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.”