“Nah, you go on. I’m whacked.” They were both divorced, and all either of them had waiting for them at home was laundry. The beers sounded tempting. But something was nibbling at Aquino, and he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Something about Richard Worth. It wasn’t that he thought Worth was the killer; the man had no motive, and no opportunity. But he was too controlled; there hadn’t been any shakes, any fidgeting, any show of temper, no visible emotion when he identified his wife’s body—okay, soon-to-be ex-wife, and considering the abortion thing and all the other men, he could understand why Worth wouldn’t give a damn—nothing. No sign he had a single nerve in his body. He had been patient and helpful, giving them access to his records so they could get the information a lot faster than if they had to go through legal channels. Aquino knew he had no reason to be suspicious of Worth, and he wasn’t, not really. It was just a gut feeling that the guy was hiding something, that there was some loose end that needed to be secured.
He waved a careless good-bye to Ritenour, then slid his bulk behind the wheel of the nondescript tan sedan the city provided for his use. On impulse, he decided to drive by Richard Worth’s town house, just to see what he could see. Hell, he might even park and keep an eye on the place for a while. In a detective, a little healthy curiosity was a good thing.
* * *
Richard gave the cabdriver a twenty and didn’t wait for the change, just bounded up the steps to the town house. When he renovated the bottom floor for his offices, he had added a separate entrance for them tucked under the steps that went up to the main part of the house. The office floor was half underground, with the windows at street level protected by steel bars. He entered into a foyer, a ten-by-ten square laid with imported slate tiles. The rug centered on the tiles was a two-hundred-year-old Turkish rug so tightly woven it didn’t depress under his weight as he strode across it.
He checked the answering machine in the den for messages. There were eleven of them, and he listened impatiently, fast-forwarding to the next one as soon as he identified each voice. Sweeney’s wasn’t one of them. He dialed her number and listened to the rings, counting them in his head. On the sixth ring, her machine picked up. Her voice recited the number; then she ended with a terse, “Leave a message.” Normally he would have been amused. Now he was worried sick. Goddamn it, where was she?
* * *
Sweeney hadn’t meant to walk so far. The severe episode that morning had left her feeling dazed and dopey, even after she woke from the deathlike, three-hour nap. She had wandered around the apartment for hours, not expecting Richard to call but hanging around anyway, just in case he did. He would be so busy with the arrangements that she didn’t expect to hear from him for a couple of days, at least.
Around sundown, though, she began to feel as if she couldn’t stay inside another moment. Her thought processes felt slow and clumsy, as if she had been drugged, and she thought some fresh air might help clear her mind. Not trusting the chirpy weather lady who said the temperature was a pleasant sixty-four degrees, she pulled on a denim jacket and hit the street.
She didn’t have any destination in mind. She just walked. She lived on the fringes of the Lower East Side, and the area was full of color, especially the human variety. The relatively low rents attracted artists and students by the thousands. Actors and musicians mostly gravitated to Greenwich Village, but some of the overflow ended up in the Lower East Side. The faces were fascinating, young and old. A young couple were out for a stroll, pushing their infant in a stroller, pride and contentment shining on their faces. She caught a glimpse of the baby’s tiny, flowerlike face and its minuscule hands curled on the edge of the blanket, and her hands ached to touch the fuzz that covered its head.
A teenager was walking a tangle of dogs, ranging in size from an English sheepdog, peeping through its mop of hair, down to a dachshund, trotting along in double time. A big grin lit the boy’s face as he was literally towed along the sidewalk: he was on roller skates. The dogs looked happy to be of use.
Gradually the neighborhood changed. Sweeney looked at window displays, stopped in a tiny bakery for a cinnamon roll with thick icing on top, then had to have a cup of coffee to wash it down. She strolled along, hands in the pockets of her jacket, a light breeze flirting with her curls.
She tried not to think about Candra. She deliberately did not allow the image of the painting to form in her mind. She didn’t think about much of anything, just kept walking.
Still, it wasn’t a surprise when she looked around her and recognized the luxurious town houses and high-rise apartment buildings of the Upper East Side. She had walked at least a couple of miles, maybe more; she didn’t know how many blocks constituted a mile. Richard lived here, in a town house off of Park Avenue. Candra had lived somewhere near here; Sweeney remembered Kai telling her that Candra’s new apartment was in the upper somethings; she didn’t remember which block.
Sweeney hadn’t watched the news, just the weather. The local news would probably be full of the murder; such things didn’t happen every day in one of the swank apartment buildings, and Candra was socially prominent, which made her murder even more newsworthy. Sweeney hadn’t wanted to see anything about it, or hear any of the speculation.
All she wanted was to see Richard.
She walked up the street and stood looking up at the town house for several moments. She had been here once, three or four years ago, when she had briefly been in town and had stopped by at Candra’s invitation while a party was in progress. Sweeney had stayed just long enough to pretend to sip some champagne, tell Candra hello, then she escaped.