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“I'll try to make this fast. Mind if I sit here?”

“No, please.” She looked up at the ceiling as if focusing on moving beyond the pain. “Every time I begin, I think it's a bad dream. It didn't really happen.”

“Can you tell me what did happen? Everything you remember.”

“Richard. He shot Richard.”

“He?”

“I don't even know that, not for sure. I didn't see. I saw Richard.” Her eyes filled, spilled over, trailed tears down
her cheeks. “He's dead. They told me he was dead. I thought maybe . . . I don't know—but they said he's dead. Poor Richard.”

“What were you doing upstairs with him?”

“I wasn't with him—I was looking for him.” She lifted her free hand to brush at the tears. “He said he'd go back to the hotel whenever I wanted to leave. Richard's not much on parties. We were going to share a cab. I wanted to leave.”

“Dull party?”

“No.” She smiled a little. “It was a wonderful exhibit, beautifully presented. But I. . . I'm sure you know the background by now. Andrew and I used to be married, and it was awkward. He had a date there.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Warfield, but my information was that you divorced him.”

“Yes, I did, and it was final over a year ago, but that doesn't stop you from feeling . . . from feeling,” she ended. “It was awkward and depressing for me. I felt obliged to stay for at least two hours. Elizabeth's been very good to me, and this was important to her. Miranda and I have remained somewhat cautious friends, and I didn't want to leave the impression that her work didn't matter. But I wanted to go and I didn't think anyone would notice by that time.”

“So you went looking for Hawthorne.”

“Yes. He only knew a handful of people there, and he's not a very social man. We'd agreed to leave around ten-thirty, so I tried to find him. I expected to find him huddled in a corner, or with his nose up against some map. Then I thought he might have gone upstairs, to the library. He wasn't there. Ah . . . I'm sorry, I keep losing my train of thought.”

“That's okay. You take your time.”

She closed her eyes. “I wandered around for a while, and I saw the light in Miranda's office. I started to go back down, but then I heard his voice. I heard him shout something, something like, ‘I've had enough.'”

Her fingers began to tug at the sheet in agitated little
plucks. “I walked over. There were voices. But I couldn't hear what they were saying.”

“Was it a man's voice, or a woman's?”

“I don't know.” Wearily, she rubbed at the center of her forehead. “I just don't know. It was very low, only a murmur really. I stood there a minute, not quite sure what to do. I suppose I thought he and Miranda might have come up to discuss something, and I didn't want to interrupt.”

“Miranda?”

“It was her office, so I just assumed. I thought maybe I'd just go back alone, and then . . . I heard the shots. They were so loud, so sudden. I was so shocked I didn't think. I ran inside. I think I called out. I— It's just not clear.”

“That's all right. Just tell me what you remember.”

“I saw Richard, lying over the desk. The blood everywhere. The smell of it and what must have been gunpowder. Like a burn on the air. I think I screamed. I must have screamed, then I turned. I was going to run. I'm so ashamed, I was going to run and leave him there. Someone—something hit me.”

Gingerly, she reached around to press at the bandage on the back of her head. “I just remember this flash of light inside my head, then nothing at all. Nothing until I woke up in the ambulance.”

She was crying openly now and tried to reach the box of tissues on the table next to the bed. Cook handed it to her, waited until she'd wiped her face.

“Do you remember how long you looked for him?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes, I think. I don't really know.”

“When you went into the office, you didn't see anyone?”

“Only Richard—” She closed her eyes so that tears squeezed through her lashes. “Only Richard, and now he's dead.”

twenty-nine

I
t was nearly
dawn when Annie opened the door and found Andrew in the hall. He was sheet-pale, his eyes heavy with shadows. He was still in his tux, the tie loose around his neck, the first stud missing. The snowy shirt was marred by creases and blood.

“Elise?”

“She's going to be all right. They'll keep her for observation, but she was lucky. Concussion, a few stitches. There's no sign of intracranial bleeding.”

“Come inside, Andrew. Sit down.”

“I needed to come, to tell you.”

“I know. Come on in. I've already made coffee.”

She was bundled in a robe, and had washed the makeup from her face, but he saw how tired her eyes were. “Have you been to bed?”

“I gave it a shot. It didn't work. I'll make us some breakfast.”

He closed the door, watched her walk the short distance to the kitchen and open the undersized refrigerator. She took out eggs, bacon, a frying pan. She poured coffee into two thick blue mugs.

The early light played through the narrow windows, made patterns on the floor. The room smelled of coffee and carnations.

Her feet were bare.

She laid bacon in the black iron skillet and soon the room was full of its scent and sound. Solid, Sunday morning sounds, he thought. Easy homey scents.

“Annie.”

“Sit down, Andrew. You're asleep on your feet.”

“Annie.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her around. “I needed to go with Elise tonight.”

“Of course you did.”

“Don't interrupt. I needed to go, to make sure she was all right. She was my wife once, so I owed her that. I didn't handle the marriage well, and handled the divorce less well. I thought about that while I was waiting for the doctor to come out and tell us how she was. I thought about that and what I might have done differently to make it work between us. The answer is nothing.”

He let out a short laugh, running his hands up and down her arms. “Nothing. It used to be realizing that made me feel like a failure. Now it just makes me understand the marriage failed. I didn't, she didn't. It did.”

Almost absently, he bent to kiss the top of her head. “I waited until I was sure she was going to be all right, then I came here because I had to tell you.”

“I know that, Andrew.” In support, and with mild impatience, she patted his arm. “The bacon's going to burn.”

“I haven't finished telling you. I haven't started to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“My name is Andrew, and I'm an alcoholic.” He seemed to quiver once, then steady. “I've been sober for thirty days. I'm going to be sober for thirty-one. I sat in the hospital tonight and I thought about drinking. It just didn't seem to be the answer. Then I thought about you. You're the answer. I love you.”

Her eyes went damp, but she shook her head. “I'm not your answer, Andrew. I can't be.” She pulled away, started
to turn the bacon, but he reached over and snapped off the flame.

“I love you.” He cupped his hands over her face to hold her still. “Part of me always has. The rest of me had to grow up enough to see it. I know what I feel and I know what I want. If you don't have those same feelings for me, and don't want what I want, then you tell me. You tell me straight. It's not going to send me out looking for a bottle. But I need to know.”

“What do you want me to say?” She rapped one frustrated fist against his chest. “You're a Ph.D. I'm GED. You're Andrew Jones of the Maine Joneses, and I'm Annie McLean from nowhere.” She put her hands over his, but couldn't quite make herself draw his away from her face. “I run a bar, you run the Institute. Get a grip on yourself, Andrew.”

“I'm not interested in your snobbery right now.”

“Snobbery?” Her voice cracked with insult. “For God's sake—”

“You didn't answer my question.” He tugged until she was on her toes. “What do you feel for me, and what do you want?”

“I'm in love with you, and I want a miracle.”

His smile spread slowly, dimples deep in his cheeks. She was quivering under his hands, and his world had just gone rock steady. “I don't know if it'll qualify as a miracle. But I'll do my best.” He picked her up.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed.”

Panic fluttered in her throat and curled all the way down to her toes. “I didn't say I'd go to bed with you.”

“You didn't say you wouldn't. I'm taking a big chance here.”

She grabbed the doorjamb and clung for dear life. “Really? Is that so?”

“Damn right. You may not like my moves this time around. If not, you'll probably turn me down when I ask you to marry me.”

Her fingers went limp as wax and slid off the wood.
“You—you could ask me now and save yourself the suspense.”

“No.” His eyes on hers, he laid her on the bed. “After. After, Annie,” he murmured, and sank into her.

It was coming home, it was finding treasure. It was simple, and it was extraordinary.

They weren't innocent this time, weren't fumbling children, eager and curious. And all the years between then and now had given what was between them time to ripen.

Now was like decanting wine of a fine vintage.

Her arms came around him. He was so gentle, so careful, so gloriously thorough. His big hands smoothed over her, tracing her throat, her shoulders, paving the way for his lips.

He murmured to her, wonderful foolishness, as he stripped out of his jacket, let her help him out of his shirt. Then his flesh cruised along hers and made them both sigh.

Dawn was breaking in the rosy red light that heralded storms. But there in the narrow bed was peace and patience. Each touch, each taste was taken, was given with quiet joy.

Even when she trembled, when the need began to build to an ache inside her, she smiled and brought his mouth to hers again.

He took his time, stroking her body to life, his own pacing it. And the first time she crested, arching up and up with a moan of delight, he rolled with her for the sheer joy of it.

He traced kisses down her back, over her shoulder blades, down to her hips, then shifted her over to nuzzle at her breasts. Her hands moved over him, exploring, testing, arousing. As breath thickened and the sun grew strong, he slipped inside her.

A slow and steady rhythm, savoring, prolonging. Belonging. She rose and fell with him, making the climb, twined with him as they reached the top, holding tight when they trembled there. Falling with him was like drifting out of the clouds.

Then he shifted his weight, drew her against his side, buried his face in her hair.

“I still like your moves, Andrew.” She sighed against his shoulder. “I really like your moves.”

He felt whole again, healed. “I like your tattoo, Annie. I really like your tattoo.”

She winced. “Oh God, I forgot about it.”

“I'm never going to look at a butterfly in quite the same way again.” When she laughed and lifted her face, he continued to smile. “It's taken me a long time to figure out what I need, what makes me happy. Give me a chance to make you happy. I want to build a life and a family with you.”

“We both really screwed up the first time.”

“We weren't ready.”

“No.” She touched his face. “It feels like we are now.”

“Belong to me.” He pressed a kiss into her palm. “Let me belong to you. Will you, Annie?”

“Yes.” She laid her hand over his heart. “Yes, Andrew. I will.”

 

Ryan stood in Miranda's office, trying to picture it. Oh, he could still imagine clearly enough the way it had looked the night before. Such things plant themselves on the brain and are rarely rooted out even with great effort.

There was a nasty stain on the carpet, the windows were smeared, and the dust from the crime scene investigation coated every surface.

How far would the bullet have propelled Richard's body? he wondered. How close to each other had he and his killer been standing? Close enough, he thought, for the bullets to have left powder burns on the tuxedo shirt. Close enough for Hawthorne to have looked into his murderer's eyes and have seen his death there.

Ryan was damn sure of that.

He stepped back, moved to the doorway, scanned the room.

Desk, chairs, window, the lamp that had been switched on. Counter, file cabinets. He could see it all.

“You shouldn't be in here, Mr. Boldari.”

“They've taken the tape down,” Ryan said without
turning. “It seems the investigators got all they could from this area.”

“Better we keep it closed off a while yet.” Cook waited until Ryan moved out of the doorway, then shut the door. “No need to have Dr. Jones see all that again, is there?”

“No, no need at all.”

“But you wanted to see it again.”

“I wanted to see if I could get it all clear in my mind.”

“And have you?”

“Not entirely. There doesn't appear to be any sign of a struggle, does there, Detective?”

“No. Everything tidy—but for the desk.”

“The victim and his killer would have been standing about as close as you and I are just now. Wouldn't you say?”

“Give or take a few inches. Yeah, he knew who pulled the trigger, Boldari. You'd met him, hadn't you?”

“Briefly, when he arrived Friday, and again on the night he died.”

“Never met him before that?”

“No, I hadn't.”

“I wondered about that, seeing as you're in art, he was in art.”

“There are a great many people in various areas of the business I haven't met.”

“Yeah, but you know, it's a small world. You move around this place pretty tame.”

“As do you,” Ryan murmured. “Do you think I came up here last night and put two bullets into Richard Hawthorne?”

“No, I don't. We've got several witnesses who put you downstairs when the shots were fired.”

Ryan leaned back against the wall. His skin felt sticky, as if some of the nastiness in the next room had clung to him. “Lucky for me I'm a sociable guy.”

“Yeah—of course a few of those people are related to you, but there were those who weren't. So I figure you're clear. Nobody can seem to say where Dr. Jones, Dr. Miranda Jones, was during the time in question.”

Ryan came off the wall quickly, almost violently, before he controlled it. But the move had caused Cook's eyes to flicker. “You two have gotten very friendly.”

“Friendly enough that I know Miranda's the last person who could kill.”

Idly, Cook took out a stick of gum, offered it, then unwrapped it for himself when Ryan only continued to stare at him. “It's funny what people can do with the right motivation.”

“And hers would be?”

“I've done a lot of thinking about that. There's the bronze, the one from here, the one that got lifted out of a display case very slick, very professional. I tracked a number of burglaries with that pattern. Somebody knows what they're doing, somebody's damn good at their job, somebody has connections.”

“So now Miranda's a thief—an expert art burglar?”

“Or she knows one, is friendly enough with one,” he added with a thin smile. “Funny how the paperwork on that piece went away too. Even funnier how I did some checking with a foundry this place uses, found out somebody else was doing some checking there. Somebody who claimed he was a student here at the Institute, gave a song and dance about checking on a bronze figure that was cast there about three years ago.”

“And that would have exactly what to do with this?”

“The name he gave at the foundry doesn't check with the records here. And the bronze he was so interested in was a statue of David with sling. Seems he even had a sketch of it.”

“Then that might have something to do with your burglary.” Ryan inclined his head. “I'm delighted to know you're making some progress there.”

“Oh, I plod right along. Seems Dr. Jones—Miranda Jones taught a class on Renaissance bronze figures.”

“Being an expert in the field, I'm sure she's taught several on the subject, or related ones.”

“One of her students used the foundry to cast a bronze
David
long after the missing bronze arrived for her to test.”

“That's fascinating.”

Cook ignored the mild sarcasm in Ryan's tone. “Yeah, it means there's lots of little dangles wanting to be tied up. The student, he dropped out right after that bronze was cast. And you know, somebody checked with his mother, said they were from here, wanted to get in touch with him. Kid moved to San Francisco. A couple nights ago, they fished him out of the bay.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“You've got family in San Francisco.”

This time Ryan's eyes narrowed and sparked. “Be careful, Detective.”

“Just making a comment. Kid was an artist, you got an art gallery out there. I figured you might have known him. Name was Mathers, Harrison Mathers.”