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“It shows how quick you can lock yourself into your own little world. I didn’t know there’d been a second murder. Both young, both students—different universities, backgrounds, interests, social circles.”
“There are connections. The club where the transmissions originate for one. Hastings and Portography.”
“And their killer.”
“Yeah.” She scooped her hand through her wet hair as she stepped out of the shower. “And their killer.”
“Maybe they both modeled for the killer at some point.”
“I don’t think so.” She stepped into the drying tube as Roarke reached for a towel. “Why the candids?” She lifted her voice over the hum of the tube. “Why take photographs of them when they’re unaware if they were modeling. Plus, they’re kids, right? It seems to me a kid would get all puffed up or jazzed up about the idea of modeling and tell their friends or family. Neither victim mentioned it to anyone we’ve questioned.”
She stepped out, and this time scooped her hand through dry hair, considered it styled for the day. “I’m starting to think this guy, or woman, isn’t a professional. Or at least, not successfully. Wants to be, believes he’s just aces.”
“Frustrated artist.”
“That’s what I get. If he does commercial work, he considers it beneath him. Stews about it. Sits around in his room whining to himself that the world doesn’t appreciate his genius. He has such a gift,” she continued as she walked to the closet to hunt up clothes. “A light inside, but nobody sees it. Not yet. But they will. He’ll make them see it eventually. When he’s done, it’ll be so bright, it’ll all but blind them. Some will say he’s insane, deluded, even evil. But what do they know? More, he’s sure of it, more will finally recognize who and what he is—what he can do, and give. The brilliance of it. The artistry. The immortality. Then, finally, he’ll get his due.”
She yanked a sleeveless tank over her head, then noted Roarke was simply standing, watching her, with the faintest of smiles. “What? Jesus, what’s wrong with this top? If I’m not supposed to wear the damn thing, why is it in the closet?”
“The top’s fine, and that strong blue’s a nice color on you, by the way. I was thinking what a marvel you are, Lieutenant. An artist in your way. You see him. Not the face and form, not yet. But you see inside him already. And that’s how you stop him. Because he can’t hide from someone who sees inside him.”
“Long enough to kill two people, so far.”
“And if you weren’t standing for them, he might never pay for it. He’s smart, isn’t he?” He crossed to the closet, chose a jacket for her before she could do so herself. “A clever mind, and oh so organized.”
He liked the pale, silvery gray jacket against the strong blue, and set it aside for her to put on after she’d strapped on her weapon. “He watches. Spends a lot of time blending rather than standing out, don’t you think? Better to watch. More to see when you’re not particularly noticed.”
She nodded. “That’s good.”
“But still, if they knew him as you believe, there’s something about him that made them see him as friendly, or at least unthreatening.”
“They were kids. Most, at twenty, don’t think anything can hurt them.”
“We knew better.” He stroked a fingertip over the shallow dent in her chin. “But I think you’re right again. In the normal way of things, at twenty you’re invulnerable. Is that something else he wants? That careless courage and innocence.”
“Enough, I think, that he lets them keep it right to the end. He doesn’t hurt them, mark them, rape them. He doesn’t hate them for what they are. He . . . honors them for it.”
It was good, she realized, really good to talk it out. She’d needed just this. “It’s not envy, it’s like appreciation. I think he loves them, in his twisted, selfish way. And that’s what makes him so dangerous.”
“Will you show me the portraits?”
She hesitated while he went to the AutoChef to program coffee. He should be studying the morning stock reports, monitoring any breaking news over breakfast, she thought. That was his routine. And she should be heading out to Central right now to prepare for her morning briefing.
“Sure.” She said it casually before sitting down and calling up the file on the sitting room unit. “I’ll have a couple of eggs, scrambled, and whatever else you’re having.”
“A very smooth way of ensuring I eat.” He programmed breakfast, then studied the screen—the two images Eve had called up on it. “Different types entirely, aren’t they? And yet, the same . . . vitality, I suppose.”
He thought of the picture of the woman he knew to be his mother. Young, vital, alive.
“It’s monsters who prey on the young,” he declared.
He couldn’t get the images out of his mind, even after Eve had left the house. They haunted him as he went down to make amends with Summerset. The two young people he’d never met, the mother he’d never known.
They linked together in his head, a sad and sorrowful portrait gallery. Then another joined him, and he saw Marlena in his mind’s eye. Summerset’s lovely young daughter. She’d been little more than a child when the monsters had taken her, Roarke thought.
Because of him.
His mother, Summerset’s daughter, both dead because of him.
