close he dipped his head near her ear, so close she took a step back and jogged someone’s drink.
“I’m on break,” he said. “Let’s go outside so we don’t have to yell.”
He nudged her through the crowd.
Outside, they stood on the deck overlooking the ocean. The sun had turned into a blood orange, sinking into a lavender sea. A hot wind tugged at Dorrance’s pirate hair, and for a moment Laura felt she was in the middle of a Hallmark card. Especially the way he was looking at her, a cross between “aren’t I irresistible?” and “you’re not bad yourself.”
“I wanted to talk to you about your composite.” Laura showed him the one she’d printed up from the TalentFish site. “Do you remember when you had these taken?”
He leaned close. She could smell his aftershave and a dash of garlic, probably from the plates he handled. Giving her his best smoldering look. “Last year some time. I had some old shots that didn’t really represent what I look like now, so I needed to update them.”
“You worked with a photographer affiliated with the agency? One of these?” She handed him the slip marked “From the Desk of Myrna Gorman”.
He tapped the third name on the list. “Jimmy. Yeah. He gave me a good price. What’s this about?”
He seemed truthful. Impinging on her space, though, trying to make a conquest. Too concerned with his own image to think about anybody else.
She told him how she came across his picture.
He stared at her, his seduction forgotten. “You mean someone used my photograph on the Internet? Pretended they were me?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Oh man! If they found out at TalentFish, I could be blacklisted!”
“That’s one of the ramifications, yes,” Laura said dryly. “Besides two dead girls.”
He stared at his feet. “I can’t believe this.”
“This Jimmy. What do you know about him?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He was just some guy Strand recommended.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Average. Kind of … insignificant.”
“He gave you that impression? That he was insignificant? Why was that?”
“I don’t know. He was kind of short. Not good-looking.”
Not good-looking. In Peter Dorrance’s world, that probably had greater significance than the Mason-Dixon line.
“What about his coloring?”
“God, I can’t remember.” He wanted to be helpful, though, so he added, “I think his card said he lived in Apalach.”
“Where’d you take the photos?”
He pointed across the vacant lot. “That yellow house. Belongs to the owner.” He nodded at Bennies. “Good guy, always looking out for his employees. He even drove the car out so I could pose with it.” He shook his head. “Nice wheels. I didn’t even want to lean against it, afraid I’d hurt the paint job.”
“Was that his idea or yours?”
“Steve’s? Oh, you mean the photog. It was his idea. He must have took ten, fifteen rolls.”
“Is that unusual—that many?”
“I thought I was getting a really great deal. He said it was a special because he wanted to make his name as a fashion photog.”
In Panama City? Laura thought.
“I only paid him two hundred dollars. Not that that’s chump change, but for everything he did, it was a great deal. We must have been out there three or four hours. I went through a whole bunch of clothes.”
“This exchange—“ Laura showed him the phone number. “That’s in Apalachicola?”
“I think so.”
“Anything else you can remember about him? What did he drive?”
“I can’t remember … wait a minute. It was an old beat-up truck. I remember because he parked it way down the road so it wouldn’t get in the shots. So this is identity theft, right?”
“I’d say so.” She circled her cell phone number and handed him her card. “If you can think of anything else about that day, or what he said or did, anything at all, please call me.”
She started down the steps.
He called out after her. “You think I have enough for a lawsuit?”
“You’re going to have to stand in line,” she said.
