J. Robb: Portrait In Death

He'd been afraid of Baxter, but it wasn't fear he felt now. It was jittering, jelly-filled terror. The man cop had been all heat, and heat could give you a few bruises. But cold, this kind of cold killed.

"Chevy Mini-Mule. 2051 model. Black, panel style. I gotta look up the license. I don't want any trouble. Hey, the owners are out of town for two weeks. Guy just wanted a ride."

"Look it up, you pus-ball. You've got twenty seconds."

She pointed at a uniform to go with the operator into the kiosk. Baxter had stopped struggling against Roarke. He stood now, pale as ice, with grief already creeping into his eyes.

"I was going the wrong way, Dallas. The wrong goddamn way. I left the kid in the club. Wanted to go home, put my feet up, have a beer. I left him there."

"What are you Psychic Cop now? You should've known this was coming down." There was a sneer in her voice, a brutal one she knew would snap him out of it. "I didn't know that about you, Baxter. We'll have to have you transferred to Special Ops. They could use your talents."

"Dallas. He's mine."

"We're going to get him." She let herself go long enough to take Baxter's arm. "Pull yourself together, or you won't be able to help him."

Her head was buzzing with the fear that wanted to sneak back, with the anger, with a sense of being just one step too late. Taking the license number, she drew it all in.

"All units. All units. Subject vehicle is identified as a black Chevrolet Mini-Mule, 2051, panel style. License is NY 5504 Baker Zulu. Repeat. New York, 5504 Baker Zulu. City-wide APB on vehicle and on suspect Stevenson, Gerald, aka Steven Audrey. This is Code Red."

She slapped the communicator back in her pocket. "Peabody?"

"Nothing for the last couple minutes, sir. They're still in motion. I heard a tourist blimp. Pretty sure. Couldn't catch much, but there was something about Chinatown."

"Downtown. He's headed south. All units, sweep area south of Canal. Let's move out. Baxter, you're with me."

"I've got my ride-"

"Leave it." She didn't trust him to drive, or to be on his own. "You're with me. I'll take the wheel," she told Roarke. "You, Feeney, McNab, start working on finding residents below Canal. Look for something near West Broadway. Anything that pops. Javert, Stevenson, Audrey, Gerald. Single residents. It'll be someplace that has parking close. Upper floors. He'll want space, light, and a view."

She climbed into the car. She'd wasted time with Fryburn. Ten minutes sooner, five, and they'd have moved on him before he'd laid a hand on Trueheart.

Minutes. It was coming down to minutes now.

"Peabody?"

"He's still conscious, sir. He mumbles every once in a while. I can't make much of it out." But she'd made notes of every word. "Communicator. Bartender. Pizza and vid. Officer down. Report."

While she headed downtown Eve called in, requesting that Traffic give her the location of the tourist blimp.

"You get any sense of the street, Peabody?"

"It's quieted down. I don't hear many horns. I'm catching sirens, but nothing too close. Not yet. There's some bumps. I think I'm getting them because the communicator's on the floor of the van. I can hear the tires go over potholes. I think-"

"Hold it. Wait." Eyes straight ahead, Eve strained her ears. "Street crew. That's an airjack."

"Ears like a cat," Roarke murmured. "I'll relay it to Feeney."

It took minutes, precious minutes, before Feeney's voice punched through. "Street crews scheduled on West Broadway and Worth, Beekman and Fulton at Williams."

"We've got the blimp passing over Bayard." She drew the map in her head even as Roarke brought it up on her 'link screen. "We split to all locations." But she had to go with her gut. "Head west," she told Roarke.

"Lieutenant," Peabody said from the back. "They've stopped."

As the van stopped, Trueheart closed his numb fingers over his communicator. Something he needed to do. Switch to homing. Thank God, thank God, he remembered. Finally remembered. But his fingers felt so fat, sogone. He couldn't quite make them work. Struggling to stay awake, he tucked the unit into his palm as the doors opened.

Gerry was very gentle. He didn't want to cause bruises. He didn't want to give pain. He explained that in comforting tones as he pulled Trueheart out of the back.

"This is the most important thing either of us will ever do," Gerry told him, supporting Trueheart's weight, moving steadily forward as Trueheart's civilian shoes bumped over the sidewalk.

"Murder," Trueheart mumbled. "You have the right to…"

"No, no." Patiently, Gerry drew out his key card, used it, then the palm screen to gain access to the building. "You've been listening to the news reports. I'm pretty disappointed with the angle they're taking, but I expected it. It'll all change once they understand."

Trueheart struggled to pay attention to the scene. The lights were dim, or maybe it was his eyes. "White walls, mail chutes, secured entrance, two elevators."

"Observant, aren't you?" Gerry laughed lightly as he called the elevator. "Me, too. My mother always said I noticed everything, and saw things other people didn't. That's why I became an image artist. I wanted to show people what they didn't see."

Inside the car, he requested the fifth floor.

"I noticed you right away," he went on.

"Fifth floor."

"Yeah, that's right. As soon as you walked into the club, I knew. You've got such strong light. Not everyone does. Not strong and pure, anyway, like yours. It's what makes you special."

"Five… B," Trueheart mumbled as his vision faded in and out on the apartment door.

"Yep, just A and B up here, and A works nights. Makes it easier. Come on in. You can lie down while I set things up."

"Loft.Village? Soho? Where?"

"Here now, just stretch out here."

He wanted to fight, but with arms and legs weak as a baby, his struggles were more petulant than defensive.

"Relax, relax. I don't want to give you any more soother just now. You have a right to know what you're about to do. About to become. Just give me a few minutes."

He had to save his strength, Trueheart thought dimly. What there was of it. Save it and observe. Observe and report. "Converted loft. Big space. Windows. Ah, God. Three large windows front, sky windows above. Top floor? Walls. Oh jeez, oh God. Walls… portraits. See the victims. I'm the victim. There's me. I'm on the wall. Am I dead?"

"He's losing it, Dallas."

"He's not." Eve clenched her fist, rapped once against the wheel. "He's doing the job. Roarke, give me something. Goddamn it."

"I'm working it." His hair fell like a black curtain over his face as he raced his fingers over a minipad. "I've got five possibles so far, more coming. These are popular sectors for singles."

"Five-story building, lofts."

"I heard him, Lieutenant." His voice was calm as a lake. "I need a few minutes."

She wasn't sure Trueheart had a few minutes.

Going with her gut, she drove across Broadway to skim along the cross streets. It was funkier, she thought. More welcoming to artists, Free-Agers, the young bohemians, and the well-heeled urbanites who enjoyed them.

He was young enough to want that sort of scene, and he had a solid financial backing. Nobody would think twice about seeing a guy help another guy-or girl-into a building. Quiet neighborhood. Young residents. Nobody would question that someone had been partying, was drunk or blissed out. Half of them would be the same.

Sirens and thunder rocked the night, and she watched lightning slice like a jagged-edge knife through the sky. The rain gushed out.

"Let me explain," Gerry said as he tested the lights and filters he'd set up. "My mother was an amazing woman. Pure and kind. She raised me on her own. She couldn't afford to be a professional mother, but she never neglected me. She was a nurse, and she spent her life helping people. Then she got sick."