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“Maybe. Appreciate it. Let’s go, Peabody.”
“But my curly fries just came through.”
“Life’s full of hard knocks.”
As Eve headed out, Peabody scooped the fries into a napkin.
She comforted herself that food eaten on the run had no calories.
When they stepped out, Eve reached over and snatched a fry. “No salt?” The first bite had her wrinkling her nose. “How can you eat these without salt?”
“I didn’t have the chance for salt. Life’s full of hard knocks,” Peabody added in sober tones.
They started at the top of the Portography list. As Eve interviewed potentials she gained an image of Hastings. He was a maniac, he was a genius, he was impossible, he was insane yet compelling—depending on who she spoke with.
She caught one of his former assistants on a location shoot in Greenpeace Park.
The models—one man, one woman—were hyping what Eve was told was active sportswear. To her, they looked as if they were preparing to take a long hike through the desert in the buff-colored skinny tops and shorts, the clunky boots and long-billed caps.
Elsa Ramerez, a tiny woman with short, curly dark hair, tanned limbs, scooted around handing things to the photographer, signalling the rest of the crew, grabbing up bottled water or whatever other task was snapped out at her.
Seeing her day going from too long to endless, Eve stepped forward, laid a hand on the photographer’s shoulder.
The thickly built blonde was no Hastings, but she delivered an impressive snarl.
“Take a break,” Eve advised and held up her badge.
“We’ve got all the proper permits. Elsa!”
“Good for you. I’m not here about your permits. Take a break, grab some shade. Otherwise, I can hang you up for twice as long in pretty red tape while I have my trusty aide verify all the permits. Elsa?” Eve crooked a finger. “With me.”
“We’ve only got the location for another hour.” Elsa jogged over and was already dragging paperwork out of a satchel. “I’ve got everything right here.”
“Save it. Tell me about Dirk Hastings.”
Elsa’s sweaty face went stony. “I’m not paying for that window. He threw the bottle at me. Crazy son of a bitch. He can sue me, you can lock me up, but I’m not paying for the broken window.”
“You worked for him in February. From . . .” Eve perused her notes. “. . . February fourth to February eighteenth.”
“Yeah, and I should put in for combat pay.” She took a bottle out of the holster she wore on her hip, glugged. “I don’t mind hard work—hell, I like it. I don’t mind temperament, got one of my own. But life’s too short to deal with crazy people.”
“Do you recognize this person?” She held out the image of Sulu.
“No. Terrific face. Nice shot. Very nice. What’s this about?”
“Did you have access to Hastings’s disc files and records when you worked as his assistant?”
“Sure. Part of the gig was filing the shots, or locating one he wanted to finesse. What is this? Is he saying I took something of his? Took his work? That’s just crap. Hell, I knew he was crazy, but he wasn’t vindictive.”
“No, he’s not saying you took anything of his. I’m asking if you did.”
“I don’t take anything that’s not mine. And I sure as hell don’t put my name on somebody else’s work. Shit, even if I was some sleazy bitch, I’d never get away with it. He’s got a look. Hastings has a style, the bastard, and anybody with an eye would know.”
“Is this his work?”
Elsa glanced at the photo again. “No. It’s good, real good, but it’s not over the edge into great. This one?” Elsa tapped a finger on her shoulder to indicate the photographer behind her. “She’s good. Very competent. Gets the shot, produces the look the client’s after. Straight commercial stuff. Hastings can do this blindfolded. But she’d never be able to do his artwork. Maybe you have to be crazy to cross that line. He qualifies.”
“He attacked you.”
