Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(49)

***

When all was done that needed to be done, a note and an image were sent to Nadine Furst, at Channel 75.

Chapter 10

The beeping of the bedside 'link shot her out of a nightmare. From dark to dark. Shivering, groping through the panic, she dragged at the tangled sheets.

"Block video. Oh Jesus, lights, ten percent. Damn it, goddamn it."

Eve scrubbed the heels of her hands over her damp cheeks, sucked at air while her heart continued to thunder, and answered the call.

"Dallas."

DISPATCH, DALLAS, LIEUTENANT EVE.

She dragged at her hair. "Acknowledged."

REPORT IMMEDIATELY, LINCOLN CENTER, ENTRANCE TO METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE. POSSIBLE HOMICIDE.

"Is the scene secure?"

AFFIRMATIVE.

"Notify Peabody, Officer Delia. My ETA, twenty minutes."

ACKNOWLEDGED. DISPATCH OUT.

She rolled out of bed, the empty bed. It was nearly four in the morning, but he hadn't come to bed. Her skin was clammy from the nightmare, so she gave herself two minutes in the shower, another minute in the swirling heat of the drying tube, and felt almost steady again.

She dressed quickly in the dim light, strapped on her weapon, pocketed her badge, her field restraints, clipped on her recorder. And was halfway out the bedroom door when she cursed, stalked back, and dug a memo cube out of the drawer of the night stand.

"I caught a case," she said into it. "I don't know when I'll be back."

She thought of a dozen things she wanted to say, but they all seemed pointless. So she left it at that, tossed the memo on the bed, and went to work.

***

The police sensors were up, flashing red and yellow. At the curb a couple of black-and-whites nosed together, with their cones circling in cold blue, hot red.

The great fountain that graced the wide terrace was quiet, and the elegant building behind it dressed in shadows. She'd lived a decade in New York without ever having come to this cathedral of the arts. Until Roarke had taken her inside to the theater, to concerts, even the opera.

When you were hooked up with a man like Roarke, she thought, your horizons broadened whether you wanted them to or not.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"Lieutenant."

She nodded to the uniform who greeted her and pulled herself back. A cop didn't have a personal life, or personal worries on a crime scene.

"What have we got?" She skimmed his tag. "Officer Feeno."

"Male, Asian mix, about twenty, DOS. Couple of half-stewed partyers found him in the fountain. Guy pulled the kid out, woman called it in. My partner and I were first to respond and arrived about two minutes after the call. My partner's got the witnesses stashed over there."

He gestured to the steps leading up to the entrance.

"Keep them wrapped for now. Send my aide through when she arrives."

"Yes, sir. Looks like he might've fallen in and drowned. Not a mark on him, and the way he's dressed, he could be an usher for the Met or one of the other theaters in the Center. Thing is," he continued as he fell into step beside Eve, "he's about the same age as the recycle bin case. She didn't have any marks on her either."

"We'll see what we see."

There were still little rivulets and pools of wet where the body had been pulled out of the fountain. The air was already warm, but heavy enough with humidity that she imagined the water would take some time to evaporate.

She set down her field kit, engaged her recorder, and stood over the body.

Young, she thought on the first quick stir of pity. Twenty at best. Pretty face for a boy. Death had leeched his color, but she imagined his skin had been a smooth and dusky gold to go with the ink black hair and brows. Sharp facial bones, long, elegant fingers, a long trim body, mostly leg.

He was dressed in black-short jacket with a notched collar, straight pants, soft leather shoes. When she crouched, peered close, she could see the faint marks where a name tag had been removed.

Carefully removed, she thought.

"Victim is male, Asian, eighteen to twenty. No visible signs of violence. He is fully dressed in what appears to be a uniform."

She sealed up, then went through his pockets for ID. She found a wallet that held two debit cards, a student ID, and an employee card from the Lincoln Center.

"Victim is identified as Sulu, Kenby, age nineteen, Upper East Side residence, currently a registered student at Juilliard and employed by Lincoln Center."

She sealed the wallet in evidence, then examined his hands.

The skin was smooth, the nails short and well-kept. "Come from money, don't you?" she murmured. "Took care of yourself. Juilliard." She looked toward the Center. "So it was theater for you. You were working tonight. Part-time job, right? To keep close to the theater, maybe help pay your way."

She turned his right hand over, saw the faint red mark from a pressure syringe. "I'm going to find out how he got you, Kenby."

She dug into her field kit, barely glancing up when she heard the huffing breaths and rapid clap of cop shoes on pavement.

"Record on, Peabody. The body's been moved. Lifted out of the fountain, civilian found him." As she spoke, she fixed on microgoggles and examined the palm of the right hand more closely.

"Faint discoloration as is typical from pressure syringe."