Now You See Her (36 page)

A policeman escorted them through the crowd of onlookers and reporters who clogged the hall. Flashbulbs went off in her face and a tangle of questions were hurled at them, but she made no effort to
sort out individual words, nor did Richard answer. He was recognized; someone called him by name. He didn't respond, keeping all his attention on her and on getting out of there. He did swear under his breath, but she was the only one who heard him.

The policeman managed to evade the couple of reporters who tried to follow them and dropped Richard and Sweeney off at Richard's town house without incident. She clutched the painting and stared at the steps, wondering if she would be able to make it up them, much less the full flight of stairs inside.

“Come on, sweetie.” Richard's voice was gentle, cajoling.

“I'm not a baby,” she said, scowling at him. “I'm all right.”

“Of course you are.”

Now he was soothing her. She hated being soothed. And she was pretty certain she could have made it up the steps without his help. She didn't want to seem ungrateful, however, so she leaned against him as they climbed the steps.

He unlocked the door and let them in, then reset the alarm system. “Just leave the painting here.”

“No, I want it upstairs.”

Evidently he decided that trying to argue with her would take a lot more time than going along with her. He dropped the bag at the foot of the stairs and lifted her in his arms, painting and all.

“Your shoulder!” she protested, trying to wiggle out of his arms.

“Be still, before you hurt me.”

She froze, blinking up at him with big owl eyes
and not moving a muscle as he climbed the stairs. If she hadn't looked so utterly exhausted, he would have laughed.

He put her on the bed, and she was asleep before he got her shoes off.

He peeled her out of the jeans but left her in his T-shirt. By the time he'd removed his own clothes and got her under the covers, he was ready to collapse beside her. Getting in on the other side of the bed, he cradled her against his right side and determinedly shut out the ache in his left shoulder, concentrating instead on the joy of having her alive, in his arms and in his bed.

The sun was up and shining brightly when Sweeney woke him with her restless movements. He opened one eye and looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered. She didn't reply, just kept rolling her head and pushing at the covers. A chill went through him as he realized she
was
asleep.

She slipped out of bed, moving so smoothly she was out of his grasp before he could react. She stood beside the bed, her eyes open but strangely blank. She seemed bewildered, as if she wanted to go somewhere but didn't know how to get there.

Richard got out of bed and put his arms around her, shaking her gently to wake her. “Sweetie. Wake up, honey You don't need to paint today. Come back to bed.”

It was a long time before she responded, blinking and looking up at him with bleary eyes. “What?” she mumbled.

“You were sleepwalking.” He kept his tone calm
and got her back into bed. She immediately dropped into a deep sleep again, lying still in his arms. He allowed himself to doze, but didn't relax his guard. She was in an unfamiliar place and might fall down the stairs if she began wandering around in her sleep. He woke every time she turned over, bringing her back into his arms and keeping her safe.

Because he didn't want to leave her alone in bed, he woke her at ten-thirty. She managed to glare at him through only one eye, but to his relief she was fully alert. “You had better be waking me to have sex, because otherwise there's no excuse,” she growled.

His eyes glinted, giving her maybe half a second of warning before he turned her on her back and mounted her. “I was only kid—” she began, then gasped as he pushed into her with a hard thrust that took him to the hilt. She half-screamed, and her nipples pinched into tight little buds. Her swift arousal turned him on even more, his erection hardening to the point of pain.

“Jesus,” he ground out, his voice hoarse almost beyond sound. He thrust a few more times and began coming, his body arching and shuddering as he spurted into her. She cried out again and her inner muscles clamped convulsively around his cock, milking him with her orgasm.

He felt like a human wreck afterward, lying sprawled on his back, incapable of moving. He couldn't remember ever before coming that fast or that hard, not even as a teenager, when he had still thought of sex as a race to the finish line. She stirred
before he did, pushing a tangled curl out of her eyes and sitting up.

“That wasn't fair,” she accused, but her voice was husky with satisfaction. “Do it again, and do it right this time.”

“In your dreams,” he managed to growl, delighting her into a laugh. “Well, maybe tonight.”

“It's a date.” She bounced out of bed, moving him to a sour mental observation about being the one who had done all the work. She pulled off his T-shirt and headed for the bathroom, and the view of that curvy butt was enough to get him out of bed and into the shower with her.

*   *   *

He put on a suit and tie, knowing he would face a battery of reporters at the police station. They hadn't been bothered so far, only because his private number was unlisted, but he figured it wouldn't take some enterprising reporter much longer to get it. The phone downstairs in the office was probably ringing nonstop.

He buzzed Tabitha and found that he had guessed exactly right. “Tell them I'll be giving a statement at the precinct in two hours, and that you don't know anything else.”

“I don't,” she said, disgruntled.

“And take a long lunch,” he added.

“Now you're talking.”

He called Edward and asked him to bring the car around, and then he kissed Sweeney, who had put on her usual jeans-and-sweatshirt combination and was sitting cross-legged on the bed watching him. “I'll have the cell phone with me,” he said.

“The number's at my apartment.”

He scribbled it down again. “If the phone rings, don't answer it. If I call, I'll let it ring once, then I'll hang up and call right back.”

“Got it.”

“I hope this won't take long, but I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Why are you so worried?” she asked. “Kai's dead.” It didn't seem real. The terror of the night felt as if it had happened to someone else.

He gave her a long, searching look. “Maybe because of what you said, about
if
he did it. I don't want to take any chances until the lab tests on the trace evidence are in.”

She thought of that wall in her mind and of the blank space on the painting where the killer's face would be, if she ever finished it. “I'll be careful,” she promised.

*   *   *

He had been gone almost an hour when his assistant called on the intercom. “We're going out to lunch. Would you like me to bring back something for you?”

“No, I'll rustle up something in the kitchen.”

“Too bad Richard gave Violet the day off; she makes the most wonderful omelettes you've ever tasted. But he was supposed to be out of town today, and she had made plans to visit her son in Chicago. When all of this came up and he had to cancel, he insisted she go on.”

“I'll find something,” Sweeney said. She had been feeding herself for most of her life.

She made toast and scrambled an egg, though the simple meal took much longer than usual to prepare in an unfamiliar kitchen. She had to search for everything, including the toaster and coffeemaker, which weren't sitting out on the counter where all toasters and coffeemakers were supposed to sit.

Eventually she found all the necessities, and after the simple meal, found herself at loose ends. If she had been at home, she would have been working, but here she had nothing to do. She explored the house, poking her head into every door and ending up back in the bedroom. She felt much better than she had the day before, but she still hadn't had nearly enough sleep and was considering a nap when her gaze fell on the wrapped canvas, sitting propped on the chair.

She was reluctant to unwrap it, after all that had happened. She didn't want to gaze on that scene of violence again. But some nameless compulsion drove her, and she pulled the cheesecloth away.

Nothing had changed. The blank space still taunted her inability to finish the painting. She was never without a supply of charcoal pencils, so she dug one out of her purse and made a few preliminary lines on the canvas, trying to block in Kai's head. Her fingers felt clumsy, and the lines looked all wrong. Kai's hair had been thick and glossy, almost Asian in texture but with just a hint of wave. She tried to capture that look, but the lines that emerged were far too smooth and the style was all wrong—

She stepped back, staring at the painting. The charcoal lines looked rough in comparison with the precision of the oil paint, but the image was clear. The hair
was smooth and pale, curving under into a chic bob. There was something familiar about it, something nagging at her, but she couldn't place what it was.

Abruptly she stiffened, staring at the canvas. She whirled and went to the phone, punching in Richard's cell phone number.

He answered immediately. There was a lot of noise in the background, and she wondered if she had caught him in the middle of his press statement. “It's a woman,” she said shakily.

“What?”
he demanded.

“It's a woman. I've done the hair—just a rough sketch, but I can tell. And . . . I've seen this hairstyle before.”

“Goddamn it,” he swore. “I never thought—I have to tell Aquino; he's only looked at the men on the surveillance tape. Keep the door locked and don't let anyone in until I get home.”

“I won't,” she started to say, but a hint of sound startled her, cut her off.

“Sweeney!”

“I think I heard something,” she said. “Something downstairs.”

“Are the doors locked?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Where are Tabitha and Martin?”

“Gone to lunch.”

“Son of a bitch.” The urgency in his voice sizzled through the telephone line. “Honey, lock the bedroom door. Shove furniture against it; anything to buy some time, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Don't hang up the phone. Keep the line open. I'm on my way.”

She laid the receiver down and went to the door. She wasn't certain she had heard anything, and she would feel like a fool if the house was empty or if the sound she thought she had heard was Tabitha or Martin returning from lunch. No one was in sight; the hallway was empty, and from where she stood she could tell no one was on the stairs.

She tiptoed to the railing to look down into the foyer. Nothing.

Then she heard a faint rasping sound, coming from downstairs, perhaps in the kitchen.

She pictured the knife in the gloved hand, in the figure standing over Candra, and she knew beyond a doubt what that sound was: one of the big knives being drawn from the butcher block in the kitchen.

A blond head came into view below.

It was Margo McMillan.

Sweeney jerked back, shock numbing her to her toes. She stumbled toward the bedroom door, not caring how much noise she made, and slammed the door shut. The lock turned easily. She dragged a chair over and wedged it under the door handle, but it seemed shaky and she wasn't certain it would hold against any force. How much force could Margo exert? She was thin, but perhaps she was stronger than she looked, and interior doors weren't equipped to withstand the kind of force exterior doors were.

“Damn damn damn,” she breathed, and ran to the phone. “Richard!”

“I'm here.” He sounded breathless, and a siren
almost drowned him out. He was in a squad car, she thought, she hoped.

“It's Margo.” Her teeth suddenly chattered as a chill swept her. “M-Margo McMillan. She's here.”

“She's inside the house?” he asked sharply.

“Yes. She has one of the kitchen knives. The door is locked, but—”

“If necessary, go into the bathroom and lock that door, too. Get some towels and wrap them around your arms. Use anything you can to hinder her. Throw towels on her, and try to get them around the knife so she can't use it. Spray deodorant in her face. There are weapons in the bathroom, baby; all you have to do is use them.”

“I understand,” she said, whispering, unable to speak louder, though he probably couldn't hear her over the siren.

The door handle rattled. She jumped and put down the phone to go stand by the bathroom door.

Something scratched the lock. Margo was picking the lock.

The bathroom lock wouldn't be any more substantial than the bedroom lock. Sweeney ran into the bathroom and grabbed an armful of towels, as well as the can of spray deodorant. Doing as Richard had said, she wrapped a thick towel around each arm. She knew why. She was supposed to use her wrapped arms to deflect the knife. She remembered the wounds on Candra's arms.

The door opened, shoving the chair aside. Margo didn't say anything, just entered the room in a rush, the knife gleaming in her hand.

Sweeney grabbed a thick towel and lunged at the woman, throwing all her weight at her in an effort to knock her off balance. Margo screamed as the towel entangled her arm, but she struck anyway, and the knife bit through the thick fabric. Sweeney felt the kiss of it burn on her left triceps.

She didn't know how to fight. She had never fought anyone in her life. But she twisted, getting inside the arc of the knife, and hammered her fist into Margo's nose. Blood spurted, and she saw the look of shock in Margo's infuriated eyes, as if she couldn't believe anyone would dare strike her. The whole thing struck Sweeney as so ridiculous that she hit her again, and again, digging her feet against the thick carpet and pushing, using all her strength and weight to push Margo backwards.