Portrait in Death (41 page)

"Mothers tend to," Feeney agreed.

"Figures, especially given his line of work or interest. So he cleared out any images of himself, just in case."

Trying to ignore what may or may not be going on in the bedroom, she tapped an evidence bag. "The mother liked Barrymore products. He left her enhancements in her room."

She jerked her head toward the open hallway door. "Yancy's still working on the witness-stubborn twit. Hopefully, he'll have it done soon, but I figure you should start an image search on the faces here anyway, see if anything pops."

"Take awhile." He brightened. "I'll have McNab do it. Keep his hands, and everything else on him, where it belongs."

"Works for me. I'm going to goose Yancy in a minute. If he's making progress I'm taking Roarke and checking out the parking facilities he tagged for us. Be easier if we have the guy's face to show around.

"He's coming back here, Feeney. His mother's things are here, this gallery of photos, some of his clothes, his mom's girl stuff. There's still food in the kitchen, and he's too compulsive and well-trained to let it spoil. But he's got work to do. I think he wants to finish his work before he comes home. The neighbor was right. He's on assignment."

"How close is he?"

"Pretty close to done. He knows we're moving in. He's had to move to backup plans. It's not that he planned to kill until he got caught." Face set, she dropped the bag of enhancements back onto a table. "He planned to kill until he was finished. It's not the thrill that drives him, it's the work, so he has an endgame. He wants us to see it, wants us to see the finished work. He may have to move a little quicker now to get it done, so he can show it off before we stop him. He'll have the next target in sight by now."

"Lieutenant." Pretty-faced Yancy leaned against the doorway. "I think we've got it. Sorry it took so long. It's tougher when the witness figures we're, you know, full of shit."

"Are you confident she's not stringing you?"

"Oh yeah. I explained, really politely and apologetically, that she could be charged with obstruction and so forth if she knowingly gave me a false image. Her lawyer made lots of lawyer noises, then verified-that's another thing that delayed the result."

"Let's see what we've got."

He pulled out his Identi-pad, turned it so she could view the finished image.

"Jesus Christ." Her heart did a quick leap into her throat. "Transmit that image to Central. I want every black-and-white, every on-duty officer to have that image ASAP. Suspect is identified as Gerald Stevenson, aka Steve Audrey, employed as bartender at Make The Scene. Get it out, Yancy, now!"

She yanked her communicator out of her pocket and tried to raise Baxter.

***

He'd given it the hour, and saw nothing more than the usual scene. A crowd of mostly kids, preening and parading, sipping ridiculously named drinks and heating up the keyboards when they weren't jamming onto the dance floor.

Not that he didn't enjoy watching young, agile female bodies gyrate in skimpy summer clothes, but the music was too loud, too brash.

It gave him a mild headache, and worse-much worse-made him feel old.

He wanted to go home, prop up his feet, suck down a beer, and watch some screen.

Christ, when had he become his father?

What he needed was to get cozy with a woman again. A noncop type female with long lines and soft curves. The job had been eating up too much of his recreational time-which went to show what happened when you transferred to Homicide from Anti-Crime, ended up under Dallas-and not in a sexual way-and took on a green rookie.

Nothing wrong with Trueheart, though, he had to admit it as he tracked his gaze across the room and saw his boy sipping a soda water and chatting up some fresh-faced young thing.

Kid was bright as a polished star, eager as a puppy, and would work until he dropped. He'd never figured on taking on the responsibility of trainer, but by damn, he was enjoying it.

Made him feel good the way the kid looked to him for advice, listened to his stories, believed his bullshit.

Oh yeah, he was turning into his old man right in front of his own eyes.

Time to clock out and go home.

He paid his tab, noting the change of shift at the bar. He wasn't the only one calling it a night.

Casually, he made a circle, around the tables, scanning faces one last time, watching the data hounds, eyeballing the staff. He waited until Trueheart shifted his gaze, then Baxter tapped his wrist unit in the signal they were packing it in.

Trueheart nodded, turned his glass on the bar to indicate he'd just finish up, then head on home himself.

Working well together, Baxter decided as he walked out into the heavy air. Kid's coming along fine. He glanced up once at the storm-tossed sky, and hoped to hell he made it home before it broke.

He was in his car, and ten full blocks uptown, when his communicator signalled.

"Ah, shit, Dallas. Can't a guy go home once in a damn while?" Grumbling to himself, he pulled out his communicator. "Baxter. What the hell do you want now?"

"Suspect's ID'd. Gerald Stevenson is Steve Audrey, your friendly, fucking bartender."

He shot a look at his rearview, his sideview mirrors, then cut across a lane of traffic before he was pinned in by a maxibus and a streamline of Rapid Cabs. "I'm ten blocks away, heading north. I'll double back. Suspect clocked off shift at twenty-one hundred. Trueheart's still in there."

"Contacting him now. Keep your communicator open and active. Get back there, Baxter. I don't want the kid handling this alone. I'm already on my way."

Baxter tried to squeeze between cabs, listening as Eve called for Trueheart.

***

He'd finished his drink, and was feeling a little flattered, a little nervous as the girl who'd come over to talk to him had asked for his number.

She'd wanted to dance, too, but he was a terrible dancer. And he really had to get home, get a good night's sleep. You never knew when the case was going to break.

He knew he was blushing when he gave the girl, Marley, his private 'link number. He hated that color so easily washed into his face, and prayed he'd grow out of it. Soon.

Cops didn't blush. Dallas sure as hell didn't. Baxter didn't.

Maybe there was some sort of medical treatment to prevent it.

Amused at himself, he walked out of the club. Storm's coming up, he thought, and found himself pleased. He loved a good booming storm. He debated whether to jump into the subway, head straight home underground, or walk a few blocks while the air turned electric.

He wondered if-after the case was closed and he could tell Marley he was a cop-she would want to go out with him.

Just pizza and a vid, maybe. Something really casual. You just couldn't get to know somebody very well in a club when the music was loud and everybody was talking at once.

He watched a snake of lightning uncoil overhead, and decided the subway was best. If he got home quick enough, he could watch the storm from his window. He started to walk south, still looking up at the sky.

His communicator beeped. He pulled it out, engaged.

"Hey! It's gonna rain in a minute. Need a lift?"

Trueheart looked over, felt the blush work up his throat again at being caught staring up at the sky like some kid in a planetarium. Automatically he palmed the unit, switched it to hold so it went silent and didn't blow his cover.

"Just about to catch the subway." He gave the man he knew as Steve a friendly smile. "Done for the night?"

"Actually, I'm heading to my other job. Did I see you talking to Marley?"

"Yeah." The color worked into his cheeks. "She's nice."

"She's very nice." Gerry winked, chuckled, then stuck out a hand. "Good luck."

Without thinking, Trueheart took the offered hand. He didn't need the quick prick in his palm to tell him he'd made a terrible mistake.

It was in the eyes.

He yanked his hand free, tried to reach for the weapon at the small of his back, but his balance was already gone. He stumbled, had the wit to close his fingers over the communicator even as they began to tingle.

"Steve Audrey," he mumbled as his tongue went thick. "Block south of Make The Scene."

"That's right." Gerry already had his arm and was leading him away. "Feeling a little dizzy? Don't worry. I've got a car nearby."

Trueheart tried to pull away, tried to remember basic hand-to-hand, but his head was spinning, spinning. Gerry had an arm banded around his shoulder blades now.

His vision was fading in and out, and all the lights, the headlights were blurring, haloing, speeding by him like comets.

"Tranq'd," Trueheart managed.

"Don't worry." Gerry took his weight, like a brother-inarms. "I'm going to take good care of you. You've got such a wonderful light, and it's going to shine forever."

Chapter 22

Fear wanted to ice her gut, her brain, her throat. She shut it down.

"Baxter?"

"I copy. I'm going the wrong fucking way." She heard the clashing chorus of horns as he maneuvered. "Shit. Fuck. Heading back. I'm better than ten blocks away, Dallas. Goddamn it."

"Parking port," she snapped at Roarke. "Closest to the data club, on the south."

"Getting it." He already had his book out, keying in for the data.

"Feeney! He's got Trueheart. Let's move, let's move. Yancy, get that image out. Now!"

"E-Z Park, on Twelfth, between Third and Fourth," Roarke told her as cops bolted for the door en masse.

"All units, all units, officer in distress. Code Red." She relayed the location. "Suspect ID's as Gerald Stevenson aka Steve Audrey. Image forthcoming. Subject is believed to be responsible for multiple murders. May be armed."

Her communicator squawked with responses as units began to roll. She paused only to bore one long look at Jessie as the woman rushed into the hallway.

"He's got one of my men. Anything happens to my officer. Anything, I'm coming back for you."

Still snapping out orders and data, she dived into the elevator.

"Quiet." She tossed up a hand to stop the chatter, heard Gerry's voice, light and cheerful.

Nope, no problem. My friend here's been partying pretty hard. Just going to take him home.

Parking... facil... level...

She closed down another leap of fear as she heard Trueheart's weak, slurred voice.

That's right. Got a ride parked. Let's get you in. Maybe you should just lie down in the back. Don't worry about a thing, I'm going to take care of you. Just relax.

"He's got him in the vehicle. Baxter?"

"Six blocks from the port. Got some jams on Third, breaking through."

"Tell me what kind of vehicle, Trueheart. Tell me."

"Itza van," he muttered as if he'd heard the order. It's... dark. Tired.

"Stay with me." Eve raced out of the building. "You stay with me."

She jumped into the passenger seat. It never occurred to her to drive-not with Roarke there. He was better at it, faster and slicker. Without a word, Peabody leaped into the back while Feeney and McNab ran to another car.

"He's thinking, he's still thinking like a cop." She swiped at the sweat on her face as Roarke screamed away from the curb. "He's left his communicator open. Peabody, monitor his transmissions. That's all I want you to do? Understood?"

"Yes, sir. I'm on him. They're on the move, Lieutenant. I can hear the engine, some traffic sounds. He's got the radio on. Sirens. I hear sirens."

Come on, come on, come on, Eve chanted in her head while she continued to relay orders. "Subject is driving a van. Exiting parking facility."

Roarke punched into vertical, pushing the clunky police issue into a stomach pitching lift to skim over a clump of Rapid Cabs, and simultaneously wrenching to the left to take a corner at a speed that had Peabody bouncing in the back like dice in a cup.

The tires kissed the top of an umbrella on the corner glide-cart, then hit the street again.

"Holy God," Peabody managed as buildings whizzed by.

He was threading through traffic like a snake sliding around rocks. She didn't have the courage to check out the speed.

"Black van, Dallas. Trueheart said black van, no windows in the back. He's fading."

"He's not going to fade."

She wasn't going to lose him. She wasn't going to lose that young, fresh-faced, quietly dedicated cop who could still blush.

"He needs to switch the communicator to homing pattern. That's all he needs to do." Her hand balled into a fist, bumped on her thigh. "Baxter, goddamn it!"

"Block and a half. No van sighted."

***

Pizza and a vid, Trueheart thought as he rolled helplessly in the back of the van. Wished he could dance better. Woulda asked her to dance if he wasn't such a klutzo.

No, no, in a van. Black panel van. In trouble. Oh boy, in trouble. Steve. Bartender. Brown and brown, five-ten, a hundred and... what was it?

Tranq'd me. Gotta think. Do something. Something...

She was so pretty. Marley. Really pretty.

But it was Eve's face that blurred in his brain. Straighten up, Officer Trueheart. Report.

Report, report. Officer down. I'm really down. Supposed to do something. He tried to reach the weapon at the small of his back, but his arm wouldn't cooperate. Communicator, he thought. He was supposed to do something with the communicator.

The procedure floated in and out of his brain as the music played and the van drove smoothly through the night.

***

Eve leaped out of the car at the parking port, sprang at Baxter who already had the operator in a choke hold against the kiosk.

A half dozen cop cars and twice that many cops were blocking crosstown traffic. The air was full of sirens, shouts, threats, and the rolling boom of thunder.

"Don't know what you're talking about. Don't know." The operator gasped out the words as his eyes bulged from a face going a dangerous shade of puce.

"Stand down, Detective." Eve grabbed Baxter's arm.

"My ass. You're going to tell me, you flat-nose little shit-faced weasel, or I'm going to wring your neck like a Thanksgiving turkey."