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“Five . . . B,” Trueheart mumbled as his vision faded in and out on the apartment door.
“Yep, just A and B up here, and A works nights. Makes it easier. Come on in. You can lie down while I set things up.”
“Loft. Village? Soho? Where?”
“Here now, just stretch out here.”
He wanted to fight, but with arms and legs weak as a baby, his struggles were more petulant than defensive.
“Relax, relax. I don’t want to give you any more soother just now. You have a right to know what you’re about to do. About to become. Just give me a few minutes.”
He had to save his strength, Trueheart thought dimly. What there was of it. Save it and observe. Observe and report. “Converted loft
. Big space. Windows. Ah, God. Three large windows front, sky windows above. Top floor? Walls. Oh jeez, oh God. Walls . . . portraits. See the victims. I’m the victim. There’s me. I’m on the wall. Am I dead?”
“He’s losing it, Dallas.”
“He’s not.” Eve clenched her fist, rapped once against the wheel. “He’s doing the job. Roarke, give me something. Goddamn it.”
“I’m working it.” His hair fell like a black curtain over his face as he raced his fingers over a minipad. “I’ve got five possibles so far, more coming. These are popular sectors for singles.”
“Five-story building, lofts.”
“I heard him, Lieutenant.” His voice was calm as a lake. “I need a few minutes.”
She wasn’t sure Trueheart had a few minutes.
Going with her gut, she drove across Broadway to skim along the cross streets. It was funkier, she thought. More welcoming to artists, Free-Agers, the young bohemians, and the well-heeled urbanites who enjoyed them.
He was young enough to want that sort of scene, and he had a solid financial backing. Nobody would think twice about seeing a guy help another guy—or girl—into a building. Quiet neighborhood. Young residents. Nobody would question that someone had been partying, was drunk or blissed out. Half of them would be the same.
Sirens and thunder rocked the night, and she watched lightning slice like a jagged-edge knife through the sky. The rain gushed out.
“Let me explain,” Gerry said as he tested the lights and filters he’d set up. “My mother was an amazing woman. Pure and kind. She raised me on her own. She couldn’t afford to be a professional mother, but she never neglected me. She was a nurse, and she spent her life helping people. Then she got sick.”
He stepped back, studied the stage he was setting. “It shouldn’t have happened. It’s wrong for someone so selfless and bright to have a shadow take her. They call them shadows, the medicals call tumors shadows. She had shadows in her brain. We did everything right, everything they said. But she didn’t get better. More shadows, deeper ones. It’s just wrong.”
He nodded. “Just about ready here. Sorry to take so long, but I want this to be perfect. It’s the last one. You’re the one who’ll finish the work, so I don’t want to make a mistake. Light is so important to image. You can finesse it on the computer, and that’s an art, too, but the real art is in getting it right in the first place. I’ve studied for years, in school, on my own. Couldn’t get a showing in New York. It’s a tough town.”
He didn’t sound resentful. But patient. As Trueheart struggled to make his fingers work, he watched Gerry step back to study his own work, the work that lined his walls.
Rachel Howard. Kenby Sulu. Alicia Dilbert. All posed and perfected. All dead in their thin silver frames.
There were other images of them, Trueheart saw dimly. The candid shots. He’d framed them as well, and grouped them on the wall.
“I had a little showing in Philadelphia a year ago,” Gerry went on. “Just a little gallery, but still. It’s a good start. I was going places, just as I was meant to. But after Mom got sick, I had to put that on hold. Drop out of grad school, concentrate on her. She didn’t want me to, but how could I worry about fame and fortune when she was sick? What kind of a son would that make me?
“I watched her die,” he said softly. “I watched the light go out of her. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t know how. Then. But I figured it out. I wish . . . I only wish I’d known before it was too late for her.”
He turned back, smiled kindly. “Well, we need to get started.”
As he crossed the room, sweat ran down Trueheart’s face from the effort to key in his homer.
“Where’s the van?” Despite the storm, Baxter had the window open, his head stuck through as he scanned the streets. “Where’s the goddamn van?” He swiped his dripping hair out of his face. “Every cop in the city out looking, and we can’t find one stinking van?”
He could have taken it underground, Eve thought. Into another port. But she didn’t think so. Not from the scene she’d heard through her communicator. Street parking, first level. They hadn’t clanged down steps.
She was close. She knew she was close. But if they were even a block off . . .
