In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

never figured sex could be work-and boring."
     
     
"Got a camera?"
     
     
"Yeah, somewhere. Why?"
     
     
"I wondered if you liked to take pictures, too."
     
     
"I don't see why... oh Rachel, her Imaging class." He smiled a little. "I should've thought of that one. As TA I could've monitored that class, hung out with her." The smile faded. "I'd've been there last night when class ended. I'd've been with her."
     
     
***
     
     
"Keep him on the short list," Eve told Peabody as they headed back to the car. "He had motive, means, and opportunity. We'll run him a little deeper, see if anything pops."
     
     
"He seemed really torn up about it."
     
     
"Yeah, really torn up over a girl who laughed at him, who wouldn't fall at his feet begging for his pretty penis, and who let her friends know she'd turned him down."
     
     
She slid into the car. "He's got an ego the size of Saturn, and as a model potential knowledge of photography, and access to the necessary equipment. He knew where she lived, where she worked, he knew her movements and habits. She trusted him because she believed she could handle him. So we'll take a good, long look at him."
     
     
She headed back to Central to tie up loose ends. The tox report on Rachel Howard was waiting for her. At least she hadn't known what was done to her, Eve thought as she scanned it. Not with all those opiates in her system.
     
     
So he'd tranq'd her, she thought, leaning back in her desk chair. Before transport, or during? Either way, he had a vehicle. Or he'd lured her somewhere. An apartment, a studio. Had to be private. Then he'd slipped her the drugs.
     
     
If it was the last scenario, she'd known him. She was too smart to be lured by a stranger.
     
     
She was his first, he'd said. But he'd been well prepared. Step by step. Selecting, observing, recording. Youth and vitality, she thought. He'd wanted to own them. And her innocence.
     
     
She'd walked out of class at nine. Had he waited for her? She spotted him, flashed that smile. Maybe he offered her a ride home, but she turned him down. Going to study with pals, but thanks. A couple of her classmates had verified that. She told them she was going to stay on campus, study with some friends.
     
     
He couldn't afford to be seen, so how had he lured her?
     
     
Staged the run-in, she decided. He was good at staging. Maybe he's on foot. Easy to meld and blend. But he has to make her take a detour, has to get her into his vehicle. Can't take a chance on public transportation.
     
     
He wants her face in the media-his image-so he knows she could be recognized after the murder. And he could be described. So, no subway, no buses, no cabs. Private vehicle.
     
     
But why did she go with him?
     
     
She began to write her report, hoping that some of the facts she put in would trip over into theory.
     
     
Her desk 'link beeped.
     
     
"Dallas." Captain Feeney's hangdog face slid onto the screen. Noting the crumbs at the corner of his mouth, she leaned closer to the 'link.
     
     
"You got danishes up there?"
     
     
"No." He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "Not anymore."
     
     
"How come EDD always rates pastries and stuff? Murder cops need sugar substitute the same as the rest."
     
     
"We are the elite, what can I say. We're finished with Nadine's 'link."
     
     
"And?"
     
     
"Nothing that's going to help much. He transmitted the images and text from a public comp at one of those dance, drink, and data joints. Transmitted it just after six hundred hours, but he shot it out earlier, with a hold. Shot it out about two. Straight job-he didn't bounce it around. Either he doesn't know how, or he didn't give two shits. Those places are crawling that time of night. Nobody's going to remember some guy who popped in for a brew and used a 'link."
     
     
"We'll check it out anyway. Location?"
     
     
"Place called Make The Scene."
     
     
"Pop."
     
     
"Mean something?"
     
     
"It's a club she frequented. Thanks. Quick work."
     
     
"That's why we're the elite, and get danishes."
     
     
"Bite me," she muttered and cut him off.
     
     
She swung into the bullpen. There were no danishes, she noted. There weren't even crumbs. She'd have to settle for a Power Bar from vending or take a chance on the food at the data club.
     
     
Surely it couldn't be worse than a Power Bar.
     
     
"Peabody, we're in the field."
     
     
"I was just about to have this sandwich." She held up a wrapped