In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

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?"
     
     
"How about the Hiserman DigiKing."
     
     
"Piece of shit. For amateurs. Jesus."
     
     
"So, Hastings," she said conversationally, "you like following people around? Following pretty women, taking their pictures."
     
     
"I am a portographer. It's what I do."
     
     
"You've got two stalking busts."
     
     
"Bogus! Bullshit! I'm a freaking artist." He leaned forward. "Listen, they should have been grateful I found them of interest. Does a rose file charges when its image is captured?"
     
     
"Maybe you should snap pictures of flowers."
     
     
"Faces, forms-they are my medium. And I don't snap pictures. I create images. I paid the fines." He dismissed this with a wave of the hand. "I did the community service, for Christ's sake. And in both cases, the portraitures I created immortalized those ridiculous and ungrateful women."
     
     
"Is that what you're looking for? Immortality?"
     
     
"It's what I have." He glanced over at Peabody, swung the camera up again, framed her in, took the shot, all in one smooth move. "Foot soldier," he said and took another before Peabody could blink. "Good face. Square and sturdy."
     
     
"I was thinking, if I had some of the pudge sucked out of the cheeks." Peabody sucked it in herself to demonstrate. "I'd get a little more cheekbone, then-"
     
     
"Leave it alone. Square is righteous."
     
     
"But-"
     
     
"Excuse me." With what she considered heroic patience, Eve raised a hand. "Can we get back to the point?"
     
     
"Sorry, sir," Peabody muttered.
     
     
"What point? Immortality?" Hastings heaved his mountainous shoulders. "It's what I have. What I give. Artist, subject. The relationship is intimate, more than sex, more than blood. It's an intimacy of spirit. Your image," he said, tapping the camera,