The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [58]
Rachel had her arm around another girl, her own head thrown back as the photo caught her in a bright, delighted laugh.
“Hastings.” Eve motioned him over. “Who, what, where, and when?” she demanded.
“That’s it!” His shoulder bumped McNab as he maneuvered to study the full screen, and nearly knocked the lightweight EDD man out of his chair. “I knew I’d seen that face. What is this, what is this? Yeah, the Morelli-Desoto wedding, in January. See it’s labeled. There are more—”
“Don’t touch the keyboard,” Eve snapped. “McNab, enlarge and print the image. You’ve got more of her, Hastings?”
“I got the whole fricking wedding. Part of the package is I keep them for a year so people can take their time selecting. And Aunt Jane or Grandma Whoosits can come around six months later and order some. There’re more of the girl there, and some I took of just her because of that face.”
“McNab, run through, select any images of the victim. Enlarge and print.”
He scrolled through, giving the commands. Eve saw portions of the wedding unfold—the bride and groom, the family portraits, the candids. Young people, old people, friends and relatives.
“That’s the lot, Dallas.”
“No. No, it’s not,” Hastings interrupted before Eve could speak. “I took more. I told you I took more of her, and some other faces that interested me. Subfile on this disc. Faces. They’re under Faces.”
McNab called it up. Eve noted Hastings hadn’t bothered with the bride or groom here. There was a portrait of an old, old woman, a dreamy smile almost lost in the wrinkled map of her face. A child with icing ringing his mouth. Another, surprisingly tender, of a little girl in her party dress, fast asleep across a chair.
Faces streamed by.
“This isn’t right,” Hastings muttered. “She’s not in here. I took them, goddamn it. Four or five candids, two posed. I took more of her than anyone else outside the freaking wedding party. I took those shots.”
“I believe you.” Considering, Eve tapped her fingers on her thigh. “Couple of things here, Hastings. Are you willing to take a Truth Test?”
“Fuck. Fuck. Yeah, what the hell.”
“I’ll set it up.” She glanced at her wrist unit. Too late in the day to schedule one. “For tomorrow. Now, who worked with you on this job?”
“How the hell do I know? It was freaking January.”
“You got files, records?”
“Sure, on the jobs, on the images, on the shoots. Not on assistants. I go through assistants like toilet paper, and toilet paper’s a lot more useful.”
“You pay them, don’t you?”
“More than they’re worth,” he began, then blinked. “Right. Right. Lucia takes care of it. She’ll know.”
For the first time since he’d laid eyes on Eve, Roarke was relieved she wasn’t there when he got home. Ignoring a quick tug of guilt, he went directly upstairs rather than heading back to Summerset’s quarters to check on him.
He needed time. He needed privacy. He needed, for Christ’s sweet sake, to think.
It could all be a hoax. It probably was, he told himself as he coded into the secured room that held his unregistered equipment. It likely was a hoax, some complicated, convoluted scheme to bilk him out of some ready cash, or to distract him from some upcoming negotiations.
But why use something so deeply buried in his past? Why, for God’s sake, try to tangle him up with something he could, and bloody well would, unravel quickly enough?
It was bullshit. Bollocks.
But he wasn’t quite sure.
Because he wanted a drink, a little too much, he opted for coffee, strong and black, before turning to the sleek black console.
He’d had this room built, had added all the security precautions personally. For one purpose. To get around the all-seeing eye and the sticky tendrils of CompuGuard. There was some business, even for the legitimate businessman he’d become, that was no one’s concern but his.
Here, in this room with its privacy screened windows, its secured door, he could send and receive any communiqu