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“Going to take some time.”
“Then you’d better get started.” Eve scanned the buildings a block west, and zeroed in on the upper floors. Guy with image equipment probably had some nice long-range lenses, she speculated.
Using her ’link, she began a run of her own.
Chapter 20
Nothing popped for her, and when the climate control began to waffle, she ignored it and kept working. Ugly clouds rolled in, shooting the street into a sludgy gloom. Fat, mean splats of rain began to pound the windshield, heralded by a long growl of thunder.
“Storm looks nasty.” Peabody mopped at the back of her neck and shot a glance at her lieutenant’s profile. There was a light dew of sweat on Eve’s face, but it could have been the result of that vicious concentration as much as the heat. “Maybe it’ll cool things off.”
“We’ll just have wet heat. Fucking August.” But she said it absently, almost affectionately. “He’s here, Peabody, but where’s his bolt-hole? Someplace nice and safe, where everything’s tidy, everything’s in its place.
“Pictures,” she muttered, staring through the rain-washed window into the gloom. “Images tacked up all over the walls. He needs to see his work. Judge it, admire it, critique it. His work is his life. His work is life.”
“Matted and framed.”
“What?”
“Not tacked up,” Peabody said. “Matted and framed. He’d want the best of it well presented, right?”
With a considering frown, Eve turned her head. “Good. That’s damn good. Matted and framed. Where does he get the material? Local? Online? He’d want good stuff, wouldn’t he? The best he could afford. Lots of frames. Probably unified. He’s got a specific style, so he’d want them framed in a specific style. Get me the top ten outlets in the city to start.”
“Yes, sir. Where are we going?” she asked as Eve pulled away from the curb.
“Home office. Better equipment.”
“Woo-hoo. Sorry.” But Peabody didn’t bother to suppress the grin. “Better food, too. Jesus.” She jumped when lightning lashed through the sky. “Serious stuff. Did you ever hide under the covers during a storm when you were a kid and count the seconds between the flash and boom?”
She’d been lucky if she’d had covers as a kid, Eve thought. And storms weren’t the scary pa
rt of her life. “No.”
“We did. I still do sometimes—habit. Like . . .” She watched the next flash and began to count out loud. “One, two, three. Pow.” She gave a quick shudder at the boom. “Pretty close.”
“If you hear it, it’s not close enough to worry about. Outlets, Peabody.”
“Sorry, coming up. I got three uptown, one midtown, two in Soho, one Tribeca—”
“Cull it to ones near the parking port or the universities. Five-block radius.” While Peabody worked, Eve followed the next hunch and called Portography. “Give me Hastings.”
“He’s in session,” Lucia said primly, and with a dislike not quite veiled. “I’d be happy to take a message.”
“He gets out of session, or I come in and pull him out of session. Choose.”
Lucia scowled, but switched the ’link to Hold where Eve was treated to shifting images of Hastings’s work and a musical accompaniment. He came on looking sweaty and red-faced.
“What? What? Do I have to murder you in your sleep?”
“Dumbass thing to say to a cop, pal. Where do you get your frames?”
“What? What?”
“Stop saying that. Frames? Where do you get the frames for your photographs. Your personal work?”
“How the hell do I know? Freaking hell. Don’t we carry them downstairs? Lucia! Don’t we carry fricking frames downstairs?”
“You know, Hastings, I’m starting to like you. Do you use the fricking frames you carry downstairs for your work in the gallery?”
