Eve took out her badge. "Who took these shots?"
"I'm sorry. Is there some sort of trouble?"
"I'm investigating the death of a Columbia student."
"Oh, yes. I heard about that. A young girl, wasn't it? Horrible. I'm afraid I don't understand how the gallery relates to your investigation."
"That's the purpose of investigating. To find out what relates. Miss?"
"Oh, Duberry. Lucia Duberry. I'm the manager here."
"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I'm the primary here." She drew Rachel's photo out of her bag. "Did she ever come in?"
"Pretty girl. I don't recall seeing her here. But we do get browsers, and some of the students wander up to look around. I may not have noticed her."
"What do you think about the photograph itself?"
"Well, it's an excellent study, strong composition. You look, immediately think-as I did-pretty girl. Then you think friendly and young. Fresh is another word that comes to mind, because the pose is so easy and unstudied. Was she a photography student, or a model?"
"No. But she took an Imaging class. She might have bought supplies here."
"Well, we can certainly check on that. Would you like me to call downstairs and have one of the clerks check the receipts?"
"Yes. For Rachel Howard-let's try for over the last two months."
"It shouldn't take long." She went back around the wall, and as Eve followed she saw there was a kind of cube setup, using the display walls as barriers.
Lucia went to the 'link on a small, glossy desk, and contacted the sales floor, giving them the instructions.
"Can I get you anything while you wait? Some spring water perhaps?"
"No, thanks," Eve said before Peabody could open her mouth. "This building-commercial and residential space-has use of the parking deck next door?"
"Yes. Our building and four others."
"Security cams?"
"No. There used to be, but someone was always jamming them or zapping them, until it was more cost prohibitive to continually repair than to put up with a few parking poachers."
"The owner lives upstairs?"
" Hastings has the fourth floor for his living quarters, and his studio on three."
"Is he around today?"
"Oh yes. He has a session in studio right now."
"Any of this stuff his work?"
"All of it. Hastings is very, very talented."
"I'll need to talk to him. Peabody, come up after you've got the data from Sales."
"Oh, but-he's working," Lucia protested.
"Me, too." Eve started toward the elevator with Lucia, now animated, clipping after her. "But Hastings is in asession. He can't be disturbed."
"Wanna bet?" She glanced down when Lucia clamped a hand on her arm. "You really don't want to do that."
The tone, utterly flat, had Lucia snatching her hand back again. "If you could just wait until he's finished-"
"No." Eve stepped on the elevator. "Level Three," she ordered, and watched the horrified Lucia until the doors whispered closed.
She stepped off again into a blast of high-tech music that pumped, hot as summer, into the white-walled studio. Equipment-lights, filters, fans, gauzy screens-was centered around a staged area where a buck-naked model draped herself, in various athletic positions, over a huge red chair.
The model was black, and Eve's estimate put her at six feet tall. She was lean as a greyhound, and appeared to have joints made of jelly.
There were three cameras on tripods, and another held by a burly man in baggy jeans and a loose blue shirt. Two others, a tiny woman in a sleeveless black skinsuit and a young man with a tumbling crop of orange hair, looked on with expressions of concentrated concern.
Eve stepped toward the set, started to speak. The young woman turned slightly, spotted her. Shock covered her face first, and was immediately chased by horror.
If Eve hadn't seen the same look on Lucia's face, she might have drawn her weapon and spun to confront whatever terrible danger lurked at her back.
Instead, she kept moving forward, close enough to catch the guppy gulps of distress from the woman, then the choked gasp from the young man. The model met Eve's eyes with a bright glint of humor, and smirked.
"No smile!" This exploded from the man with the camera in a tone that had both assistants jumping, and the model simply relaxing her lips as she bowed her body like a long supple willow branch over the chair.
"You've got company, honey." She purred it, velvet-voiced, as she gestured with an endless and fluid arm.
He whirled, lowering his camera.
The snarl came first, and she had to admit, it was impressive. She'd never seen an actual bear, but she'd seen pictures. He had the look, and with the snarl, the sound of one.
He was a solid three inches over six feet, and a generous two-eighty, by her estimate. Wide of chest, thick of arm, with hands as big as serving platters.
And dead ugly. His eyes were small and muddy, his nose flat and spread over much of his face, his lips were flabby. At the moment, veins were bulging and pulsing in his domed-forehead, and over the shiny ball of his shaved head.
"Get out!" He banged a fist on his own bald head as he shouted as if he were trying to dislodge small demons that lived in his brain. "Get out before Ikill you."
Eve pulled out her badge. "You want to be careful using that particular part of speech to a cop. I need to ask you some questions."
"A cop? A cop? I don't give a flying fuck if you're a cop. I don't give a flying fuck if you're God Almighty come for Judgment Day. Get out, or I'll twist your arms off your shoulders and beat you to bloody death with them."
She had to give it to him, that was a good one. As he started toward her, she shifted her weight. And when one of his beefy hands reached for her, she kicked him, full out, in the balls.
He went down like a tree, face first, bounced once. She imagined he was groaning and/or gasping, but she couldn't hear over the blasting music.
"Shut that shit off," she ordered.
"End music program." The young man sputtered it out as he danced in thin-heeled boots. "My God, my God, she's killed Hastings. She'skilled him. Call the MTs, call somebody."
The music dropped away during his shouts, so they echoed around the room.
"Oh, pull yourself together, you asshole." The model rose, walked-graceful and naked-to a bottle of water on a high counter. "He's not dead. His balls are probably in his throat, but he's still breathing. Excellent stopping power," she said to Eve, then drank deeply.
"Thanks." She crouched down to where the felled tree was now wheezing. "Dirk Hastings? I'm Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I've just spared you from an arrest for assaulting an officer. I'm happy to counteract that by hauling your idiot ass down to Central in restraints, or you can get your breath back and answer my questions here, in the comfort of your own home."
"I… want… a… lawyer," he managed.
"Sure, you can have that little thing. Call one up, and he can meet us at Central."
"I don't…" He sucked in air, expelled it. "Don't have to go anywhere with you, vicious bitch."
"Oh yeah. You do. Know why? I'm a vicious bitch with a badge and a weapon, so I'm as good as God Almighty come for Judgment Day. Here or there, pal. That's the only call you've got."
He managed to roll onto his back. His face was still sheet-white, but his breathing was steadier.
"Take your time," she told 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."