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“I’m not good at being a girl.”
“Sure you are. You’re your own kind of girl. Think of it as kicking his ass until he cracks. At drilling him in Interview until he confesses. Dig it out of him, then, depending on what it is, you either make him suffer or comfort him. Or fuck his brains out. You’ll know which.”
“That doesn’t sound that hard.”
“It’s not. Trust me. Let me know how it turns out. Since I’m awake, I think I’m going to get Leonardo revving.” She blew Eve a kiss, and signed off.
“Okay, things to do: file report, interview suspect, harass ME and lab. Arrest homicidal maniac. Close case. Kick Roarke’s ass. Piece of cake.”
Chapter 11
Hastings hunched at the rickety table in Interview Room C, doing a pretty good job of looking bored. The dribbles of sweat along his temples were the only sign he was feeling the heat.
Eve dropped into the chair across from him, flashed a big, friendly smile. “Hey. Thanks for dropping by.”
“Kiss my white, dimpled ass.”
“As tempting as that is, I’m afraid I’m not allowed to make such personal contact.”
“You kicked my balls, you oughta be able to kiss my ass.”
“Rules are rules.” She leaned back in her chair, flicked a glance at Peabody. “Peabody, why don’t you get our guest some water? It’s hot in here.”
“I don’t mind it hot.”
“Me neither. People go all winter bitching and whining about the cold, right, then it heats up and they bitch and whine about that. Never satisfied.”
“People bitch and whine about every damn thing.” He took the water Peabody offered, downed the contents of the cup in one gulp. “That’s why they’re assholes.”
“How can I argue with that? Well, enough of this cheery small talk. It’s time for the formalities. Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Officer Delia, in Interview with Hastings, Dirk, regarding Case numbers H-23987 and H-23992.” She entered the time and date, and recited the Revised Miranda. “So do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter, Hastings?”
“I get it. Just like I get you pulled me down here, screwed up my day. You screwed up my day yesterday, and I told you what I knew. I cooperated.”
“You’re a real cooperative individual.” She pulled copies of the photos sent to Nadine, tossed them on the table so Kenby Sulu’s image lay in front of Hastings. “Keep it up, and tell me what you know about this.”
The chair creaked ominously as Hastings shifted his bulk. With two wide fingers he nudged first one, then the other photo closer. “I know I didn’t take these. Good images, though, except I’d’ve cropped this candid different, and punched up the light across the eyes. Kid’s got magic eyes, you want to highlight them. Had magic eyes,” Hastings corrected staring down at the death photo.
“What were you up to last night, Hastings?”
He kept his gaze on the photos, staring at death posed in a dance. “I worked, I ate, I slept.”
“Alone?”
“I’d had enough of people. I took shots of this kid. Dancer. Dance troupe. No, shit, not pros. Students. I took shots of him. What a face. It’s the eyes. Good bones, good form, but it’s all about the eyes in this face. I took shots of him,” he repeated and looked at Eve. “Just like the girl. What the hell’s going on?”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t freaking know!” He shoved back, so violently, so abruptly, that Peabody’s hand went to her weapon. Lingered there even when Eve shook her head.
Hastings surged around the room, a big bear in a small cage. “This is crazy, that’s what it is. Fucking lunatic. I took that kid’s picture . . . where was it, where was it? Juilliard. Juilliard. Buncha puffed-up drama queens, but it pays the freaking bills. And the kid had that face. So I singled him out for a few shots. When was it? Spring. April, maybe May. How the hell do I know?”
He dropped back in the chair, squeezed his shiny bald head between his hands. “Christ. Christ.”
“Did you bring him to your studio?”
“No. Gave him a card though. Told him if he wanted to earn some extra money modeling, to get in touch. He was easy in front of the lens, I remember. Not everybody is. He said maybe he would, and maybe I could do some individual pub shots for him.”
“Did he get in touch?”
