J. Robb: Portrait In Death

"Here." Roarke handed him a tool. "Let me help you."

"Scene and suspect secure," Eve announced into her communicator and set her boot on Gerry's back in case he came out of it before she had him restrained. "Officer Trueheart appears to be unharmed. Where's my medic?"

She turned, found the loft full of cops. She gave it a minute, catching her breath, letting the adrenaline rush dissipate. She understood their need, wanted to give them this moment.

But…

"Too many cops in here. This scene is now secure, Code Red is ended. I need this area cleared. Officers, I imagine there's some crime somewhere in the city that needs dealing with. Good job," she added. "Thank you."

"Damn good job," Feeney told her and laid a hand on her shoulder as they watched Roarke and Baxter lay Trueheart on the floor. "You okay, kid?"

"A little shaky in the knees now. That was awful damn close."

"Close don't mean shit." He swiped at his forehead with his arm. "I'm getting too old to run up five flights of stairs. Want me to take this asshole in for you, book him?"

"Yeah. Appreciate it. I want first crack at him, though. So put him in one of the cages, and if he says anything about lawyers-"

"I've been having a little trouble with my ears. Gotta get them checked." He grinned viciously, then crouched down and pulled out his restraints.

She walked over to kneel by the medic.

"Just buzz juice," she was told. "Pulse is strong, bp's low, but not dangerously. He's going to need a lot of fluids, and he'll have one bitch of a headache, but he's young, strong, and fit."

"He's coming around." Baxter pushed a hand through his still dripping hair. "Look at that. Hey, kid, come on back. Can't have you lying down on the job, making me look bad."

Trueheart's lashes fluttered. His vision was blurry and his mind confused. "Sir." He tried to swallow, coughed a little. "Lieutenant? Am I dead?"

"Not even close." She couldn't resist, and took his hand. Baxter already had his other one. "You did the job, Officer Trueheart. You did good. Suspect is in custody."

"'Kay. Pretty tired now," he said, then conked out again.

"He'll go in and out for a while," the medic said cheerfully. "We'll get some fluids in him, take him overnight for observation. He'll be good as new by morning."

"Dallas, I want to stick with him."

"Affirmative," she said to Baxter. "Update me on his condition. Contact his mother. Make sure she knows he's okay first, then let her know he did the job."

She straightened up, and prepared to do hers.

"You see," Gerry explained. "They're inside me now. Not my body-the body's just a shell. My mother explained all that to me. They're in my soul. Light to light."

"Did your mother tell you to take their light, Gerry?"

"No." He shook his head, leaned forward earnestly. "I wish we'd understood it all before she died. It didn't have to happen. Itnever has to happen. We'll all live forever, we have the capacity. It's just the body that needs to be shed off."

"So," Eve said, just as reasonably. "You shed off Rachel Howard's, Kenby Sulu's, and Alicia Dilbert's bodies for them?"

"Yes. Their light was so strong, you see. If you really looked, really understood my portraits of them, you'd see that. My mother told me about the light, how as a nurse, she'd see the light in the eyes of the patients. It would be so strong in some, even when medically it seemed as though there wasn't a chance for them. But she'd see that light, she said, and knew they were going to beat the odds. Others, well, you'd think they were going to be fine, but the light wasn't there. And they'd die. Just slip away."

"Your mother's light was strong."

"Yes, but not strong enough." Grief shuddered over his face, and for a moment his eyes weren't mad. They were young and shattered. "Too many shadows. The shadows smothered the light. You see…" He shifted in his chair again. When his face cleared of sorrow, the madness was back over it. "I studied the work of Henri Javert. He was-"

"I know. He photographed the dead."

"It's a fascinating art. I could see what my mother meant about the light. In the dead, once the light's been taken, the shell is empty. Javert's work was brilliant, and helped show me the way. Preserve the light, shed the body."

"Take the light into yourself, through the camera."

"The lens is magic. It's not all technology, you know. It's art and magic. Through it you can see the soul. You can look into a subject and see their soul through the lens. It's amazing. I have the gift."

"Why did you use Hastings?"

"I don't understand the question."

"You took file images from him."

"Oh. I really admire his work. He's a difficult man, but an incredible artist. I learned a lot from him, in a very short time. He also photographs the dead, but for commission. Not for pure art. This is art."

"Did you assist him in photographing the dead?"

"Only once, but it was amazing. I'd been so down, you know, after my mother. Professor Browning helped get me back on track. She understood I was going through a rough patch and suggested I take the job as Hastings's assistant. Keep busy. I only worked with him for a week or so, but it brought me back. When I saw Rachel Howard at that wedding, saw the light just spilling out of her… it was an epiphany. Hastings saw it, too. I had to stop myself from just grabbing the camera from him to take her portrait, but he saw it, too. So I realized he was part of the path. Like a guide."

"And you took the discs."

"I guess it wasn't right, and I'm sorry. I'll pay the fine," he told her with an apologetic smile. "But it was for something so important-I'm sure Hastings will understand that. I went back later, once I had it all worked out. He's a little careless and disorganized about his files. I just went through them to see. And the light-the faces-just jumped out at me."

"Trueheart wasn't there."

"Trueheart?"

"My officer. The one you had in your studio tonight."

"Trueheart. It's a perfect name for him. I hadn't completed my research on him because I had someone else in mind for the last. But as soon as I saw him in the club, I knew. I just knew, and tonight it fell into place."

"About the club. Why did you change your name?"

"You have to be careful. I knew people wouldn't understand, would try to stop me. I thought I'd set up an alter ego, just as a cushion."

"You'd already changed it once, as Hastings's assistant. Were you already planning your… gallery?"

"I think, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was. But lots of artists take a professional name, and I was just trying that one on. I took Javert's name because I really admired him."

"When you took the job at the club," she prompted, "you had your plan in place."

"Oh yeah. But for the club, I thought I'd just keep it simple-my name, I mean. Audrey is Mom's middle name, so it was kind of an homage to her. I'm kinda thirsty? Can I get a drink?"

"Sure." She gestured to Peabody. "How'd you pick the data club?"

"Oh, I used to hang there sometimes. A lot of the college kids come into the club. Almost all of them pass through sooner or later, so taking a job tending bar was a good way to observe and select. And the data club made sense. I could get the word out on my work efficiently, privately."

"How?"

"I'd just slip back in after I'd done the portraits and discarded the shell. Slip the data disc to the dj, or dump it into an in-basket. Nobody pays attention. I knew Nadine Furst would get the story out. She's really good, you know?"

When Peabody offered him water, he took it gratefully. "And 75 has the best ratings in the city. I did my research."

"Bet you did."

Drinking, he nodded. "You've seen my work now. My studio, my gallery." Dressed in the ugly orange NYPSD jumpsuit, his ankle chained to the table, the harsh lights from the overhead in Interview Room A spilling over him, he looked proud.