Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(58)

Eve bit back a sigh. "Do you have a list of the cleaning crew, the maintenance crew, the students."

"Of course. I have a list of everyone."

***

Back at Central, Eve closed herself in her office. She put up a board. She hung the images of the victims, the texts Nadine had received, the lists of people she'd questioned, and had yet to question. Then she sat down, spread out her notes, and let her mind drift.

She'd re-interviewed Jackson Hooper and Diego Feliciano, and this time their stories were almost identical. Didn't know nor recognize Kenby Sulu, and had been home, alone, on the night in question.

Possible connection between Hooper and Feliciano?

Eve shook her head. She was letting her mind drift too far, she thought, and reined it back.

The killer wanted something from the victims. Their light. Hastings had said he wouldn't put that light out. Was the killer putting it out, or was he transferring it? Into himself.

For what purpose?

Glory, he wanted glory, acknowledgment, acclaim. But that wasn't all.

The victims had been chosen for specific reasons. Youth, vitality, innocence. Both had been bright, of mind, of spirit, of face.

Bright lights.

The killer used the data club to transmit. So he frequented the club. He knew how it worked, knew it drew the college crowd.

Was he one of them, or did he want to be?

Couldn't afford college? Kicked out of college? Taught at college instead of being acknowledged as an artist?

He knew imaging, was skilled in the art. Her mind wandered to Leeanne Browning. Alibied, but alibis could be manufactured.

She added to her notes: Possible connection between Browning and/or Brightstar and Hastings?

Using the computer, she called up a city map, ordered pertinent locations highlighted. The two crime scenes, the two universities, Portography, the parking port, Browning's apartment, Diego's apartment, the club, and the two victims' residences, the two dump sites.

Both victims had been dumped near their place of employment. Why was that?

Where was his place of employment? she wondered. Where did he do his work? This very personal, very important work.

Near the club? He's mobile, but why go too far afield to troll, to hunt, to observe, then to transmit?

Both victims had recognized their killer. She was sure of that. Casual acquaintance, good friend, fellow student, teacher. Someone they'd seen before. Yet they hadn't run in the same circles, known the same people.

Except for Hastings, and the club.

She did a search for imaging studios within a five-block radius of the data club. Tried a cross match with the registered owners to her lists from Lucia and came up goose egg.

She'd have Peabody get an employee list, then crosscheck that.

Rubbing absently at the headache dead center of her forehead, she contacted Peabody in the bull pen. "Get me something from vending, will you? I don't have any credits on me and those damn machines won't take my code anymore."

"It's because you kick them."

"Just get me a damn sandwich."

"Dallas, you're off shift five minutes ago."

"Don't make me come out there," Eve warned and clicked off.

She worked through the change of shift, hearing the rise and fall of it through her open door. She ate at her desk, washing the lousy sandwich down with superior coffee.

She filed her updated report, harassed the lab, left two snippy messages for Morris, then turned to stare at her board again.

He'd already picked the next, and unless she found the connection, the right connection, some other bright light would be extinguished.

She gathered her things and prepared to accomplish at least one of the items on her to-do list. She'd go home and kick Roarke's ass.

The prospect didn't put a spring in her step, but she'd stalled long enough. But as she approached the elevator, she spotted Dr. Mira coming toward her.

"I thought I'd catch you."

"Just," Eve said. "We can go back to my office."

"No, no, you're on your way home, I'd like to do the same. Why don't we walk and talk. Do you mind taking the glides?"

"That's fine. You're done with Hastings?"

"Yes. Fascinating man."

Mira smiled as they stepped on one of the down glides. She managed to look fresh as morning even after a long day. Her suit was cream colored and spotless. Eve couldn't figure out how anyone could wear something that close to white in New York, particularly in or around Central and not have it go gray in an hour. Her hair, the tone and texture of rich sable, was fluffed around her face. She wore pearls.

One of the top profilers in the country, and she wore pearls to work, Eve thought. And smelled faintly, freshly floral-like the tea she liked to drink.

She stepped off the first glide in her neat, feminine pumps, then stepped on the next.

"Irascible," Mira continued. "Contentious, irritable, amusing. And brutally honest."

"So he's clear?"

"In my opinion-and I believe in yours before you sent him to me."

"I figure he might throw somebody off a roof in a tantrum, but he's not the type to sit down and plan cold-bloodedly, or execute in the same fashion."

"No, he's not. He could use some anger therapy, but it would probably be lost on him. I rather like him."