the bar. He wasn't the only one calling it a night.

Casually, he made a circle, around the tables, scanning faces one last time, watching the data hounds, eyeballing the staff. He waited until Trueheart shifted his gaze, then Baxter tapped his wrist unit in the signal they were packing it in.

Trueheart nodded, turned his glass on the bar to indicate he'd just finish up, then head on home himself.

Working well together,Baxter decided as he walked out into the heavy air.Kid's coming along fine. He glanced up once at the storm-tossed sky, and hoped to hell he made it home before it broke.

He was in his car, and ten full blocks uptown, when his communicator signalled.

"Ah, shit, Dallas. Can't a guy go home once in a damn while?" Grumbling to himself, he pulled out his communicator. "Baxter. What the hell do you want now?"

"Suspect's ID'd. Gerald Stevenson is Steve Audrey, your friendly, fucking bartender."

He shot a look at his rearview, his sideview mirrors, then cut across a lane of traffic before he was pinned in by a maxibus and a streamline of Rapid Cabs. "I'm ten blocks away, heading north. I'll double back. Suspect clocked off shift at twenty-one hundred. Trueheart's still in there."

"Contacting him now. Keep your communicator open and active. Get back there, Baxter. I don't want the kid handling this alone. I'm already on my way."

Baxter tried to squeeze between cabs, listening as Eve called for Trueheart.

He'd finished his drink, and was feeling a little flattered, a little nervous as the girl who'd come over to talk to him had asked for his number.

She'd wanted to dance, too, but he was a terrible dancer. And he really had to get home, get a good night's sleep. You never knew when the case was going to break.

He knew he was blushing when he gave the girl, Marley, his private 'link number. He hated that color so easily washed into his face, and prayed he'd grow out of it. Soon.

Cops didn't blush. Dallas sure as hell didn't. Baxter didn't.

Maybe there was some sort of medical treatment to prevent it.

Amused at himself, he walked out of the club. Storm's coming up, he thought, and found himself pleased. He loved a good booming storm. He debated whether to jump into the subway, head straight home underground, or walk a few blocks while the air turned electric.

He wondered if-after the case was closed and he could tell Marley he was a cop-she would want to go out with him.

Just pizza and a vid, maybe. Something really casual. You just couldn't get to know somebody very well in a club when the music was loud and everybody was talking at once.