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?"

"No, not with me. Don't know if he called the studio. Lucia handles that crap. I never saw him again."

"Did you work with anyone on the Juilliard shoot?"

"Yeah. I don't know who. Some idiot or other."

"The same idiot or other who was with you when you did the wedding in January, the shots of Rachel Howard?"

"Not likely. They don't stick that long." He managed a thin smile. "I'm temperamental."

"You don't say? Who has access to your disc files?"

"Nobody. Nobody should, but I guess anybody who comes through and knows what they're doing." He moved his shoulders. "I don't pay attention. I neverhad to pay attention."

He shoved the photos back at Eve. "I didn't call a lawyer."

"So noted. Why is that, Hastings?"

"Because this pisses meoff. Plus, I hate lawyers."

"You hate everybody."

"Yeah, that's true." He rubbed his hands over his face, then dropped them on the table. "I didn't kill those kids. That girl with the magic smile, this boy with the magic eyes. I'd never put those lights out." He leaned forward. "Just from an artistic standpoint-what would that smile be like in five years, or those eyes in ten. I'd want to know, to see, to capture. And personally, I don't get murder. Why kill people when you can just ignore them?"

Mirroring his move, she leaned toward him. "What about those lights? Wouldn't you want them for your own? Take them while they're young, innocent. Brilliant. Pull them in, through the lens, into yourself. Then they're always yours."

He stared, blinked twice. "You gotta be rucking kidding me. Where do you get that kind of woo-woo crap?"

Despite the horror of the situation, she let out a laugh. "I like you, Hastings. I'm not sure what that says about me. We're going through your records again, to see if we find the shots you took of Kenby Sulu."

"Why don't you just move in, bring the freaking family? Your pet dog."

"I've got a cat. I've got you scheduled for Truth Testing in about twenty minutes. I'll have an officer escort you to a waiting area."

"That's it?"

"For now, that's it. Do you have any questions or statements you wish to make at this time, on record."

"Yeah, I got a question. I got a prize-winning question for you, Dallas. Am I going to have to wonder who's next? Am I going to have to ask myself whose picture I took who's going to end up dead?"

"I don't have the answer to that. Interview end."

"You believe him." Peabody slid into the car beside Eve. "Even without the Truth Test."

"I believe him. He's connected, but not involved. And he'll know the face of the next target. He'll recognize it." And it would cost him, Eve thought. She'd seen what it was already costing him on that ugly face of his.

"The killer is someone he knows, or at least someone who knows him and his work. Someone who admires it, or envies it… or thinks their own is superior."

She toyed with that angle as she pulled out of the garage. "Somebody who hasn't been able to achieve the same sort of commercial or critical success."

"A competitor."

"Maybe. Or maybe someone who's too artistic, too above commercialism. He wants acknowledgment, otherwise, he'd be keeping the images for himself. But he sends them to the media."

She played back pieces of the text the killer sent to Nadine.

Such light! Such strong light. It coats me. It feeds me. He was brilliant, this clever young man with the dancer's build and the artist's soul. Now he is me. What he was lives forever in me.

Light again, Eve mused, then shadows.

There will be no shadows in them now. No shadows to smother the light. This is my gift to them. Theirs to me. And when it's done, when it's complete, our gift to humanity.

"He wants the world to know what he's doing. Artistically," Eve continued. "Hastings, or at least Hastings's work, is one of his springboards. We question everyone who's worked with or for Hastings over the last year."

Peabody pulled out her pad, keyed in, scrolled down the list. "That's going to take awhile. The guy's not kidding about going through assistants like toilet paper. Then you add in the staff, and turnover in the retail end, the models and stylists, and so on. You want to start at the top?"