Just Before Sunrise (35 page)

Having come straight to her gallery from Belvedere, she had her car with her and headed straight up to her apartment. The idea was to drop Otto off and let him resume his recovery in peace, but he refused to get out of the car. Annie didn't know if he had bad memories of Friday night or just felt more at home in the back of her station wagon or if he was just being stubborn, but she didn't insist.

It was a bright, still, warm winter Sunday, and San Franciscans were out enjoying it. Pushing back a wave of envy, Annie drove up to Sarah's little cul-de-sac, Otto flopped out in the backseat. With no empty parking space, she turned around to head back down the hill and park on the street below, but as she passed Sarah's house, she saw that the front door was slightly ajar. Even for Sarah Linwood, that was odd.

Annie swung into an illegal space right in front of Sarah's doorstep and jumped out, not bothering with her keys or Otto, not caring if she was overreacting.

She pushed on the door. "Sarah? It's me, Annie."

No answer. She pushed the door open several more inches and peered inside.

"Sarah? Are you all right?"

The door struck Sarah's cane, which was lying on the floor. Annie felt a surge of panic, tried to stifle it, and thrust open the door, praying silently that Sarah had just mislaid her cane and had been in some artistic trance and just hadn't shut her door properly.

Her heart stopped the moment she crossed the threshold.

Sarah was crumpled up on the floor at the base of her easel. Root vegetables were scattered around her, her rickety table knocked on its side.

"Sarah!"

Annie lurched to her, dropped to her knees, expected blood, a weak pulse, death; she pushed back the image of Gran lying still, utterly lifeless, in her sterile hospital bed, of her mother, nothing but bones and yellowed skin.
I can't fall apart. I have to keep going.
Words then, words now.

Sarah lay on her side in a heap of cheap flowered smock and elastic-waist polyester pants. Had she simply worked to the point of exhaustion and fallen? Annie leaned over her in an attempt to see her face and check if she was breathing. So far, no blood. "Sarah..."

She moaned.

Alive. At least she was alive.

"Sarah, what happened? Can you talk? Can you move?"

"My head..."

Even as she croaked out the words, Annie saw the swelling at the base of Sarah's head under her left ear. No, she hadn't fallen. "Someone whacked you good," she said, trying to sound optimistic. Had Sarah been knocked unconscious? For how long? "I'll get ice. Then I need to call for help."

No answer, no movement.

Annie staggered to her feet, made it to the refrigerator, dumped out a tray of ice into the sink and collected a half-dozen cubes into one of Sarah's frayed, paint-stained dish towels. She was shaking, trying to keep tears and panic at bay, even as she kept talking. "I'm coming, Sarah. Gosh, this ice is cold. It'll help. You'll be fine." She kept her voice chatty, optimistic. "I know you will. You're too hardheaded to let a whack on the head slow you down for long."

Sarah hadn't moved. Annie placed the towel of ice on the swelling. Moaning, Sarah raised a gnarled hand and held the ice herself. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Just lie still. I'll call—"

"The painting."

Annie went still. "What?"

Wincing in pain, Sarah licked her purplish lips and just managed to speak. "Haley. Check...please. My bedroom."

"That can wait—"

Her free hand shot out and caught Annie's wrist in a vise grip. "Check," she said desperately, in spite of her weakness and pain.
"Please."

Not wanting to agitate her further, Annie got to her feet. Her legs were shaking, her stomach twisted into painful knots of fear and tension. The portrait of Haley Linwood MacCrae. The start of it all. Annie had been thinking about it that morning after reading the article on Sarah in the Sunday paper, where in a stark, single sentence, the reporter had stated that the painting had hung in the room where both Thomas Linwood and his granddaughter had been murdered. It wasn't news. It wasn't anything Annie or Garvin or Sarah or almost anyone else in San Francisco didn't know. But Annie had been unable to shake the sentence from her mind. She didn't know why.

She checked under Sarah's simple twin bed, in her near-empty closet. She checked every canvas leaned up against the wall.

The portrait of Haley Linwood was gone.

Annie went out into the main room and checked there, noticing only that Sarah's key chain had been taken apart on her little kitchen table, keys scattered. She returned to Sarah and knelt beside her, the ice still on the base of her neck. "The painting's gone, Sarah. But we can worry about that later, okay? Right now I need to call an ambulance. I don't think you should move until they get here."

"All right," she said weakly, tears dribbling down across the bridge of her nose.

"Sarah..."

"Go. Call. I'll be fine."

Annie had no choice. With no phone, she had to leave Sarah alone. She covered her with a pilled, brightly colored knitted afghan before starting out.

But before she finished the task, Garvin MacCrae and Vic Denardo burst through the door. Annie could see them sizing up the situation even as Garvin grabbed her by the elbows. His eyes were dark pits, focused, determined, any fear buried deep. "What happened?"

"I don't know. I found Sarah like this. She was hit on the head —someone stole the portrait of Haley."

"You're all right?"

Now seeing the spurt of fear in his eyes, she nodded. "I've got to call an ambulance."

"Use the phone in my car. Door's unlocked."

Vic Denardo hung back, staring at the crumpled heap that was Sarah Linwood. "I didn't...I didn't touch her."

Garvin glared back at him. "I'm not flinging accusations."

"It wasn't me. I would never hurt her."

Ignoring him, Garvin headed for Sarah. Annie darted outside and climbed into the front seat of Garvin's car, which was parked directly behind hers, blocking another car in the cul-de-sac. As she dialed, she saw Vic Denardo race outside and assumed he was going to help her. His eyes connected with hers for an instant, then he jumped into her car.

Annie heard the dispatcher come on the line and knew she couldn't go after Denardo, not when Sarah needed an ambulance. He started the engine, went forward, stalled, started it up again, and screeched out into the street. Annie gave the dispatcher the necessary information, even as she watched her car buck down the steep, curving hill, saw Garvin burst outside and lunge down the hill after Vic Denardo. He gave up after a few yards and stomped up to his car, cursing, kicking a loose pebble.

Annie slid out of his car. "The police and ambulance are on their way."

"That bastard Denardo—damn him, I was just beginning to believe he was innocent."

"I wouldn't worry too much."

"Why the hell not?"

She gave him a faltering smile. "Otto's in the car with him."

Garvin left Annie to wait for the police and ambulance and headed down the hill after Vic Denardo. He hadn't gone ten blocks when he spotted Annie's station wagon rammed up against a telephone pole. Its front end was slightly damaged, and the small crowd that had gathered stood back. As he climbed out of his car, Garvin could see why: Otto was in the front seat with Denardo. He headed over and opened up the driver's door.

"Get this goddamned dog off me," Denardo yelled. Otto had his front paws on his lap and his massive, half-shaved head shoved up against Vic's chest. The big, ugly dog's mouth was open, his tongue wagging, looking fierce enough to scare anybody. Denar-do's eyes were wild as he looked around at Garvin. "I hate dogs. Get him off me, goddammit!"

"He might not listen to me."

"Well,
try,
for chrissake!"

"Otto," Garvin said. "Come on, fella. I'll take over now."

The big dog stared up at him with his huge brown eyes. His forehead was wrinkled, giving him a slightly comical look.

"His paws are digging into me," Denardo complained.

"Serves you right. Where the hell'd you think you were going?"

Denardo glanced up at him, his neck stretched back as far as he could get it from Otto's open mouth. "Dog breath. Jesus."

"Vic."

"Okay, okay. Did you see the keys on the table?"

Garvin frowned. "Yes."

"They'd been taken off Sarah's key ring. She couldn't do that, not with her hands."

Vic paused, eyeing Otto. "Go on," Garvin said.

"So Sarah's key to the Linwood house is missing. I remember it, okay? She gave it to me one day to copy, but it's unusual, tough to do."

"Why did she want you to have a copy?"

He licked his lips nervously, Otto showing no sign of backing off. "She wanted me to sneak into her room one night. Thought it'd be—you know, sexy, dangerous, with her father in the same house."

Garvin clenched his fists. "Then that means you could come and go at will. Vic, this isn't helping your cause—"

"I gave it back to her when she got nuts about paying me back the money. Threw it right in her face. Jesus, MacCrae—will you tell the goddamn dog to sit or something?"

"Tell me about the missing key, Vic."

"I didn't take it. I didn't beat the shit out of Sarah. Go ahead, search me. You won't find any key."

"So you're saying whoever assaulted Sarah and stole the painting has it."

He tried stretching his neck back from Otto a fraction more. "Ah-huh."

"Why?"

"Think about it."

Garvin bit off a curse. "This isn't the time for twenty questions, Vic. If you've got something to say—" But he stopped, a thought striking him. He went still. He didn't react. He couldn't. If he did, he wouldn't be able to function. "Whoever stole the painting is trying to set you up again."

"Bastard left the keys out on purpose. Knew I'd see the Linwood key was missing and go to the house."

"But it's been sold—"

"Nah, nah, a buyer's been found, but the paper-work still hasn't been done. It's poetic, you know? Me going back to the scene of the crime. Then I get there, he kills me, blames everything on me. The painting, Sarah, the two murders."

"But you ran instead," Garvin said.

Vic gave a small, tight shake of the head, not enough to spook Otto. "Not this time. I was heading to the Linwood house. I wasn't planning on letting this fuck get away with framing me. Not again."

Garvin inhaled deeply, barely able to think. "Haley..."

"She knew who it was. That's why she went back to the house."

"But why? She knew her grandfather had been brutally murdered—"

Vic's expression softened. "That was Haley, MacCrae. If she knew the killer, understood his motives, she'd think she could reason with him, get him to turn himself in. That's the way she operated. She never did believe people did bad things for bad reasons."

That was true, Garvin thought, remembering the woman who had been his wife. She would have had the courage—and the blindness—to arrange to meet someone she knew was a killer. She would have believed enough in her own goodness, her own invulnerability, to confront a killer with the truth. If the killer was a friend, she would put a positive spin on his motives.
You weren't in your right mind. You were provoked. It was self-defense.
That was Haley Linwood MacCrae, a woman whose optimism was untempered by the harsh realities of life.

Garvin reached inside the car and grabbed Otto's collar. "I'll hold him while you slip out. If you try and steal my car, Denardo, I'll let Otto have you."

Denardo didn't need to be told twice. In a half second he was out of the station wagon and on his feet. Otto twisted out of Garvin's grip and loped after Denardo, not letting him out of his sight. "It's okay, poochie. I ain't going anywhere."

Leaving Annie's station wagon rammed up against the telephone pole and the crowd looking on, mystified, they all got into Garvin's car. Otto in back, Garvin and Vic Denardo up front.

"Christ," Vic said, "I smell like dog slobber."

Garvin didn't reply.

When they got back to Sarah's house, the police and an ambulance had arrived. Two paramedics were wheeling Sarah out on a stretcher.

"She's not here," Vic said.

He meant Annie. Garvin gave a curt nod. If Annie were there, she'd be at Sarah's side.

"She must have seen the keys too," Vic said.

"How the hell would she recognize the key to the Linwood house?"

"How should I know? Maybe Sarah showed it to her. Like I said, it's unusual." He shuddered. "This thing's creepy."

Garvin had already swung the car around and was heading down the hill before the police could recognize them and ask questions. Annie didn't have a car. She would have had to take a cab or rely on public transportation. Either way, she wouldn't have that much of a head start.

"What're you thinking?" Vic asked worriedly beside him.

Garvin kept his eyes on the road. "I'm thinking we're playing right into this bastard's hands. If he touches Annie—"

"He won't. We'll get there in time, MacCrae. She can't be that far ahead of us." Vic settled back in the leather seat but didn't look comfortable. "It could be a woman, you know."

Gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, Garvin shook his head. He hadn't dug deep enough. Five years ago, when he'd checked into Sarah's finances just as Haley had and had found nothing, he'd assumed there'd been nothing.

He hadn't guessed that somebody knowledgeable and clever— somebody with everything at stake—had been there first, covering up his tracks.

"No. It's a man."

Annie stood at the front gate of the Linwood house on Pacific Heights. She'd fled Sarah's house just as the police were screaming up the hill, leaving Sarah with instructions to have them send someone over to the Linwood house.

Convinced that Vic Denardo would already be there with her car and Otto, Annie had headed to Pacific Heights herself. She could understand Denardo's reasoning. He would think he had no choice. If he didn't get to the Linwood house in time, the real killer would have a chance to plant evidence against Vic and get out before anyone was the wiser.