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“I am a portographer. It’s what I do.”
“You’ve got two stalking busts.”
“Bogus! Bullshit! I’m a freaking artist.” He leaned forward. “Listen, they should have been grateful I found them of interest. Does a rose file charges when its image is captured?”
“Maybe you should snap pictures of flowers.”
“Faces, forms—they are my medium. And I don’t snap pictures. I create images. I paid the fines.” He dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “I did the community service, for Christ’s sake. And in both cases, the portraitures I created immortalized those ridiculous and ungrateful women.”
“Is that what you’re looking for? Immortality?”
“It’s what I have.” He glanced over at Peabody, swung the camera up again, framed her in, took the shot, all in one smooth move. “Foot soldier,” he said and took another before Peabody could blink. “Good face. Square and sturdy.”
“I was thinking, if I had some of the pudge sucked out of the cheeks.” Peabody sucked it in herself to demonstrate. “I’d get a little more cheekbone, then—”
“Leave it alone. Square is righteous.”
“But—”
“Excuse me.” With what she considered heroic patience, Eve raised a hand. “Can we get back to the point?”
“Sorry, sir,” Peabody muttered.
“What point? Immortality?” Hastings heaved his mountainous shoulders. “It’s what I have. What I give. Artist, subject. The relationship is intimate, more than sex, more than blood. It’s an intimacy of spirit. Your image,” he said, tapping the camera, “becomes my image. My vision, your reality in one defining moment.”
“Uh-huh. And it pisses you off when people don’t understand and appreciate what you’re offering them.”
“Well, of course it does. People are idiots. Morons. Every one.”
“So you spend your life immortalizing idiots and morons.”
“Yes, I do. And making them more than they are.”
“And what do they make you?”
“Fulfilled.”
“So, what’s your method? You shoot here, in the studio with a professional.”
“Sometimes. Or I wander the streets, until a face speaks to me. In order to live in this corrupt world, I take consignments. Portraits. Weddings, funerals, children, and so on. But I prefer a free hand.”
“Where were your hands, and the rest of you, on the night of August eighth, and the morning of August ninth?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Think about it. Night before last, starting at nine P.M.”
“Working. Here, and up in my apartment. I’m creating a montage. Eyes. Eyes from birth to death.”
“Interested in death, are you?”
“Of course. Without it, what’s life?”
“Were you working alone?”
“Absolutely.”
“Talk to anyone, see anyone after nine?”
