In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

"becomes my image. My vision, your reality in one defining moment."
     
     
"Uh-huh. And it pisses you off when people don't understand and appreciate what you're offering them."
     
     
"Well, of course it does. People are idiots. Morons. Every one."
     
     
"So you spend your life immortalizing idiots and morons."
     
     
"Yes, I do. And making them more than they are."
     
     
"And what do they make you?"
     
     
"Fulfilled."
     
     
"So, what's your method? You shoot here, in the studio with a professional."
     
     
"Sometimes. Or I wander the streets, until a face speaks to me. In order to live in this corrupt world, I take consignments. Portraits. Weddings, funerals, children, and so on. But I prefer a free hand."
     
     
"Where were your hands, and the rest of you, on the night of August eighth, and the morning of August ninth?"
     
     
"How the hell do I know?"
     
     
"Think about it. Night before last, starting at nine p.m."
     
     
"Working. Here, and up in my apartment. I'm creating a montage. Eyes. Eyes from birth to death."
     
     
"Interested in death, are you?"
     
     
"Of course. Without it, what's life?"
     
     
"Were you working alone?"
     
     
"Absolutely."
     
     
"Talk to anyone, see anyone after nine?"
     
     
His lips peeled back. "I said I was working. I don't like to be disturbed."
     
     
"So you were alone, here, alone, all evening. All night."
     
     
"I just said so. I worked until about midnight, I'd think. I don't watch the freaking clock. I probably had a drink, then took a long, hot bath to relax the body and mind. Was in bed around one."
     
     
"Do you own a vehicle, Hastings?"
     
     
"I don't understand these questions. Yes, I own a vehicle. Of course I own a vehicle. I have to get around, don't I? Do you think I'd depend on public transportation? I have a car, and a four-person van used primarily for consignments when more equipment and assistants are required."
     
     
"When did you first meet Rachel Howard?"
     
     
"I don't know anyone by that name."
     
     
She rose, walked over to Peabody. "Receipts?"
     
     
Hastily, Peabody stopped sucking in her cheeks. "Two. She used a debit card on two occasions for small purchases. June and July."
     
     
"Okay. Go check on the other two. Just peek in, look intimidating."
     
     
"One of my favorites."
     
     
Eve went back to the stool. "Rachel Howard is on record as a customer of your business."
     
     
After a long stare, Hastings let out a snort. "I don't know the idiot customers. I hire people to deal with idiot customers."
     
     
"Maybe this will refresh your memory." She pulled out the candid shot from the 24/7, and offered it.
     
     
There was a flicker, very brief, but she caught it. "A good face," he said casually. "Open, naive, young. I don't know her."
     
     
"Yes, you do. You recognize her."
     
     
"I don't know her," he repeated.
     
     
"Try this one." With her eyes on his, Eve drew out the posed photo.
     
     
"Almost brilliant," he murmured. "Very nearly brilliant." He rose with the print, moved to the window to study it. "The composition, the arrangement, the tones. Youth, sweetness, and that openness still there, even though she's dead."
     
     
"Why do you say she's dead?"
     
     
"I photograph the dead. The funerals people want preserved. And I go to the morgue now and then, pay a tech to let me photograph a body. I recognize death."
     
     
He lowered the print, glared at Eve. "You think I killed this girl? You actually think I killed her? For what?"
     
     
"You tell me. You know her."
     
     
"Her face is familiar." Now, he wet his lips as he looked back at the print. "But there are so many faces. She looks... I've seen her before. Somewhere. Somewhere."
     
     
He came back, sat heavily. "I've seen her face somewhere, but I don't know her. Why would I kill someone I don't know, when I know so many people who irritate me, and haven't killed any of them?"
     
     
***
     
     
It was a damn good question, to Eve's mind. She pressed and probed another fifteen minutes, then stashed him in a room while she pulled out the young male assistant.
     
     
"Okay, Dingo, what do you do for Hastings?"
     
     
"I-I-I-I-I-"
     
     
"Stop. Breathe. In and out, come on."
     
     
Once he'd gulped in air, he tried again. "I'm working as studio and on-site assistant. I-I-" He sucked in air when Eve pointed her finger at him. "I have the camera ready, set the lights, change the set, whatever he wants."
     
     
"How long have you