Now You See Her (31 page)

The sandy-haired detective got that stony, wild-eyed look of someone trying not to laugh. Detective Aquino shot him a dirty look. “That would be appreciated. Sugar and cream. A lot of both.”

“Same here,” Detective Ritenour said.

She freshened her own cup, and prepared two more, loading them down with enough sugar to send the average kid bouncing off the walls for ten hours, and enough cream to raise their cholesterol levels several points. They must drink a lot of bad coffee, she thought, for both of them to disguise the taste this way.

She put the cups on a small tray and carried it through to the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. Telling herself there was no reason to be nervous, she sat down and lifted her own cup. What was the procedure for interrogation? Should she invite them to begin?

The burly cop, after an appreciative sip of the coffee, began without her help. “Ms. Sweeney, are you acquainted with Richard Worth?”

She gave him a disbelieving look. “Well, of course I am, otherwise you wouldn't be here.”

He coughed. “You're aware that his estranged wife was murdered night before last.” That was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Were you also acquainted with Mrs. Worth?”

Sweeney's eyes darkened. “Yes,” she repeated,
softly. “I've known her for years. I exhibited at the gallery.”

“Oh, so you're an artist.”

“Yes.”

“No kidding.” He looked at a large landscape on the wall. “Did you do that?”

“No.” She didn't hang her own work. When she relaxed, she liked to look at something someone else had done.

That conversational gambit exhausted, he returned to the subject at hand. “Mrs. Worth wasn't happy about your involvement with Mr. Worth, was she?”

The super, Sweeney thought. That scene in the entrance lobby. “She told me she didn't care, but then when she came here one morning to see me and Richard was here, she was upset.” She was pleased with that masterful understatement.

“When was this?”

They already knew, she thought. They had already talked to the super. They were asking questions to which they already knew the answers, to see if she would tell the truth. “A few days ago.”

“How long have you been involved with Mr. Worth?”

She blinked at him, more taken aback by the question than most people would have been. “I don't know. What day of the week is it?”

They shared a quick glance. “Thursday,” Detective Ritenour said.

“Then it's been a week. I think. I lose track of days.”

“A week,” Detective Aquino echoed. He made a
note in his little book. “You stayed at Mr. Worth's town house last night.”

Sweeney blushed. Great. Now they knew how easy she was. “Yes.”

“Where were you night before last, Ms. Sweeney?”

Ah, now they were getting down to the meat of their questions. Sweeney felt a flicker of alarm. She had been alone here, with no calls, no witnesses—no alibis. “Here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you maybe step out for some fresh air, a walk before bedtime, anything like that?”

“No. I didn't leave the apartment.”

Ritenour rubbed his nose. “Did you make any calls, talk to anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been to Mrs. Worth's apartment?”

“No. I don't know exactly where she lived.”

“Did you have any contact with Mrs. Worth after the scene a few days ago? Since she was so upset, did she call you afterwards and maybe make a couple of threats, you know, the way people do when affairs of the heart are concerned?”

His phraseology was charming. She lost herself in a moment of bemusement at hearing a cop actually say “affairs of the heart.” Then she shook herself. “No. That was the last time I either saw her or heard from her.”

“Do you have any knowledge of someone, say, holding a grudge against Mrs. Worth?”

Only Richard, she started to say. Thank God he had cleared himself. “No. Candra and I were business associates, not friends. But I liked her,” she said softly, looking down. “Until that scene the other day, I had never seen her be anything but polite and friendly to everyone.”

They both smiled at her. “That's all the questions I have,” Detective Aquino said, closing his little notebook. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Sweeney.”

“You're welcome.” She went with them to the door.

As they started to leave, Aquino stopped and turned back. “Are you planning on going out of town, Ms. Sweeney? In case we have more questions.”

“No,” she said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

As soon as they were gone, Sweeney picked up the phone to call Richard, then put it down without dialing. There was no point in worrying him with this. The detectives had asked a few questions; that was all. Granted, she had no way of proving she hadn't left the apartment all night, but neither had she ever been in Candra's apartment, so there couldn't be any evidence tying her in any way to the murder. She had nothing to worry about.

*   *   *

Despite her best intentions to stay out of the studio, after lunch and laundry she began to think about the painting. She hadn't really examined it yesterday, looking at it only long enough to recognize
Candra. She didn't want to look at it again, and yet she knew she must. She had to finish it. The cops didn't seem to have any solid leads, or they wouldn't have been questioning her, so unless she finished the painting, the killer would probably get away with the murder.

The other day—two days ago? three?—she had worked on the painting while awake. If she could do that again, the shock to her system wouldn't be as severe and the chill wouldn't be as bad. She didn't want to go through a repeat of yesterday morning, even though she now knew she could get through it on her own.

When she went into the studio, though, she couldn't bring herself to walk right up to the painting. She wandered around looking at other works in progress, other things she had done, recalling what had been difficult or fascinating about each subject. For her, looking at her work was what looking at a photo album was to other people, calling up memories of times past.

But eventually she came to the unfinished painting, and she stopped cold, struck by the stark power of the work. The terror of Candra's last minutes seemed to leap off the canvas, as well as the nothingness of death. And there was menace as well, in the stance of the man standing over her, a sort of gloating satisfaction that was sickening.

She stared at the blank space where the man's face would be, and she felt a sort of floating sensation, faint but detectable. Her vision seemed to narrow, her focus tightening on the canvas.

The ringing of the doorbell was a jarring intrusion, making her jump. She lost the focus, the growing sense of seeing something that wasn't yet there. Muttering to herself, she went to the door.

Her unexpected visitor was Kai, his arms loaded with wrapped canvases. “Hi,” he said when Sweeney opened the door. “I brought these by. The framer tried to deliver them to the gallery, but of course it isn't open, so he called me. Candra told me to send them back to you, but I thought, what the hell, why not bring them to you myself? Who knows if or when the gallery will open again.”

He looked at her as if expecting her to tell him Richard's plans for the gallery, but since she had no idea, she merely shrugged.

“In here,” she said, leading the way to the studio.

“By the way, the last of your old work sold.”

“That's good.” She cleared some space where she could stand the canvases against the wall. “Put them here.”

He did as she directed, looking around at the other things she had completed. “Hey, these are really great. You're gonna make a fortune; wait and see.”

“I hope,” she said, smiling at him.

“The light is great in here.” He walked over to the huge windows and looked out at the street below. Then he turned, and saw the painting.

All color leached out of his face. He stared at it, mouth agape, eyes blank with shock. “My God,” he blurted.

“Don't tell anyone.” Uncomfortable, she shifted her feet, unable to look him in the eye.

“When did you—You did all this in a day and a half?”

She cringed inside, but she had to come up with some reasonable explanation for the painting, and she couldn't think of one. “No, I've been working on it several days.”

“What? How?”

“I—” Her mind went blank. Furious with herself for not being able to lie, she said, “I swear to God, Kai, if you spill the beans on this, I'll pull every hair out of your head.”

“Spill the beans?” He was looking back and forth from the painting to her, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

“I'm sort of psychic,” she snapped.

“Sort of—?”

“I do paintings of things that haven't happened yet. When I finish this, it will show who killed her.” She glared at him. “And I don't want you to ever mention any of this to anyone.”

He was all but backing away from her, inching toward the door. “I won't,” he said.

“I mean it, Kai. I don't want the cops to know; not yet.”

He drew a deep breath. “I understand,” he said. “I won't tell the cops, I promise.” Then he laughed, the sound shaky. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “No one would ever expect this, would he?”

C
HAPTER
    N
INETEEN

“I
‘m telling you, I saw it.”

“That's impossible. You must be mistaken.”

“That isn't something I'd be mistaken about,” Kai said, annoyed.

“There's no such thing as a psychic; that's all just parlor games. She must have already done the painting, and when she heard about Candra, she just painted in her face.”

“Then explain how Sweeney knew what Candra was wearing. I saw Candra at the party, remember? I know how she was dressed. Sweeney had the dress, the shoes, the jewelry, everything, down right.”

“This is unbelievable. She had to have found out some other way.”

“There
is
no other way,” Kai insisted. “I don't care if you believe real psychics exist or not; the painting exists—because I've seen it. And you have
to decide what in hell you're going to do about it.”

“Do? What is there to do?
I
don't know anything about what's going on.
You,
on the other hand, are going to do your civic duty and tell the police about this very interesting painting Sweeney has, which couldn't possibly exist unless she saw the killing or did the killing. At the very least they'll take the painting, and she won't be able to finish it.”

“You don't think the cops would be interested in letting her finish the face?”

“Why should they?”

Kai felt as if he were beating his head against a rock. He began ticking off points on his fingers. “A: Initially, the cops will think she did it, but unfortunately there isn't any evidence except the painting to tie her to the murder. B: She'll demonstrate how she did the painting, and once they're believers, they'll be watching every brushstroke she makes.”

“That would never hold up in court.”

“No, but once they know where to look, do you honestly think they won't find some little shred of evidence to tie you up like a Christmas turkey?”

“No, I don't. Anything they find will point to someone else and you know it.”

“But what about your fucking
face
?” he said from between gritted teeth. “Once they have it, don't you think it will occur to the cops to show your picture to the guard? What's going to happen then?”

Finally, the danger of the situation began to sink in. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. “Okay, we have to contain the damage. I
still think you should go to the police; it will take suspicion off you. And they won't allow her to work on the painting because if they do, then it's inadmissible as evidence against her, if they can make the case, and they wouldn't take that chance.”

“What if they do?”

“Then we'll fall back on our safety net. With hard physical evidence, and the tape as motive, do you think the cops are really going to believe a kooky painting? He'd have to die, of course, and leave a suicide note telling why. Such a shame.”

Kai relaxed. The logic of the plan was comforting. For the first time since seeing the painting in Sweeney's apartment, he felt as if he might slip out of this trap after all.

“And there's always the most obvious step.”

“What?” he asked.

“Why, killing Sweeney, of course.
Before
she finishes the painting.”

*   *   *

Late that afternoon, Sweeney opened the door once again to Detectives Aquino and Ritenour. As soon as she saw their cold eyes and impassive faces, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She knew exactly what Kai had done. “That rotten tattletale,” she muttered.

“Ms. Sweeney,” said Detective Aquino, “with your permission, we'd like to search your apartment. If you insist, we can get a search warrant within the hour, but things will go much smoother if you cooperate.” Smoother for them, he meant. Right now smooth was probably very important to him; he
didn't look as if he had gotten any sleep that day, either.

She sighed. “The painting's in the studio. I'll get it.”

“If you don't mind, we'll go with you,” Ritenour said immediately, and they both fell in step just behind her.

She was so tired she didn't care, or almost didn't care. She had been fighting the need for sleep all day, hoping she would get to spend the night with Richard again and he would somehow protect her from whatever happened when she slept. If she was at his town house, then she couldn't work on the painting, could she? But her conscience hurt her whenever she thought of avoiding the completion of the painting, as if she were planning to let a murderer go free. She had to do the painting. But she would very much prefer that Richard be with her when she did, to help her through the aftermath. That meant he needed to be here.