Now You See Her (27 page)

The coffee made him think of Sweeney again, and her need for it. He needed her as he had never needed anyone, and right now he didn't dare go anywhere near her.

C
HAPTER
    S
IXTEEN

R
ichard kept tight control of himself as the afternoon dragged on. He didn't fidget; he didn't protest; he didn't threaten. The detectives were doing their job, and it wasn't their fault the things he had told them took longer to verify than he had expected. He wasn't officially under arrest; judging from the detectives' attitude, they no longer suspected him, or at least not much. He could have left. But they kept coming back to him with questions that would help them put together a picture, questions about Candra's habits and friends. Though he and Candra had been separated for a year, they had lived together for ten, and he knew her better than even her parents did.

Tabitha had canceled all his appointments. Candra's parents had arrived and were installed in the Plaza; he had spoken to them on the phone—
with Detective Ritenour listening—and apologized for not being able to see them that evening. The Maxson's weren't alone; in the background he could hear the rise and fall of several voices, and knew they had called some of their old friends as soon as they checked into the hotel.

The urge to call Sweeney was almost overwhelming, and that was the one urge he had to resist. In his shock at Candra's murder, he had left his cell phone at home; he had no way of knowing if Sweeney had tried to contact him by that number. The sense of being out of touch with her gnawed at him, as if part of him were missing. He needed her, needed to feel the freshness of her personality, see the clear honesty of her gaze. It was unfair of him, now that Candra was dead, but he couldn't help comparing the two women. Candra had come from a privileged background; she had been pampered and adored, her every whim satisfied, always certain she was loved—and she had grown up to be innately selfish, unable to handle situations in which she didn't get what she wanted. She had been undeniably charming and friendly—God, it was jarring to think of her in the past tense!—so those situations hadn't come about very often, but when they did, she erupted.

On the other hand, from what little Sweeney had told him, she had been mostly ignored by her parents. Her mother's lack of feeling for her own children was appalling. He knew Sweeney's mother, though he had never met her. He had met her type. Because she was artistic, she thought that excused
her from responsible behavior. She probably indulged in indiscriminate sex and drugs, and had exposed her children to God knows what.

Sweeney had grown up without love and had closed herself off from the pain by simply not letting herself form attachments. Richard strongly suspected he wouldn't have been able to get to her so fast if he hadn't caught her at this particular time, when the shock of those psychic episodes was sending
her
into a form of shock. Otherwise, she would have kept him at a distance for months. But despite her parents' example, or maybe because of it, she shunned their dangerous, juvenile lifestyle and had made herself into a woman of strong moral fiber.

He didn't want her touched by this, not any more than she already was. The painting involved her; if she eventually painted the face of the man standing over Candra's body—and he had no reason to doubt she would—then that knowledge would have to be shared with the detectives. It wasn't proof; the painting would in no way be admissible in court. But, if the detectives gave the information any credence, it would point them in the right direction. If they knew where to look, they would probably find the proof they needed. Perhaps he could steer them in that direction without mentioning the painting or involving Sweeney at all.

“Did Mrs. Worth have a will?” Detective Aquino asked abruptly.

“I don't know,” Richard replied, dragging his thoughts away from Sweeney. “We had one when we were together, but as soon as we separated, I made a
new one. She didn't have a lot of assets, though. I own the gallery, and from what I gather, she ran up a lot of debt in the past year. I had agreed to give her the gallery as part of the settlement, but that wouldn't have been included in any new will she made, if she made one at all.”

“Why?” Aquino asked curiously. “Why give her the gallery? With your prenup, you didn't have to give her anything.”

Richard shrugged and said simply, “So she would have the means to live.”

“Mr. Worth ...” Ritenour tapped his pen on the desk, his brow furrowed as he framed his question. “I know you've been separated a long time, but would you know any of the men she's been with lately? The housekeeper didn't know any names. She said when Mrs. Worth had company, she tried to stay out of the way and do her job as quietly as possible.”

Richard didn't make any comment on Candra's sexual habits. “How far back do you want to go?”

They looked at each other. Aquino shrugged. “Since you separated.”

“My attorney has a list.” Seeing their surprise, he said, “I made it a point to know, in case I needed the information.”

They both perked up. “Did you have her watched?” An investigator's report could be an invaluable aid, telling them where she went and when, whom she saw.

“Yes, but I don't think it will help. There wasn't anyone she saw more than any of the others. Candra
didn't have long-term affairs. Her attractions were of the moment, and more concerned with satisfying her own appetite than with her partner. Kai, her assistant at the gallery, was probably her most frequent partner, but only because he was convenient.”

There was another perking of investigative ears. “How do you spell that name?” Ritenour asked.

“K-a-i. Last name Stengel, as in Casey.”

“Was he in love with her, do you think?”

“Kai doesn't love anyone but himself. I can't see him killing her, because it wouldn't be in his best interest. I gave Candra a free hand with the gallery and she hired whom she pleased, but her death before the divorce was final means the gallery remains mine, and Kai would know he was out of a job in that event.”

“Because of his involvement with your wife?”

Richard shook his head. “Because he's an alley cat.”

“Mr. Worth, pardon me for asking,” Detective Aquino said, “but a man like you—How did you stand it, knowing your wife had all these affairs?”

Richard's eyes were cold. “After the first time, I didn't give a damn what she did.”

“But you stayed married to her.”

“I took vows.” And he had taken them seriously. He would have remained married to her, making the best of a bad situation, if she hadn't had the abortion. He had taken her for better or for worse, but “worse” didn't include aborting his child.

He called Gavin and had the entire investigator's report faxed to the precinct station. Gavin offered to
come down in case Richard needed his legal protection, but Richard told him there was no need. He had put in an electronic buy order with his broker just before he disconnected last night, his entry coded with his password, and his Internet provider could also verify the time he was on-line, so he was covered in case the detectives had any lingering doubt. He had no motive or opportunity, and he had cooperated with them to the fullest extent.

The next time he checked the clock, the hands had ticked past seven-thirty. He was tired and hungry, having refused their offer of stale cookies or peanut-butter crackers from a vending machine. The detectives looked more tired than he felt, but they doggedly kept at it. He appreciated their persistence, but the need to reassure himself Sweeney was all right was growing more urgent with every passing minute.

He had been containing his emotions all day, until he felt like a pressure cooker with the release valve stuck in the closed position. Candra's murder had stirred a cauldron of emotions; first he had been shocked by the violent death. Next came a cold fury, one so strong he could feel it surging inside him, demanding action. He had been intimate with violence, but his military missions had been against other militaries or terrorist groups, people who signed on knowing what the risks were and were armed and ready to kill him if they had the chance. Candra had been a noncombatant, unarmed, untrained, unaware. She hadn't had a prayer, and the unfairness of the attack revolted him.

He didn't resent being questioned. He did resent, bitterly, not being able to see Sweeney, or at least contact her. The choice was his own, an effort to protect her from this same sort of suspicion and questioning, but that didn't make him resent any less the necessity of making that choice. If the detectives saw that painting, they might even arrest her, and he would do whatever he could to prevent that.

Because he was growing desperate to see her, he locked himself down even tighter. If he revealed any hint of what he was feeling, the detectives' suspicions would be refueled and this would drag on longer.

At last, a little after eight, Detective Aquino stretched tiredly and said, “You've been a lot of help, Mr. Worth. Thanks for your patience. Most people would have gotten upset, but we had to ask the questions.”

“I know the statistics,” Richard said. “I understood. I assume I'm no longer a suspect?”

“Everything you told us checked out. Your Internet server verified the times you were on-line last night at the crucial time—and thank you for giving them permission to give us that information without having to get papers on it. That saved us a lot of time.”

“She didn't deserve what happened,” Richard said. “No matter what our differences were, she didn't deserve that.” He stood and stretched his tired back muscles. “I'll be at home if you have any more questions.”

“I'll get a patrolman to take you home,” Detective Ritenour offered.

“Thanks, that isn't necessary. I'll catch a cab.” Calling Edward to pick him up would be a waste of time; by the time Edward got here, he could be home.

Leaving the precinct, he walked down to the corner to catch a cab, but traffic seemed to be light on that street. Two blocks over was a busier street, so he kept walking. The tension in him was building. Home. In less than thirty minutes now he would be home. He would talk to Sweeney. He thought about taking the cab directly to her place, but caution kept him from it. Any direct contact with her now could bring unwanted attention down on her. The detectives would probably find out about her anyway, eventually—depending on whom Candra had told about seeing Richard and Sweeney together—but every minute he could hold off the inevitable was important. She might paint the killer's face tonight, and then he would have a direction in which to steer the detectives.

He needed to shower and shave and go to the Plaza, to see Helene and Charles. Respect and common courtesy demanded that he do so, but he didn't know if he had any common courtesy left in him. He was tired, and relations between them would be awkward because of the divorce. When people were grieving, they could lash out, trying to ease their pain by placing the blame on someone or something, and he could easily see Helene making a tearful charge that if only Candra had still been living with him, this wouldn't have happened, because she wouldn't have been coming home alone. He didn't
have the patience to deal with that right now. He would call them, after he talked to Sweeney, and tell them he would be over first thing in the morning.

But Sweeney came first. Until he knew she was all right, he couldn't think of anything else.

*   *   *

“Son of a bitch,” Detective Joseph Aquino said, tiredly closing a folder and leaning back in his chair. He was actually the more impatient, rougher-edged of the two detectives, but his looks inclined people to trust him, so Ritenour usually played the hard-ass. “Nine times outta ten, it's gonna be the estranged husband kills his wife. This looked like a perfect setup, but what have we got?”

“We've got jack shit, is what we've got.” Ritenour ticked the points off on his fingers. They both knew the points, but saying them out loud always helped. “Worth is the one who wanted the divorce. He has a prenup agreement protecting all his assets, so he doesn't have to worry about that. She had been giving him a hard time about the settlement, but she had an appointment today to sign the papers, so that wasn't an issue. He was on his computer last night at the time we estimate she got home from the party, and the M.E.'s preliminary time of death puts the murder roughly at that same time. You know the first thing a woman does when she walks in the door? She kicks off the spike heels. Mrs. Worth still had on her shoes.”

“You ever run across a customer that cool, though?” Aquino rubbed his eyes. He had taken the call for the Worth murder a little before seven that
morning, and had been working nonstop since. “Nothing got to him. He showed us only what he wanted us to see.”

“Joey,” Ritenour said. “He didn't do it.”

“The scene looked fishy, though. It looks like she surprised a burglar, but—”

“But it looks like someone wanted it to look that way.”

“Yeah. The place wasn't messed up much. And those scratches on the lock. Looks like they were deliberately made. They sure as hell didn't have anything to do with popping the lock.”

“Another point in Mr. Worth's favor,” Ritenour said. “Don't get me wrong; I'm not suggestin' this as something he could have done. But he struck me as the kinda guy, if he wanted to make a scene look like a burglary, then it would look like a fucking burglary.”

“Yeah, I know. But whoever it was knew her, and was pissed as hell. A burglar wouldn't have hacked her up like that.” Aquino drew a preliminary report to him. “He got her three times in the back, so she was running from him. Defense wounds on her arm; she was trying to fight him off. Then when she was down, he kept stabbing her.”