“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.