The Collector (6 page)

“Are you all right? Stupid question,” she said immediately. “Of course you're not.”

“No. Sorry.” Not the time, not the place, not the woman, he told himself, and leaned forward again. “You didn't know Oliver?”

“No.”

“The woman, then. What was it? Rosemary?”

“Sage. Wrong herb. No, I didn't know either of them. I'm staying in the same complex, and I was looking out the window. I saw . . .”

“What did you see?” He closed his hand over hers, removed it quickly when he felt her stiffen. “Will you tell me what you saw?”

“I saw her. Upset, crying, and someone hit her.”

“Someone?”

“I couldn't see him. But I'd seen your brother before. I'd seen them in the apartment together, several times. Arguing, talking, making up. You know.”

“I'm not sure I do. Your apartment looks right out into hers? Theirs,” he corrected. “The police said he was living there.”

“Not exactly. It's not my apartment. I'm staying there.” She took a moment when the waitress brought the lemonade and coffee. “Thanks,” she said, offering the waitress a quick smile. “I'm staying there for a few weeks while the tenants are on vacation, and I . . . I know it sounds nosy and invasive, but I like to watch people. I stay in a lot of interesting places, and I take binoculars, so I was . . .”

“Doing a Jimmy Stewart.”

“Yes!” Relief and laughter mixed in the word. “Yes, like
Rear Window
. Only you don't expect to see Raymond Burr loading up the pieces of his dead wife into a big chest and hauling it out. Or was it suitcases? Anyway. I don't think of it as spying, or didn't until this happened. It's like theater. All the world really is a stage, and I like being in the audience.”

He waded his way through that to the key. “But you didn't see Oliver. You didn't see him hit her? Push her?”

“No. I told the police. I saw someone hit her, but it was the wrong angle to see him. She was crying and scared and pleading—I could see all that on her face. I got my phone to call nine-one-one, and then . . . She came flying out the window. The glass shattered, and she just flew through it and fell.”

This time he put his hand over hers, left it there because it trembled. “Take it easy.”

“I keep seeing it. Keep seeing the glass breaking, and her flying out, the way her arms went wide, and her feet kicked at the air. I hear her scream, but that's in my head. I didn't hear her. I'm sorry about your brother, but—”

“He didn't do this.”

For a moment she said nothing, just lifted her glass, sipped quietly at the lemonade.

“He wasn't capable of doing this,” Ash said.

When she lifted her gaze to his, sympathy and compassion radiated.

She was no Valkyrie, he thought. She felt too much.

“It's terrible what happened.”

“You think I can't accept my brother could kill, then kill himself. It's not that. It's that I
know
he couldn't. We weren't close. I hadn't seen him in months, and then only briefly. He was tighter with Giselle, they're closer in age. But she's in . . .”

Sorrow fell into him again like stones. “I'm not entirely sure. Maybe Paris. I need to find out. He was a pain in the ass,” Ash continued. “An operator without the killer instinct it takes to be an operator. A lot of charm, a lot of bullshit, and a lot of big ideas without any practical sense of how to bring them around. But he wouldn't hit a woman.”

She'd watched them, he remembered. “You said they argued a lot. Did you ever see him hit her, push her?”

“No, but . . .”

“I don't care if he was stoned or drunk or both, he wouldn't hit a woman. He wouldn't kill a woman. He'd never kill himself. He'd believe whatever he'd gotten sucked into, someone would pull him out again. An eternal optimist, that was Oliver.”

She wanted to be careful; she wanted to be kind. “Sometimes we don't know people as well as we think.”

“You're right. He was in love. Oliver was either in love or looking for it. He was in it. Whenever he's ready to be out of it, he wiggles out, takes off awhile, sends the woman an expensive gift and a note of regret. ‘It's not you, it's me,' that kind of thing. Too many drama-filled divorces, so he went for the clean, callous break. And I know he was too damn vain to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. If he was going to kill himself—and he'd never hit that much despair—he'd've gone for pills.”

“I think it was an accident—her fall. I mean all in the heat of the moment. He must've been out of his mind in those moments after.”

Ash shook his head. “He'd have called me, or come running. He's his mother's youngest and her only son, so he was indulged. When there was trouble, he'd call somebody to help him get out of it. That's his knee-jerk. ‘Ash, I'm in some trouble here. You have to fix things.'”

“He usually called you.”

“For big trouble, it would've been me. And he'd never mix pills with his bourbon,” Ash added. “He had an ex who went that way, and it scared him. One or the other, not that he wouldn't go too far with either, but one at a time.

“It doesn't hold. It doesn't,” he insisted. “You said you'd seen them together over there, watched them.”

Uncomfortable with the truth of that, she shifted. “I did. It's a terrible habit. I need to stop.”

“You saw them fight, but he never got physical with her.”

“No . . . No, she was more physical. Threw things, mostly breakables. She threw her shoe at him once.”

“What did he do?”

“Ducked.” Lila smiled a little, and he caught the tiny dimple—a happy little wink—at the right corner of her mouth. “Good reflexes. My take was she yelled—and she shoved him once. He did a lot of fast talking, gestures, smooth. That's why I called him Mr. Slick.”

The big, dark eyes widened in distress. “Oh God, I'm sorry.”

“No, that's accurate. He was slick. He didn't get mad, threaten her, get violent? Shove her back?”

“No. He said something that made her laugh. I could see, sense, she didn't want to, but she turned away, tossed her hair. And he came over and . . . they got physical together. People should close the curtains if they don't want an audience.”

“She threw something at him, yelled at him, pushed him. And he talked his way out of it, talked his way into sex. That's Oliver.”

He never responded with violence, Lila considered. They'd had some sort of argument or fight every day, some disagreement every day, but he never struck her. Never touched her unless it was a prelude to sex.

And yet. “But the fact is she was pushed out the window, and he shot himself.”

“She was pushed out the window, but he didn't push her—and he didn't shoot himself. So, someone else was in the apartment. Someone else was there,” he said again, “and killed both of them. The questions are who, and why.”

It sounded plausible when he said it, just that way. It seemed . . . logical, and the logic of it made her doubt. “But isn't there another question? How?”

“You're right. Three questions. Answer one, maybe answer all.”

He kept his eyes on hers. He saw more than sympathy now. He saw the beginning of interest. “Can I see your apartment?”

“What?”

“The cops aren't going to let me into Oliver's place yet. I want to see it from the perspective you had that night. And you don't know me,” he said before she could speak. “Have you got somebody who could be there with you so you wouldn't be alone with me?”

“Maybe. I can see if I can work that out.”

“Great. Let me give you my number. Work it out, call me. I just need to see . . . I need to be able to see.”

She took out her phone, keyed in the number he gave her. “I have to get back. I've been gone longer than I meant to be.”

“I appreciate you talking to me. Listening.”

“I'm sorry about what happened.” She slid out of the booth, touched a hand to his shoulder. “For you, his mom, your family. I hope whatever the answers are, you get them. If I can work things out, I'll call you.”

“Thanks.”

She left him sitting in the narrow booth, staring into the coffee he'd never touched.

S
he called Julie, and dumped the entire story while she tended the plants, harvested tomatoes, entertained the cat.

Julie's gasps, amazement and sympathy would've been enough, but there was more.

“I heard about this when I was getting ready for work this morning, and it was the Big Talk at the gallery today. We knew her a little.”

“You knew Blondie?” Wincing—the nickname seemed so wrong now. “I mean Sage Kendall.”

“A little. She came into the gallery a few times. Actually bought a couple of very nice pieces. Not my sale—I didn't work with her, but I was introduced. I didn't put it together. Even when they mentioned West Chelsea. I didn't hear the specific apartment building, if they released that.”

“I don't know. They have by now. I can see people down there, taking pictures. And some TV crews have done stand-ups in front of the building.”

“It's awful. A terrible thing to happen, and awful for you, sweetie. They hadn't released the name of the guy who pushed her, then killed himself, not this morning. I haven't checked since.”

“Oliver Archer, aka Mr. Slick. I met his brother at the police station.”

“Well, that's . . . awkward.”

“It probably should've been, but it wasn't.” She sat on the floor of the bathroom, carefully sanding some shiny spots on the runners of one of the vanity drawers. It kept sticking, but she could fix that.

“He bought me a lemonade,” she continued, “and I told him what I'd seen.”

“You . . . you had a drink with him? For God's sake, Lila, for all you know he and his brother are both homicidal maniacs or made men, or serial killers who worked as a team. Or—”

“We had the drink at the coffee shop across from the police station, and there were at least five cops in there while we did. I felt terrible for him, Julie. You could see him struggling to come to grips with it, just trying to make some sense out of what's just not sensible. He doesn't believe his brother killed Sage, or himself, and he actually made a pretty good case against.”

“Lila, nobody wants to believe their brother's capable of this.”

“I get that, I do.” She blew lightly on the runners to clear off the dust from the sanding. “And that was my first reaction, but like I said, he made a pretty good case.”

She slid the drawer back in, out, in. Nodded in satisfaction. Everything should be so easy.

“He wants to come over here, see his brother's apartment from this perspective.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Just wait. He suggested I have somebody here with me, and I wouldn't consider it otherwise. But before I decide anything, I'm going to Google him. Just make sure he doesn't have any nefarious deeds in his past, any wives who died under mysterious circumstances, or other siblings—he said he had twelve, half and step.”

“Seriously?”

“I know. I can't imagine. But I should make sure none of them have a shady past or whatever.”

“Tell me you didn't give him the address where you're staying.”

“No, I didn't give him the address, or my number.” Her brows drew together as she reloaded her makeup in the drawer. “I'm not stupid, Julie.”

“No, but you're too trusting. What's his name—if he gave you his
real
name. I'll Google him right now.”

“Of course he gave me his real name. Ashton Archer. It does sound a little made up, but—”

“Wait a minute. You said Ashton Archer? Tall, rangy, blow-up-your-skirt gorgeous? Green eyes, a lot of wavy black hair?”

“Yes. How do you know that?”

“Because I know him. He's an artist, Lila, a good one. I manage an art gallery, a good one—and we're his main venue in New York. Our paths have crossed a number of times.”

“I knew the name was familiar, but I thought it was because I had the brother's name on my mind. He's the one who did that painting of the woman in the meadow playing the violin—ruined castle, full moon in the background. The one I said I'd buy if I actually owned a wall to hang it on.”

“That's the one.”

“Does he have any wives who died under mysterious circumstances?”

“Not to my knowledge. Unmarried, but was linked with Kelsy Nunn—American Ballet prima ballerina—for a while. Maybe he still is, I can find out. He's got a solid professional reputation, doesn't appear to be completely neurotic, as many of them can be. Enjoys his work, apparently. There's family money, both sides. I'm doing the Google just to fill in the blanks. Father's side real estate and development, mother's shipping. Blah blah. Do you want more?”

He hadn't
looked
like big money. The brother had, she decided. But
the man who'd sat across from her in the coffee shop hadn't looked like money. He'd looked like grief and temper.

“I can check for myself. Basically, you're saying he's not going to throw me out the window.”

“I'd say chances are slim. I like him, personally and professionally, and now I'm sorry about his brother. Even though his brother killed one of our clients.”

“I'm going to let him come over, then. He has the Julie Bryant seal of approval.”

“Don't rush this, Lila.”

“No, tomorrow. I'm too tired for all this tonight. I was going to beg you to come over again, but I'm just tired.”

“Take a long soak in that fabulous tub. Light some candles, read a book. Then put on your pj's, order a pizza, watch a romantic comedy on TV, then cuddle up with the cat and sleep.”

“That sounds like the perfect date.”

“Do it, and call if you change your mind and just need the company. Otherwise, I'm going to do a little more checking on Ashton Archer. I know people who know people. If I'm satisfied,
then
he gets the Julie Bryant seal of approval. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“That's a deal.”

Before she took that long soak, she went back out on the terrace. She stood in the late afternoon heat, looking over at the window, now boarded up, that had once opened into a private world.

J
ai Maddok watched Lila walk into the building—after the skinny brunette stopped for a brief chat with the doorman.

She'd been right to follow the woman, right to trust her instincts and keep Ivan on the idiot's brother.

It wouldn't be a coincidence the brunette and the brother came out of the police station together, had a long talk together, not when the woman lived, so it seemed, in the same rich American complex as the idiot and his whore.

The police had a witness—this was her information. This woman must be the witness.

But what had she seen?

Her information also indicated the police were investigating a murder-suicide. But she had little hope, even with her disregard for police, that would hold up long, witness or no. She'd had to cobble that ploy together quickly due to Ivan's overenthusiasm with the whore.

Her employer was not happy the idiot had been disposed of before he'd given a location. When her employer was unhappy, very bad things happened. Jai usually made those very bad things happen, and didn't want to be on the receiving end.

So the problem must be resolved. A puzzle, she decided, and she enjoyed puzzles. The idiot, the whore, the skinny woman and the brother.

How did they fit, and how would she use them to reach the prize for her employer?

She would consider, study, resolve.

She strolled as she considered. She liked the wet heat, the crowded city. Men glanced at her, and those glances would linger. She agreed with them—she deserved much more than a second look. And still, in the hot, crowded city, even she would not make a lasting impression. In affectionate moments, her employer called her his Asian dumpling, but her employer was . . . an unusual man.

He thought of her as a tool, occasionally as a pet or a pampered child. She was grateful he didn't think of her as a lover, as she'd have been obliged to sleep with him. The thought offended even her limited sensibilities.

She stopped to admire a pair of shoes in a display window—high,
glittering gold heels, thin leopard-spot straps. There had been a time when she was lucky to have a single pair of shoes. Now she could have as many as she liked. The memory of hot, blistered feet, of hunger so deep and sharp it felt like death, crossed the years.

If she had business in China now, she stayed in the finest hotels—and still memories of dirt and hunger, of terrible cold or terrible heat, could haunt her.

But money, blood, power and pretty shoes chased ghosts away again.

She wanted the shoes, wanted them now. So she walked into the shop.

Within ten minutes she was walking out wearing them, enjoying the way they showed off the knife edges of her calf muscles. She swung the shopping bag carelessly, a striking Asian woman in black—short, tight-cropped pants, snug shirt—and the exotic shoes. Her long tail of ebony hair swung down her back, and pulled high and tight, left her face with its deceptively soft curves, full red lips, large almond eyes of coal-black unframed.

Yes, men looked, and women, too. Men wished to fuck her, women wished to be her—and some wished to fuck her as well.

But they would never know her. She was a bullet in the dark, a knife slicing silently across the throat.

She killed not only because she could, not only because it paid very, very well, but because she loved it. Even more than the lovely new shoes, more than sex, more than food and drink and breath.

She wondered if she would kill the skinny brunette and the idiot's brother. It depended on how they fit into the puzzle, but she thought it might be both necessary and enjoyable.

Her phone pinged, and taking it out of her bag, she nodded in satisfaction. The photo she'd taken of the woman now had a name, an address.

Lila Emerson, but not the address of the building she'd entered.

Odd, Jai thought, but still it would not be a coincidence she'd gone into that building. But since she was there, she was not at the address displayed on the phone.

Perhaps she would find something interesting and useful at the address of this Lila Emerson.

J
ulie unlocked the door of her apartment just after nine
P.M.
and immediately pulled off the shoes she'd been in far too long. She should never have let her coworkers talk her into going to that salsa club. Fun, yes, but oh God, her feet had been wailing like colicky babies for over an hour.

She wanted to soak them in warm, scented water, drink a few gallons of water to filter out the far too many margaritas she'd downed, then go to bed.

Was she getting old? she wondered as she secured the door. Stale? Boring?

Of course not. She was just tired—worried a little about Lila, still raw from the breakup with David, and tired after about fourteen straight hours of work and play.

The fact that she was thirty-two, single, childless and would sleep alone had nothing to do with it.

She had an amazing career, she assured herself as she went straight into the kitchen to grab a giant bottle of Fiji water. She loved her work, the people she worked with, the people she met. The artists, the art lovers, the showings, the occasional travel.

So she had a divorce under her belt. All right, two divorces, but she'd been insane and eighteen the first time, and it hadn't lasted a year. It really didn't count.

But she stood, drinking straight from the bottle in the gleaming,
state-of-the-art kitchen used primarily to store water, wine and a few basics, and wondered why the hell she felt so unsettled.

Loved her work, had a great circle of friends, an apartment that reflected her taste—
just
her taste, thank you—a most excellent wardrobe. She even liked her looks most of the time, especially since she'd hired the Marquis de Sade as a personal trainer the year before.

She was a buff, attractive, interesting, independent woman. And she couldn't maintain a relationship for more than three months, not happily, she amended. Not happily for her.