“Ten-thirty.”
“Where did you go then?”
“Home.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make any calls, talk to anyone?”
“No. I did some stock analysis on my computer, cleared up E-mail messages, that kind of thing. The time will be on the computer log.”
“What time did you stop work?”
“After midnight. Closer to one, I guess.” He had no idea what time they thought Candra had been killed, though he had heard someone remark she had still been wearing the dress she wore to a party. Logically, that would put the time of death close to when she arrived home. Candra had been known to stay until a party died, whether that was midnight or dawn.
“What did you do then?”
“Went to bed.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Detective Aquino sighed. Detective Ritenour looked tired. Richard knew he was their best bet, and he had taken away all the usual motives. What had probably looked like a fairly simple case had become more complicated.
“We’d like you to stay while we verify a few things,” Detective Ritenour said.
“I understand.” Richard flashed a level look at them, one that said he was well aware of everything that had been going on. ‘And I’ll take you up on that coffee now, if I’ll be allowed near a bathroom.”
Rueful smiles flashed across their faces, quickly erased. “Sure thing. How do you want it?”
“Black.”
“Not a good choice,” Aquino said on his way out. “This stuff needs diluting with something, even if it’s paint thinner.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He thought of Sweeney, wondering, fearing, how she had weathered the night. The painting she had been doing was, he was certain now, of Candra. Had she completed it last night? Was she in shock? Did she need him?
He wanted to call her. The urge was so powerful he could barely contain it, but he fought it down. Bringing her to the detectives’ notice would only involve her in this. He hadn’t been to the death scene, but if Sweeney’s painting was in any way accurate in the details, he could see that any detective would find that suspicious. And he wondered if the other face, the killer’s, was still blank.
“May I call my office?” he asked. Sweeney would have called there if she needed him.
“Sure. Use the telephone on my desk,” Ritenour offered. He would be able to listen to every word Richard said. Their suspicion had eased, but not completely disappeared. It wouldn’t until everything Richard told them had been verified.
Richard stood beside the desk and dialed the office number. Tabitha Hamrick, budding financial genius, answered the phone. “Tab, it’s Richard. Any messages?”
“Thousands of them.” She sighed. “Richard, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I’ve notified her family, and I’m giving them their choice in everything. They should be here soon. Ah, hell, I forgot to make their hotel reservations. Would you do that for me? The Plaza. I’ll pick up the tab.”
“Sure thing. Oh, Ms. Sweeney called this morning. I told her I’d tell you.”
“Thanks.” He wanted to ask how Sweeney had sounded, but couldn’t. “What time was that?”
“I think it was close to eleven. I made a note. . . . Here it is. Ten-fifty-seven.”
Fairly late in the morning. She should have been okay by then. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Will you be in this afternoon?”
Richard glanced over at Ritenour. “This will take another couple of hours, right?”
“Right.” Ritenour gave a faintly apologetic shrug. He wasn’t nearly as pugnacious as he had been before the interview.
“No, I won’t make it in. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He hung up and worked his shoulders, shrugging the kinks out of them. Aquino appeared with three cups of coffee sandwiched in his hands. Richard took the one that was black. Aquino and Ritenour both drank theirs with so much cream the liquid was barely brown. After the first sip, Richard knew why. But in the military he had gotten accustomed to drinking coffee this strong, for the caffeine kick.
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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Richard 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.