J D Robb - Dallas 16 - Portrait in Death

by Portrait in Death(lit)

  ***

  Dickie Berenski wore his white lab coat over a yellow shirt with blue polka dots. His thin, dark hair was slicked back over his egg-shaped head. His attention was focused on one of his many screens while he munched on what was left of a strawberry bagel.

  He nodded when Eve came in. "Finally, she walks into my joint again. Can't stay away from me, can you, sunshine?"

  "I had to get my inoculations first. Spill."

  "Aren't you going to ask where I got this fine, tropical tan?"

  "No. Rachel Howard, Dickie."

  "I just got back two days ago from a fun-filled week at The Swingers' Palace, that elegant all-nude resort on Vegas II."

  "You walked around without anything covering up that body, and no one died or went mad?"

  "Hey, I'm built under my clothes. Any time you want to check it out-"

  "Stop now, before things get ugly. Tell me about Rachel, Dickie."

  "Work, work, work." Shaking his head, he scooted on his stool to another screen. "Morris gave you the lowdown on time of death, cause, and blah-de-blah-blah. Opes in the system, last meal, no sexual contact. Kid was driven snow. Got some fibers off her clothes and shoes."

  He played his long, spider fingers over a keyboard until the image popped. "Off the bottom of the shoes I got carpet fibers. Vehicle carpet. Bagged the brand for you. Trouble is it's way common. Find this type, this color, in lots of lower-end vehicles. Mostly vans, SUVs, trucks manufactured between '52 and '57. Newer stuff's been ungraded, but you can still buy this carpet for replacement. See, it's a brown, beige, black mix."

  He tapped the screen where a sample of the fiber was magnified so it looked like a frayed hunk of rope. "Pretty much a horseshit color. You get the carpet, we can match it, but it's not a lot of help unless you do."

  "Give me something better."

  "A little patience, a little respect." He stuffed the rest of the bagel in his mouth and talked over it. "Fibers on her clothes from the chair he had her in. Colors match the image he shot, and are again typical of low-end upholstery fabric. Our guy doesn't spend a lot of money on vehicles and furniture if these are representative. But..."

  He moved to another image. "He doesn't stint on the enhancements. Look, here are shots of her taken before. The shot of her taken post-mortem. He made up her face for the portrait."

  "Yeah, I got that already."

  "None of these products used match anything she had at home. Fact is, you can see from the candids she didn't wear much face paint. Didn't need it. Got a fresh look about her. But he polished her up for this shot. Samples taken from the body are top-drawer, professional enhancements. The sort of stuff models and actors use. This brand of lip dye-counter name Barrymore, shade First Blush? It goes for a hundred-fifty smackeroos retail."

  "I'll need the list of all identified products."

  "Yeah, yeah." He flipped her a disc. "And we got another interesting tidbit. Traces of NuSkin bandage on her chest."

  "Yeah, so Morris said."

  "The unmedicated kind. He bandaged the wound, but no point in medication because, hey, dead girl. But he didn't want her bleeding on her shirt." He brought up a close-up image of the wound on-screen. "No corresponding hole in the shirt she was wearing. He didn't stab her through the shirt or the bra."

  "He took them off her first," Eve murmured. "Maybe not off, maybe just loosened them. Stabbed her. Pressure bandage to stop the bleeding so it didn't get on her clothes for the shot. Buttoned her back up, posed her. But when he's done, he takes the bandage off again. Why?"

  She paced away to think. "Because he was done. He's finished with her and she's just garbage now. Maybe he worries about fingerprints on the bandage, or that it can somehow be traced back to him. Or maybe he doesn't think or worry about that, and just kept it back as a fucking souvenir." She dragged a hand through her hair.

  "I've seen sicker," Dickie commented.

  "Yeah, there's always sicker."

  ***

  "Trina'd be a good source on the enhancements," Peabody said as they got back into the car. "She'd know all the local and online sources for the products."

  "Yeah." Eve had already thought of that. And of what would happen if she contacted the stylist. She'd be trapped into some sort of horrifying and sadistic session that involved haircuts and facials and body treatments.

  She shuddered.

  "You talk to her."

  "Coward."

  "That's right. Want to make something of it?"

  Peabody studied Eve's hair. "You could probably use a little trim."

  "Maybe you could use a good colonic."

  Peabody hunched her shoulders. "Just saying."

  "Contact her when you're back in your cube. I don't want to be anywhere in the vicinity. If she asks, tell her I'm on a top-secret investigation off planet. I may not be back for weeks. No, years."

  "Check. Meanwhile?"

  "Diego."

  "It's not lunchtime."

  "You can have a breakfast burrito."

  ***

  But Peabody knew she was doomed to go hungry within five minutes of entering the pretty cantina. It smelled great. All spicy and exotic. Kids were chomping down their morning meals in booths and four-tops, giving the place a buzzy chatter while the waitstaff moved along efficiently, topping off mugs of fancy coffees.

  Diego didn't work the breakfast shift they were told by one of the busy waitresses. Nobody saw him until noon when he surfaced from his apartment above the cantina.

  "Works the lunch and dinner shifts," Eve said as they headed up to the apartment. "Better tips, more action. Comes from having an uncle as a boss. See if he's got a vehicle registered under his name, Peabody. Then check the uncle, or the business for a van."

  "On it."

  Peabody started the search as Eve knocked on the door. There was silence, so she used her fist. Moments later there was a spate of Spanish. From the tone, she took it to be curses. She pounded again, and held her badge up to the Judas hole.

  "Open up, Diego."

  "Nothing under his name," Peabody said under her breath. "Uncle's got a late-model sedan, and a service van."

  She broke off when Diego opened the door and she was treated to a blast of color from a pair of electric blue pajamas.

  McNab, she thought, would totally dig on them.

  "What's this about?" His eyes were dark and slumberous, his stance both lazy and cocky. As he scanned Eve, his full lips set in a leering smile while he lifted a finger to run it over the dot of beard on his receding chin.

  "Questions. Want me to ask them out here, or inside?"

  He shrugged, using one shoulder, then swept his hand in what was supposed to be a courtly gesture as he stepped back. "I always welcome ladies into my home. Coffee?"

  "No. Night before last. You know the drill."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Where were you night before last, Diego? Who were you with, what were you doing?"

  She got a look at the room while she spoke. Small, furnished in sex-god style of red and black. Overly warm and smelling too strongly of some musky male cologne.

  "I was with a lady, of course." He flashed brilliantly white teeth. "And we were making sweet, sweet love all night long."

  "Lady got a name?"

  He cast his heavily lashed eyes downward. "I'm too much of a gentleman to say."

  "Then I'll give you one. Rachel Howard."

  He continued to smile, and lifted his hands, palms up.

  Eve gestured to Peabody, and took the picture of Rachel, held it out. "Refreshed?"

  "Ah, yes. Pretty Rachel of the dancing feet. We had a brief and beautiful romance, but I had to end it." He laid a dramatic hand on his heart, and a gold ring winked on his pinky. "She wanted too much of me. I have to give myself to all the ladies, not just one."

  "You ended it? By stabbing her in the heart and tossing her in a recyler?"

  The smirk vanished as his jaw dropped, and his expression went bright with fear. "Wha
t is this?"

  "She was killed night before last. Word is you were hassling her, Diego."

  "No. No way." The slight Spanish accent disappeared, and his voice was all New York. "We danced a few times, that's all, in that data club a lot of the college crowd hangs in. I hit on her, okay, no crime in that."

  "You came by her place of employment."

  "So what? So the hell what? Wanted a taste, that's all."

  "What about your brief and beautiful romance?"

  He sat now, looking slightly ill. "We never got down to it. I took her to dinner, showed her a nice time, then she brushed me off. Challenged me, so I put the squeeze on. Figured she was playing me, wanted a pursuit."

  "Want to give me that lady's name now?"

  "I don't know it. Jesus. I was on the bounce, club to club. Got a little action with some girl at her place. On the East Side. Shit. Second Avenue. Halley, Heather, Hester. Fuck if I know. Just some blonde chica who wanted a bang."

  "You're going to want to do better."

  "Look." He put his head in his hands a moment, then scooped them through all the glossy black. "We were wasted, okay? Scored a little Zoner, dipped a little Erotica. Went to her place. Second, I know it was Second, maybe in the Thirties. Near a subway, 'cause I caught a train home at three, maybe four in the morning. It was just a one-night bang. Who pays attention?"

  Eve nodded toward the pictures of naked and scantily clad woman that graced his walls. "You like to take pictures, Diego?"

  "Huh? Oh. Man, what is this? I download them from the Net, frame 'em up. I like looking at women, so what? I like women, and they like me. I don't go around killing them."

  "Slimy," was Peabody's opinion when they walked back to the car.

  "Yeah, slimy's an offense, but it's not a crime. We'll get a search for the uncle's vehicles, see if we get a fiber match. But I can't see him planning this out. Popping her in the heat of the moment, maybe, but putting all the parts in play? He's a petty operator. Still, he'd be able to score the opiates, had contact with the victim, a reason to be annoyed with her, played in the club where the transmission was sent, and has access to a vehicle that fits the general type we suspect was used for transport. We'll keep him on the short list."

  "What now?"

  "We're going shopping."

  "Sir, have you had a blow to the head recently?"

  "Cameras, Peabody. We're going to take a look at cameras."

  She'd run a list the night before of the top outlets for cameras and imaging supplies in the city. This was someone who considered himself a professional, even an artist, and who took pride in his work. To Eve, that meant he'd take pride in his tools.

  A good investigator had to understand the murder weapon. A camera had killed Rachel, every bit as much as the knife through her heart.

  She stepped into Image Makers on Fifth.

  Businesslike, she noted, scanning the shelves and counters. Organized. In addition to products there were two wall screens that ran various still photos, all very colorful and artsy.

  A small, dark-haired man in a limp white shirt hustled right over to her. "Something I can show you?"

  "Depends." She flipped her jacket to show the badge she'd hooked to her belt. "I got some questions."

  "Christ on a crutch I paid those traffic citations. I got a receipt."