Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(85)

“Impressive,” Foster said, “though I don’t know a lot about art.”

No, no, no, no. It was a drumbeat pounding away in Amelia’s head. She wanted the cops away and out, away from her art, away from her. She stepped between Foster and the canvas, the smile back but strained. “It’s not officially art yet, but it’s getting there. If that’s all, I really should get back to it.”

Foster stepped back. “Thanks for your time.”

She and Li turned for the door, but Li stopped, turned back. “Ms. Davies, you have a passport?”

It was a strange question, Amelia thought. Why ask about a passport? “I don’t need one. I hate to travel. Why?”

“Does your brother have one?” Foster asked.

Amelia shook her head. “Nope, and I would know.”

“Thanks, then,” Li said.

Foster took a last look at the painting, smiled, and followed her partner out.





CHAPTER 60


He watched the car pull away with the detectives inside. They walked right by and didn’t notice him. No one ever did. He looked like no one special. A favorite uncle. Your dad. The friendly guy at the hardware store. People trusted him. They let him get close. All it took was a smile and a twinkle, a dip of the head. That tourist hadn’t a clue. He’d been standing in front of the Billy Goat deciding whether to go in when he saw her snap the picture of the sign. He couldn’t say for sure if she’d gotten him, too, but he couldn’t take the chance. He’d meant it to be a simple robbery. It was the photos he needed, but she’d foolishly resisted when his charm wore off.

His eyes followed the car with the cops in it all the way to the corner until it turned off onto the next street. They’d been oh so close yet completely oblivious. He didn’t attract attention. He was normal and unspectacular to everyone in all ways but one. Not being seen until he wanted to be seen was his power, his strength. It was the perfect trap. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the tiny SD card. Such a small thing. It wasn’t like him, the rush job. He was a man who liked to plan and set things up. She’d forced his hand. The best thing to do, he decided, was just to forget about it, wipe his memory clean. With both hands, he snapped the memory card in half, then stepped off the curb and dropped both pieces down the sewer grate. If he knew this city, and he knew this city, no one would ever find it buried in decades of muck and stench and rat waste.

Waiting for a break in the traffic so he could cross, he worried not about the girl but about the police making connections. If they were good, and it looked like they were, the steps they were taking would lead away from Bodie and Am and eventually to him.

He wasn’t worried about Amelia. She was smart and could handle herself. The open question was Bodie. Maybe the toy train had been the wrong way to play it. He’d meant it as a subtle reentry announcement, but the look on Bodie’s face when he’d raced out of his building with the box in his hand told him that he’d made a mistake. Bodie feared him, and that fear, he could tell, had turned to hate.

He strolled into the studio on a high to find Amelia standing in the center of the wide, deep space, facing the door, as if she’d sensed he was coming. Her face held no expression, not anger or love. There was no welcoming smile, no scowl, no frown.

“Dad,” she said.

What a beauty she’d turned out to be, he thought. Like her mother. “Quite a place you’ve got here, Am.”

She said nothing. He walked around and studied the canvas, proud of what he’d created. It had been a test, a spur-of-the-moment thing. Could he love? Could he pretend to love? “Police. What did they want to know?”

“They think it’s Bodie.”

He chuckled at the absurdity. Bodie couldn’t kill a flea. “How did he like the train?”

“It scared him.”

“The world scares him.” He stood in front of the canvas, greedy eyes sweeping over it, not wanting to miss a single brushstroke. “Excellent.” He turned slightly to catch her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m proud of you. Quite a chip off the old block, huh?”

Amelia angled her head and smiled. “In some ways. In some ways not.”

“I never had the police knocking at my door,” he said, his back to her. “Not once. Subtlety, not savagery, is the key. Precision. Artistry, which I’m sure you can appreciate, but artistry takes time, experience. The mind has to be uncluttered, singularly engaged. One thought. One goal.”

“If they search in the right places, they may find you there.”

“They’ll find Tom Morgan.” His hands clasped behind his back, he wandered over to the sculpture he’d seen his first visit. It still made no sense to him. “I’m not surprised you became this. You could always see what your brother couldn’t.”

“About that,” Am said.

He faced her. “Yes?”

“I have no idea where to start,” she said.

She was charming. Beautiful. “We have time.” He walked toward the door. “Good to see you, Am.”

He knew she watched him as he walked out the door. He could feel her eyes on his back. She would remember everything he did, everything he said. The song he whistled had an upbeat, happy rhythm to it, which was how he felt. He was complete, his life having come full circle. Like everything was his for the taking.