The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(48)

“He gave those to us last Christmas,” Mrs. Emery said. “We were thrilled, of course. They’re so beautiful.” A phone rang, and Mrs. Emery turned to check the display. “That’s my sister. I need to take this—please excuse me.”

“Of course,” Vargas said.

When his wife left the room, Richardson kept his gaze on the pictures. “I asked to see my daughter, but so far the medical examiner isn’t granting us access.”

“There are certain details the police are trying to keep under wraps right now,” Sharp said.

“I’m not asking for sensitive case information. I just want to see Diane. To know that this is all real and not some kind of mistake.”

Sharp pulled in a breath, knowing difficult details were best told directly. “Did Diane ever talk to you about tattooing?”

“I know she has two. She told her mother, who then told me. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but she’s a grown woman.”

“Did she express interest in having work done on her face?” Vargas asked.

The question sparked surprise, which gave way to anguish. “No! Why would she cover her face? She’s beautiful.”

“What happened to her face?” Mrs. Emery asked from the doorway.

Sharp waited until she reached her husband’s side. “It was tattooed. The ink was designed to look like a doll’s face.”

Mrs. Emery raised a trembling manicured hand to her lips. “I can’t believe this.”

“We’re trying to find out if the tattooing might have been a choice she made,” Vargas said. “We found antidepressant prescriptions in her apartment.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest,” Mrs. Emery said.

“We’re just trying to fill in the gaps of the last three weeks so we can bring you closure,” Vargas offered.

“She didn’t disfigure herself,” Mrs. Emery said. “She was a smart, bright young woman who was mentally balanced.”

“How do you know she would not have tattooed her face?” Sharp asked gently.

“Diane was vain,” Mrs. Emery said, her eyes watering with fresh tears. “She would never damage her face. She likes—liked—to look her best. You make her sound sick.”

Mrs. Emery’s cool demeanor cracked, and she sobbed. She reached for a tissue in her pocket and pressed it under her eyes to catch the spilling tears.

“We’re not trying to put your daughter in a bad light,” Sharp said. “I’m trying to create a picture of the woman she was.” These same questions had been leveled at Sharp’s stepfather, mother, and even him after Kara died. He remembered feeling offended and angry by the assumptions his sister had been a drug addict. “I can only catch this killer if I fully understand Diane.”

A breath shuddered through Mr. Emery as if the anger had drained the last of his reserves. No doubt today had been a living hell since Vargas had made the death announcement. “I know you’re trying to help, Agent Sharp. This just isn’t easy.”

“I know that, sir.” He asked more questions. Did she have a history of drug use? Did she exhibit any erratic behavior? No followed all the questions.

When Sharp and Vargas left the house, he pictured Diane as a rising star in her career. She had taken excellent care of herself, and if she had any vice, it was that she had been vain. She painted in her spare time. Her work hadn’t been Rembrandt, but her parents saved her art pieces because they’d loved her. She was definitely not the kind of woman to disfigure her face.

“So who in her life hated her so much that he wanted to permanently mess up her face?” Vargas asked.

“Why do you assume it was done in hate?”

“He fucked up her face,” Vargas hissed. “It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”

“This work was done with great care and precision. An angry person would not have gone to this length. Remember, there were no signs of infection, and she had been eating. This guy cared very much about Diane.”

Vargas dug in her pocket and pulled out a packet of unopened cigarettes. “You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I were,” Sharp said.

“We need to talk to the boyfriend,” she said, tapping the packet against her thigh.

“I went by his place earlier. There’s no sign of him.”

“This killer isn’t a stranger. Women, more often than not, are killed by someone they know or perhaps by someone who loved them at one time.”

“Tessa said Stanford Madison knew Diane in college. She said they dated.”

“Oh, really,” Vargas muttered as she opened the pack and put a cigarette to her lips.

Sharp pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit the tip of her cigarette. “He has the artistic chops, and she did break up with him.”

She inhaled, shaking her head. “Could it be that simple?”

“I don’t know. But I want to pay him another visit tonight.”

“Count me in.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Friday, October 7, 9:00 p.m.

Sharp and Vargas parked their cars on Hanover Avenue. A full moon glistened over a sidewalk flanked by tall trees clinging hopelessly to their orange and red leaves.