“Candra Worth.” There was no point in hiding her identity, she thought. Carson was more likely to take the call if he knew who she was; he wouldn’t like it, but he would do it.
She was on hold for several minutes, long enough that she was beginning to get angry when Carson’s richly modulated voice finally came on, except today it wasn’t so modulated. It sounded rather tight, she thought with satisfaction. Good. That meant he was worried.
“What do you want?” he said abruptly.
Candra managed a light laugh. Actually, it felt good to be the one in control for a change. “Really, Carson, that’s a silly question.”
“Raising that kind of money in cash isn’t easy.”
“How difficult can it be? Sell a few stocks, cash in a few bonds, dip into a few accounts. You can’t put me off with that excuse. If you don’t have the money by tomorrow afternoon, a photograph will be at The Washington Post first thing the next morning. Let’s see, which picture should I choose? The one of you snorting coke, I think.”
“I want you to know this conversation is being taped,” he said, his voice full of satisfaction. “You are now on record attempting blackmail. Is that a felony? You know, I rather think it is. I believe, my dear, we now have each other by the short hairs.”
“Do we?” Carson would have benefited from having encountered Richard’s style of negotiating, Candra thought grimly. Make the stakes too high for the other person to tolerate, and don’t back down. It was a brutally effective tactic. “You don’t quite understand my position. If I don’t get that money, I lose everything, so I don’t give a damn what you’ve taped. You have heard the old saw about desperate people and desperate measures, haven’t you?”
“You fucking—”
“Now, now, let’s be civilized.” She’d had enough scenes for one day.
“Civilized, my ass.” He was breathing heavily, the sound echoing in her ear.
“Face it, Carson; the only way you can use that tape is if those photographs have been made public, which is too late for you. Your career would be in the toilet. We would both lose, but if you don’t come through with the money, I’ve lost anyway, so I might as well take you down with me.” Her voice was cool, controlled. She meant every word.
He knew it, too. There was more heavy breathing before he accepted the inevitable. ‘All right, goddamn you. But tomorrow is too soon. It’ll take at least two days to get that kind of cash.”
“Day after tomorrow, then, but not a day longer.”
* * *
At his desk, Kai smiled, and carefully timed his disconnect to coincide with Candra’s so she wouldn’t see the telltale light above her line stay on a second too long. He had perfected the art of eavesdropping over the years he had worked for her, just to keep the upper hand. She thought she had control, of course, but only because he had allowed her to think it.
So the little bitch was trying her hand at blackmail. He shouldn’t be surprised, because he knew Richard had her over a barrel and Candra wasn’t a woman who could do without money.
When she signed the divorce agreement, the gallery would become hers. She would probably fire him as she had threatened, he thought. Things were fine with her as long as he kept his mouth shut and performed on cue in bed, but he was tired of being her whore.
She sailed out of her office, all smiles now. “Darling,” she said, coming over to his desk and lightly placing her hand on the back of his neck.
“I’m so sorry I snapped at you. You were right; I had a fight with Richard and I took it out on you.”
Now she would offer sex to pacify him, he thought cynically.
She lightly stroked her fingers through his hair. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” Her tone was light, teasing, seductive.
He stood, moving away from her touch. “That isn’t necessary,” he said, at his most polite. He would have taken her up on the offer if he hadn’t had an appointment at lunchtime and needed to be fresh for that. Too bad, he thought. He would have enjoyed being rough with her, maybe even rougher than she liked.
“Don’t pout, darling; it isn’t attractive.”
He shrugged his disinterest. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Nonsense, you’re always in the mood.”
“Maybe I’m getting picky,” he said, and watched her temper flare. Candra didn’t deal well with rejection. She was truly a beautiful woman, he thought, so beautiful she had always been able to get any man she wanted. Richard’s rejection of her had startled her, shaken her out of her complacency, and now her lowly assistant was refusing her offer. Her world must be wobbling off its axis.
“Then enjoy your sulk,” she said, her lips tight. “Oh, by the way. Get Sweeney’s new pieces back from the framer. We won’t be displaying her work anymore.”
“Really.” Interested in this latest development, he raised his eyebrows. “That’s a shame, since her new stuff is better than anything she’s ever done before. What’s the problem?”
Her perfect fingernails tapped a tattoo on his desk. “Just a small complication. I found her and Richard together this morning.”
Oho! Kai threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t the most politic thing to do, but the image was just so delicious. “So that’s what ruffled your feathers! Did you catch them doing the nasty?”
She was annoyed that he’d laughed, he could tell. If her lips got any tighter, they would disappear. “I caught him coming out of her apartment. He must have spent the night.”
Kai whistled. “He’s a fast worker. I wouldn’t tag Sweeney as an easy lay, so he must have put some effort into getting her.” He put admiration into his tone, knowing Candra would be infuriated. “I wouldn’t mind taking her for a ride myself.”
“I don’t see the attraction.” The words were so stiff, they would barely come out of her mouth.
“You mean other than those big blue eyes and all that hair? Well, her tits are nice. They aren’t very big, but they don’t sag at all, and her ass is fine—”
“I don’t need a rundown,” Candra snapped, whirling away from the desk and going back into her office. Kai laughed softly. He was turned on, he realized. He liked baiting Candra, and envisioning Sweeney’s body, imaging her naked, was exciting.
He kept that pleasant heat all during the morning, even while he was assisting some tourists from Omaha who wanted some “real art,” in their words, to take back to Nebraska with them. Knowing instinctively what they wouldn’t like, he steered them away from the abstract and modern, and smiled to himself as he showed them the last piece Sweeney had in the gallery. Candra would be furious if they bought it.
They did, to his delight.
At twelve-thirty he left the gallery and walked the eleven blocks to his apartment. A hotel would have been more convenient, but the woman he was meeting was afraid she would be recognized at a hotel. He had given her his key and knew she would be waiting for him. He would probably be late getting back to work, he thought.
She was cautious; she had relocked the door. He knocked once, and watched the peephole darken as she put her eye to it. She opened the door.
“Kai, darling, you’re late.”
Kai smiled. She had already taken off her clothes and was wearing his robe, the one he himself never wore but kept because women seemed to think they looked sexy in it. The belt was loosely tied, of course, and the robe open just enough to show most of one breast. She was in good shape, for a woman old enough to be his mother. There was no telling how many lifts and tucks a cosmetic surgeon had done on her.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he took her in his arms and undid the robe, pushing it off her shoulders. Margo McMillan arched her fashionably thin body, offering him her breasts, and Kai performed as expected.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
The damn painting was calling her. It wasn’t anything as overt as “Here, Sweeney Sweeney Sweeney” but nevertheless, she couldn’t get it out of her mind.
She’d had a wonderf
ul afternoon. Breakfast with Richard had been so relaxing she was able to push the ugly scene with Candra out of her mind. Not being a dummy, she realized Richard had intended exactly that. It was almost eerie, the way he seemed to read her every mood and anticipate exactly what she needed, but at the same time she couldn’t stop reveling in his care. Having someone take care of her was such a novelty she wanted to enjoy every minute.
After Richard had brought her home from the diner and left her at the building entrance with a quick, domestic peck on the lips, having made a date for breakfast again tomorrow, Sweeney had gone humming up to her apartment. The scene with Candra, despite its awkwardness and nasty drama, had been a relief. Breaking her ties with Candra and the gallery would be so much easier now, with no regrets. She made a mental note to call the gallery and make arrangements to pick up the new pieces she had left there a few days before, as well as whatever old paintings were left.
Then she began to paint.
For the first time in a long while, it was joyous. She didn’t worry about the colors being too lavish for reality; she simply let her instincts carry her. After doing a quick charcoal sketch on a canvas and brushing it off so that only the outline was left behind, she lost herself in the creation of a chubby toddler with dandelion hair, staring in awe up at a brilliant red balloon. She played with technique, completely smoothing and blending the colors she used for the baby, softening the outlines, so that he took on the realism of a snapshot. Everything around him, though, was an explosion of color and movement, intensified, slightly exaggerated, so that his surrounding world was a fantastical place begging for exploration.
It was the technique she used for the baby that jarred a memory of the shoes. She had used the same realistic technique on the shoe painting. Her concentration broken, she stepped back and wiped her hands on a cloth, frowning as she glanced over at the other canvas. She didn’t want to think about it, but now all her former feelings about it came roaring back, like water that had been seeking a crack in the dam so it could burst through.
The woman the legs and shoes belonged to was dead, or would soon be dead. Sweeney knew that with every cell in her body. Her theory that these paintings were triggered only when someone she knew died was a bit thin, since she had only one instance on which to base it, but instinctively she knew she was on the right track. She would know this woman. But perhaps she wasn’t dead yet, perhaps that was why Sweeney hadn’t finished the painting, hadn’t put a face to the woman. If she could hurry and finish the painting, anticipate the future, maybe she could do something to prevent the woman’s death. Warn her against crossing the street, maybe. There weren’t enough details in the painting yet to give any hint of location, not even whether it was indoors or out, but if she could consciously finish the painting instead of waiting for the night muse to move her—
The responsibilities of this new gift hit her like a runaway bus. Yes, gift. Not inconvenience, though it was damned inconvenient. Not a nuisance, though it could be annoying. For whatever reason, she had changed or been changed, and been given gifts. The traffic lights, the lush plants, the ability to know lines of dialogue on a television show before they were spoken, even seeing the ghosts—all that had been a prelude, a sort of building up, to this. It was as if the door to another world had opened slowly, perhaps because she wouldn’t have been able to handle everything rushing at her at once.
The door probably still wasn’t open all the way. The painting of Elijah Stokes had been done after the fact. This new painting, she was sure, was anticipating the future. As the door opened wider, her gifts would expand as her view of that new world widened. She would be able to warn people, prevent their deaths. She had no idea what the limits would be, because they seemed to be expanding all the time. Perhaps this gift wouldn’t be limited to people she knew; perhaps there were other gifts waiting to manifest themselves.
She hadn’t wanted this. She had been perfectly content in her self-contained world, isolating herself from people and not letting anyone really touch her. She knew analysts would say that in her childhood she had learned to protect herself by mentally distancing herself from the people in her world, and she knew they would be right. But the change had opened her up, made her really see people, made her feel, and she didn’t know if she would return to the old way even if she could. There was Richard now; she didn’t know what she felt for him; she was afraid to even try to put a name to it, but she knew her life would be poorer without him in it. There was passion growing in her, passion he was carefully feeding, and she could never be content now if she didn’t discover the full reach of it.
There was no going back. Instead of fighting the changes, or at best trying to ignore them, she should be opening herself up to the experience. For the first time in her life, she should live.
As much as she loved the painting of the baby and the balloon, she could no longer focus on it. She could see, from the corner of her eye, the other canvas. Waiting. Waiting for the night, when sleep lowered all her mental barriers, or perhaps just waiting. Perhaps she could do it now.
She approached the easel as one would a snake, cautiously, ready to run. Her heart hammered, and her breathing was quick and shallow. What was wrong with her? This was just a painting, even if it was a weird one. Okay, maybe not just a painting, but neither was it a snake. She knew art, knew the techniques, knew how to scale and shadow and foreshorten, how to manipulate light with the thickness of the paint, how to highlight or downplay with her choice of colors. Since art was the medium in which this particular gift was expressing herself, perhaps she could look at the painting strictly on that level: assess it on its artistic merits, and go from there.
Yes. She could do that. Calm descended on her. She took several deep breaths, just as insurance, and forced herself to study the composition objectively.
The composition and scale were good. The position of the woman’s feet looked as if she had just fallen. The shoe lying on its side would have come off when she fell. They were nice black pumps, three-inch heels, and light gleamed on the rich leather. But they weren’t right, she thought, frowning at them. The shoes weren’t right. Something was missing.
She had no idea what it could be. All the basic parts of a pump were there: heel, sole, upper. There were endless designs and decorations one could put on shoes, however. This might be something she would have to do in her sleep, when she was open to suggestions.
The man’s shoe disturbed her, not because there was just one, but because of the way it was positioned. He would be looking directly down at the woman. He was too close. A bystander wouldn’t be so close. Anyone running up to give aid would be crouched beside her. A cop . . . Where would a cop be? An investigator would be crouched, she thought. Medics would be crouched. The way this shoe was positioned, the man was just. . . looking at her.
He had killed her.
The thought was a flash, electrifying in its surety. She was painting a murder scene.
She hurried to the phone, called Richard. When he answered she said, without preamble, “Was Elijah Stokes murdered?”
He hesitated. “Why do you ask?”
Sweeney gripped the phone tighter. “Because I think this shoe thing is the beginning of a murder scene. Don’t try to protect me or humor me; just tell me the truth: was he murdered? Did you see something in the painting I missed? Is that why you contacted his son?”
“Yes,” he said. “Look—I’m scheduled for a business dinner tonight, but I’ll cancel it and be right over.”
“No, don’t do that. I’m okay, I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking. Besides, I’m working.”
Another pause, then he gave a low laugh. ‘And don’t bother you, right?”
“Right.” She stopped, frowning. Having to consider someone else’s feelings when she wanted to work was a new concern for her. “Did that hurt your feelings?”
“Of course not.” There was a hint of tenderness now.
“Good.” She took a deep brea
th. “What made you think Mr. Stokes had been murdered? What did you see?”
“The head injury. You didn’t paint any stairs, and he was obviously lying between two buildings. It looked like blunt-force trauma to me.”
“‘Blunt-force trauma,’” she repeated. That wasn’t laymen’s lingo. She had the exciting sense of discovering a facet of Richard she hadn’t suspected existed. “Do you have medical training?”
“Only in the rough first-aid stuff we needed in the field. I can set a simple fracture, rotate a dislocated joint back into place, stop bleeding. Things like that.”
“But you know what blunt-force trauma looks like.”
“I’ve seen it.”
Somehow she had absorbed enough information about the military to know that, in general, only medics were given that kind of training. Of course, her information came from books and movies, so her impression might be wrong. But a medic would have had much more extensive training than what Richard had described. “Just what kind of army were you in?” she asked curiously.
“The United States Army,” he said, amused again. She could almost see his lips curving. “But I was in a special unit. I was a Ranger.”
She knew about forest rangers. She knew about the Lone Ranger. Other than that, her memory bank was empty of information on rangers. “My military experience is kind of limited. What do Rangers do?”
“They wear really snazzy black berets.”
“Other than that.”
“Rough stuff. It’s a specialized infantry organization.”
“Specialized in what?”
He sighed. “Raids.”
“Raids.”
“You sound like a parrot.”
“You were a commando, weren’t you?” Her voice rang with astonishment. She had known nothing but gentleness from him. No, not gentleness. That was the wrong word. Tender was more accurate. But determined, too. And she had seen firsthand how he could affect people with just a look, seen how easily he dominated Senator McMillan.
“That’s one term for it, yes. Honey, I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve been out of the army for fifteen years. What I did back then doesn’t matter.”