The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [31]
“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 blonde chica 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, what is this? I download them from the Net, frame ’em up. I like looking at women, so what? I like 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 I paid 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?