Ben followed her inside, grateful for the invitation.The house was cool despite the heat outside, the thick adobe walls keeping the temperature comfortable.The smell of cooking grew stronger as he entered, and he saw a pot simmering on the stove, steam rising from the lid.
Ruth gestured to the small table where she took her meals, and Ben sat while she ladled stew into a bowl and set it before him.She poured coffee from a pot that seemed to be perpetually brewing and took the seat across from him.
"Eat," she said."Then we'll talk about what's troubling you."She paused, then added cryptically, "You'll need your strength for what comes next."
Ben ate, wondering what Ruth knew that he didn't—and whether he was ready to hear it.
CHAPTER NINE
Blake Montgomery's studio occupied the top floor of a converted textile factory, the kind of building that Los Angeles seemed to specialize in: industrial bones dressed up with exposed brick and oversized windows, the grit of the past repurposed into something expensive and fashionable.Kari climbed three flights of stairs to reach the entrance, a heavy metal door painted matte black with no name or number, just an intercom and a small camera pointed at where visitors would stand.
She pressed the button and waited.After a moment, a voice crackled through the speaker, male and vaguely annoyed.
"We're not taking walk-ins.If you're here about a booking, call the agency."
"I'm not here about a booking.I'm looking for Blake Montgomery.It's about one of his models."
A pause.Then: "Which model?"
"Tayen Stern.And Amanda Escalante."
The pause stretched longer this time.Kari was about to press the button again when the door buzzed and clicked open.She pushed through into a cavernous space flooded with natural light from skylights and floor-to-ceiling windows.
The main area was clearly designed to impress clients.Enormous prints lined the walls—the commercial work she'd seen on Montgomery's website.Models in designer clothing, perfectly lit product shots, the kind of aspirational imagery that sold magazines and luxury goods.A leather sofa and glass coffee table occupied one corner, arranged beside a display of industry awards and framed magazine covers.Everything about the space saidsuccessful professional.
But as Kari moved deeper into the studio, she noticed a hallway leading to a back room.The door was ajar, and through the gap she could see more photographs—different ones.Darker.The same unsettling images from his personal portfolio, but larger and more visceral in person.
The public face of the business up front.The private obsession tucked away in back.
A man stood at the far end of the studio, partially obscured by lighting equipment and reflector panels.He was tall and lean, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail and the kind of angular features that probably photographed well.He wore all black, a fitted t-shirt and slim pants, and he watched Kari approach with a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
"Blake Montgomery?"
"That depends on who's asking."His voice was deeper in person than it had been through the intercom, with a faint accent she couldn't place.British, maybe, or Australian that had been worn down by years in America."You're not a model and you're not press.So who are you?"
"Detective Kari Blackhorse.Navajo Nation Police."She didn't reach for her badge.Something told her that Montgomery wasn't the type to be impressed by credentials."I'm looking into the disappearance of Tayen Stern.Her family asked me to help find her."
Montgomery's expression flickered at Tayen's name."Tayen's missing?Since when?"
"Two days.The same day Amanda Escalante died."
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes moving across Kari's face as if he were framing a shot.It was clear he wasn't surprised by news of Amanda's death.Then he gestured toward a seating area near the windows, a cluster of low leather chairs arranged around a glass coffee table.
"Sit.I'll tell you what I know, which isn't much."
Kari took one of the chairs, positioning herself so she could see both Montgomery and the door.Old habits.He settled into the chair across from her, crossing one leg over the other with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to being observed.
"Amanda's death was a shock," he said."I'd just shot her last week."He paused, then grimaced."Poor choice of words.Anyway, she was one of my favorites to work with.Completely present in front of the camera, willing to go places emotionally that most models won't.That's rare."
"What kind of places?"
Montgomery smiled, as if the question amused him."That was personal work, not agency business.Elite Vision books me for their catalog and editorial clients—that pays the bills.But my real work, the pieces that matter, I develop on my own."He gestured toward the back room."Models come to me when they want to create something beyond the usual commercial garbage.Something that gets noticed by collectors, gallery owners, people who appreciate art that challenges."
"Who buys photographs of frightened young women?"
"Galleries in Berlin, Tokyo, New York.Private collectors who want something provocative on their walls."His expression hardened."It's not exploitation, Detective.It's collaboration.Amanda understood that.She wasn't afraid to show her vulnerability."
"Not everyone would agree that pushing a young woman to tears constitutes collaboration."
