“But how did he know you didn’t arrest me?” she asked, bewildered.
Aquino shrugged. Ritenour answered. “He could have called the precinct, or maybe he was watching. How doesn’t matter. He obviously came here tonight intending to kill you, only you heard him raise the window, and you weren’t alone.”
Aquino said sourly to Richard, “It’s illegal to own a handgun without a license in the city of New York.”
Richard shrugged, not a flicker of discomfort from his wounded shoulder showing on his face. “I have a license,” he said.
Aquino looked even more sour. “It figures. You did a damn good job. That was a clean hit to the heart. You’ve had training, haven’t you?”
“Military,” Richard replied. “Army.”
“Yeah?” Ritenour said. “What unit? I was in the army.”
“Rangers.”
Sweeney saw their expressions change, and they sat back in their chairs.
“The bastard didn’t have a chance,” Ritenour said softly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You’re at the end of your rope,” Richard said roughly, tilting her face up. She was paper white, as much from fatigue as stress and shock; her eyes were dull and circled by shadows so dark they looked like bruises. “Get some clothes; I’m taking you home with me.”
Aquino got to his feet. “I’ll take care of that. She don’t want to go into the bedroom. Is there anything in particular you want?”
She shook her head. Normally she would never have allowed a stranger to paw through her clothes, but right now she didn’t care. He was right; she didn’t want to go into the bedroom. She might never go into it again. “There’s a satchel on the top shelf in the closet. Just throw some things in it.”
“You’ll need to sign a statement,” Ritenour said to Richard, “but that can wait a few hours. Get some sleep if you can.” He paused. “The media will be all over this, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Richard rubbed his jaw. “Is there any way we can keep the painting out of the news?”
So Sweeney wouldn’t be a tabloid sensation, he meant.
“Maybe. I don’t see any need to mention it. The reporters will probably play up the lover angle, make it sound like some sort of lovers’ quarrel.”
Candra’s parents had already been hurt enough by her death, but now the sensationalism would double, and her relationship with Kai would be analyzed and dissected in public. “I wonder why he killed her,” Ritenour said, almost to himself. “We may never know.”
“If he did,” said Sweeney, speaking through a blur of exhaustion.
Both men gave her sharp looks, Richard’s lingering longer than Ritenour’s. “What makes you say that?” asked the detective. “If he didn’t kill Mrs. Worth, then he had no reason to worry about the painting, and no reason other than that to try to kill you.”
She shrugged. She didn’t know why she had said it. She tried to imagine Kai’s face in the painting, but that brick wall was still there, refusing to allow the image to form.
A few minutes later Aquino returned with the bag. “One of the policewomen packed it,” he said, as if he wanted her to know he hadn’t been handling her underwear. “I thought a woman would know better what another woman needed.”
“Thank you,” she said. She reached out to take it, but Richard’s hand was there first. If the weight of the bag bothered his shoulder, he didn’t show any sign of it.
“No sense in calling a taxi. One of the patrolmen can drop you off at your house.”
Richard nodded and cupped Sweeney’s elbow. “I’ll call you later in the morning.”
“Make it real late,” Aquino replied, and yawned. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. My advice is take the phone off the hook and get as much sleep as you can.”
“I need the painting,” Sweeney said as Richard began steering her toward the door.
“Sweetheart, there’s no need—”
“I need the painting,” she repeated, digging in her heels and dragging him to a halt. She couldn’t think straight; she was swaying on her feet, but she knew she couldn’t leave the painting behind.
“There are reporters outside—”
“I’ll wrap it in a cloth.” Tugging free, she trudged into the studio and took the painting down from the easel. She always kept lengths of cheesecloth for cleaning up and for covering the paintings, and she wrapped the painting in that. Richard was right beside her every step she took, watching her worriedly, but she was too tired to reassure him. She had just enough strength to do what was necessary, and getting the painting was necessary.
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.