Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(43)

"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 worked for him?"

"Two weeks." Dingo looked cautiously at the door of the room where Hastings waited. Then leaning closer to Eve, he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Mostly his assistants don't last long. I heard the one before me was in and out in three hours. That's kind of a record. The longest was six weeks."

"And why is this?"

"He freaks, man. Complete meltdown. Nuclear. You screw up, you don't screw up, whatever, if something doesn't fly right for him, he's orbital."

"Violent?"

"He breaks shit, throws shit. I saw him beat his own head against the wall last week."

"Seen him beat anybody else's?"

"Not so far, but I heard he threatened to throw this guy in front of a maxibus during a field shoot. I don't think he actually did it, or anything."

"Have you seen this girl around here? In person, in portraits?"

Dingo took the print. "No. Not my type."

"Oh?"

"She doesn't look like she'd party."

"Would you say she's Hastings's type?"

"For party-time?"

"For any time."

"Not for partying. Don't think the dude parties much. But he'd go for the face."

"You own a vehicle, Dingo?"

He glanced up at her again. "I got an airboard."

"A vehicle, with doors?"

"Nah." He actually grinned at the idea of it. "But I can drive. That's one of the reasons I got the job, because I can drive Hastings to consignments and shit." He paused a minute, frowned down at the print. "He didn't really throw somebody in front of a maxi, did he?"

"Not that I know of. What were you doing night before last?"

"Just hanging, I guess."

"And where would this hanging have taken place?"

"Um... I dunno. I was just.." The light dawned, turning his eyes into wide, glassy saucers in a face gone dead pale. "Oh man, oh Jesus, I'm like a suspect?"

"Why don't you tell me where you were, what you were doing, who you were with?"

"I-I-I, jeez! Loose and Brick and Jazz and me, we hung at Brick's place for a while, then we cruised The Spot, this club we go to mostly, and Loose, he got pretty messed up, so we dumped him home about, jeez, about one, maybe? Then we hung a little more, and I went home and crashed."

"Do these hanging buddies have actual names?"

"Oh, oh, yeah."

"Give them to the officer, along with your address. Then you're free to go."