The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [53]
“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’s killed 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?