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“Now see, I know that name. I’ve been puzzling over it since Monty called up, but I can’t put it in the right slot. Do you paint?”
“No. Ms. Brightstar, would you verify what time Professor Browning got home last night?”
“I’m not very good with time either. Nine-thirty?” she looked at Leeanne for confirmation. “Somewhere around there.”
There was no motive here, Eve thought, no vibe—at least not yet. Curious, she opened her bag, selected one of the candid shots of Rachel.
“What do you think of this, Professor Browning?”
“It’s Rachel.”
“Oh, what a pretty girl,” Angie said. “What a nice smile. So young and fresh.”
“Could you give me your opinion on the image itself. Professionally.”
“Oh.” Leeanne took a deep breath, angled her head. “It’s quite good, actually. An excellent use of light, and color. Nice angles. Clean and uncluttered. It shows the subject’s youth and vitality, centers that so the eye is drawn, as Angie’s was, to the smile, to how fresh she is. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. Could you set up a shot like that without the subject being aware?”
“Of course, if you have good instincts.” She lowered the image. “Did the killer take this?”
“Possibly.”
“She was murdered?” Angie wrapped an arm around Leeanne. “Oh, this is awful. How could anyone hurt a young, sweet girl like that?”
“Sweet?” Eve echoed.
“Just look at her face—look at her eyes.” Angie shook her head. “You can tell. You can look at her face and see the innocence.”
As they rode back down in the elevator, Eve brought the images of Rachel into her head. As she’d been, and as he’d left her. “Maybe that’s what he wanted,” she murmured. “Her innocence.”
“He didn’t rape her.”
“It wasn’t sexual. It was . . . spiritual. Her light was pure,” she remembered. “It might mean her soul. Isn’t there some deal, some superstition about the camera stealing the soul?”
“I’ve heard that. Where are we headed now, Lieutenant?” Peabody asked.
“We’re going to college.”
“Icy. A lot of college guys are totally hot.” She hunched her shoulders when Eve sent her a bland stare. “Just because McNab and I are in a committed, mature relationship—”
“I don’t want to hear about your committed, mature anything with McNab. It gives me the creeps.”
“Just because,” Peabody continued, undaunted as they crossed the lobby, “doesn’t mean I can’t look at other guys. Any woman with eyes looks at other guys. Okay, maybe you don’t because, hey, what would be the point?”
“Perhaps I should point out that we’re investigating a homicide, not going off on a man-ogling spree.”
“I like to multitask whenever possible. Speaking of which, maybe we could get some actual food. That way, we could investigate, feed the body, and ogle.”
“There will be no ogling. Henceforth, ogling is forbidden at any and all junctures of active investigations.”
Peabody pursed her lips. “You’re really mean today.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Eve took a deep gulp of hideous air, and smiled. “I feel good about that.”
The announcement of sudden, violent death drew many reactions. Tears were just one of them. By the time Eve had spoken to a half dozen of Rachel’s friends and instructors at Columbia, she thought she might wash away on the sea of tears.
She sat on the side of a bed in a dorm room. The space was tight, she thought. A closet jammed with two beds, two desks, two dressers. Every flat surface was covered with what Eve thought of as mysterious girl stuff. The walls were plastered with posters and drawings, the desks with disc boxes and girl toys. The bedspreads were candy pink, the walls mint green. In fact, the whole place smelled like candy somehow and made her stomach rumble.
