Obsession in Death

The uniform must have been watching for her as he pulled open the door on the studio level as Eve – feeling a little like a lizard climbing a rock – climbed the last of the open iron steps.

 

“Sorry, Lieutenant, Hastings just told us there’s an inside access from the street.”

 

“Done now.”

 

“He took a hard jolt, Lieutenant. It happened down here, but we’ve got him upstairs in his apartment to keep this area secure. The MTs cleared him, but they recommended he go in for observation. He won’t budge.”

 

“Stunner?”

 

“Yes, sir, along with a mild concussion from cracking his head on the floor when he dropped. He’s a lot more pissed off than hurt.”

 

“He’s always pissed off,” Eve said, and walked past the uniform and up the stairs, where Hastings sat on a black sofa drinking what looked like a couple fingers of whiskey, straight up.

 

None of his portraits graced the white walls. Maybe he got tired of looking at faces, having them look at him. Instead he’d fashioned a kind of gallery of black-and-white cityscapes, empty benches, storefronts, alleyways.

 

Another time, she’d have found them interesting and appealing. But another time she might not have netted a live witness.

 

Potentially two, she thought, as a long-legged blonde with a half mile of glossy hair curled beside Hastings on the sofa. The plush white robe she wore was so big on her she might have been swallowed by a polar bear.

 

She sipped brandy from an oversized snifter.

 

Hastings gave Eve a hard stare out of his tiny, mud-colored eyes. “Bitch cop.” He took a deep drink. “What the hell kind of city are you running when a man can’t even do a night’s work in his own house without getting attacked?”

 

“My crime-fighting signal for this building’s on the fritz. Who are you?” she asked the blonde.

 

“Matilda Zebler. I was here when it happened.”

 

Eve waited a beat, arched her eyebrows. “Working late tonight, Hastings?”

 

“Yeah, so the fuck what? I work when I want to work.”

 

Didn’t make sense, Eve thought. The killer was too careful, too thorough to try for Hastings when he was with a model.

 

“No assistant, no hair and makeup person?”

 

“I was imaging, for Christ’s sake. I work the hell alone when I’m imaging.”

 

“But you weren’t alone.”

 

And to Eve’s surprise, he blushed like a young girl. “I was the fuck alone in my studio when the asshole who zapped me interrupted me. I should’ve thrown the fucker off the landing right off.”

 

“Dirk.” Matilda rubbed a hand over his arm in a way that told Eve she hadn’t been there for work. “Didn’t the MTs tell you to stay calm? Your system’s been whacked, baby. You have to watch your blood pressure.”

 

Instead of snarling at her, Hastings brooded into his whiskey. “Brought your man with you,” he muttered at Eve. “Where’s the square, sturdy face with the bowl of hair?”

 

“Peabody, and she’s on her way. My man is also an expert consultant, civilian. Take it from the top, Hastings.”

 

“I don’t know why they called you. I’ve still got a pulse.”

 

“Let me worry about that. From the top.”

 

“I was fucking working, didn’t I say?” He scrubbed a hand over his shining bald pate as if pressing his brains back in place. “Asshole hits the buzzer. Nobody uses those steps anyway, and nobody sane uses them at night. Goddamn city makes me keep them for fire code or some shit. But this fucker kept buzzing until I figured, well, there’s a death wish and I’ll oblige it.”

 

Beside him, Matilda smirked into her brandy, patted his knee.

 

“Said it was a delivery. Well, fuck a fucking delivery. Next thing I know, Matilda’s leaning over me with a kitchen knife in one hand, slapping the shit out of me with the other. Then the christing MTs are running in, and the cops, and everybody’s all over me.”

 

Eve tracked her eyes to Matilda. “A knife?”

 

“I wasn’t coming back down unarmed. I heard him running away – clattering down the steps – and I wasn’t going to leave Dirk lying there in case he came back. So as soon as I had the cops on the ’link, I grabbed the knife and came back down. And I was tapping your face.” She poked Hastings in the belly. “I took his pulse – scariest moment of my life, next to starting downstairs and seeing Dirk on the ground and that maniac coming at him. I threw the bottle of pinot noir I was bringing down at him.”

 

And that explained the broken bottle and pool of wine just inside the door of the studio, Eve thought.

 

“I think he tried to stun me. I saw him raise the stunner when I threw the bottle.”

 

At this Dirk took her hand, and the perpetual anger on his face died away into sick fear. “You didn’t tell me that. Jesus, Matilda.”

 

“I told the other police. You were busy cussing out the MTs, and yelling at me to get some clothes on. I was only wearing… a little,” Matilda said with a quick grin.

 

“You both saw this individual?”

 

“Since we both got eyes that’s a damn fool question,” Hastings snapped. “And I’m tired of questions. The dickwad figured to rob me, and instead had to hightail. That’s that. Now go away.”

 

“Dirk.”

 

He sighed at Matilda’s scolding tone. “Thanks for coming, now go away.” And smiled a little when Matilda laughed.

 

“Matilda, I want you to step into another room with Roarke, and describe the person you saw.”

 

“Why does she have to go with him?” Hastings demanded.

 

“Because you’re going to stay here and describe the person you saw, and this way neither of you will influence each other’s memory or impressions. Argue, we do it at Central. Remember Central?”

 

“I get zapped, and you’re threatening me?” Temper flashed, the strike of a lightning bolt. He lunged to his feet.

 

Matilda said, “Dirk!” in the tone that reminded Eve of her endurance coach from the Academy.

 

He rumbled like a volcano about to erupt, then hissed. Then sat.

 

“I’m the one who got zapped,” he muttered.

 

“And she’s the one trying to find out who and why,” Matilda reminded him.

 

“Some lowlife scumbag looking to rob me. What good’s she going to do?”

 

“If I thought this was armed robbery, would I be here? Murder cop,” Eve said.

 

“You see any dead people?” Hastings was on his feet again, then his eyes widened. He sat again, but this time put a protective arm around the blonde. “You think somebody wants to kill me? For what?”

 

“How many people have you thrown something at, or threatened to skin alive, boil in acid, toss out the window – just for instance – since the last time I saw you?”

 

“I don’t keep a ledger on it.”

 

“Right. Ms. Zebler, if you don’t mind?”

 

“Sure.” She took a long breath. “I didn’t think it was robbery. It didn’t feel like it. Dirk, behave, please.”

 

She took his face in both her hands, kissed him lightly. “For me.” When she got to her feet, Roarke offered a hand.

 

“I’ve admired your work,” he said.

 

“Thanks. We’ve almost met a couple times,” she began, causing Eve to lift her brows again as Roarke led her off.

 

Now Eve sat. “How long have you and Matilda been involved?”

 

“None of your business.”

 

“I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if it wasn’t my business. How long? Two people are dead,” she said flatly. “You were going to be the third. If things had gone different, maybe Matilda would’ve been the bonus round.”

 

“What the fuck for? Anybody comes near her, I’ll rip out their throat and stuff their head in the hole.”

 

“Nice. I’m working on what the fuck for. How long?”

 

“Eighteen days. You don’t have to say what’s somebody who looks like her doing with somebody who looks like me.”

 

“You may have a face a mother would have a hard time loving, Dirk, but you make up for it with your cheerful, outgoing personality and sparkling charm.”

 

“Shit.” He huffed. He puffed. “We’re keeping it quiet, okay? It’s personal. It’s… new, and it’s personal. The media gets hold of it, they’ll hound her on it.”

 

“Who is she?”

 

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