Still Lives(74)

“How long ago did Evie leave?” I ask, impatient.

“Just a minute ago.” Dee looks at her watch. “Don’t worry. We should be right on time. Janis might even show us around personally.”

The possessive way she says Janis, the lipstick and blush—Yegina darts another glance at me and I finally meet her gaze (old habit, this way we have of registering news together)—J. Ro and Dee: a couple? Normally we’d fight back delighted grins, but this time Yegina’s gray-brown eyes wince and she knits her lips. I’m sorry about Don, I want to shout at her. And I don’t care what you did with Bas.

Instead, I chat politely with Dee about the sculptures we’re going to see, a Richard Serra and a Mark di Suvero, some arte povera pieces from Italy, and a giant lifelike horse made of driftwood that’s actually brass.

“And there’s a real surprise for you,” Dee adds, jutting her chin at me. “Or maybe it’s not surprising. With Janis’s tastes being so eclectic, it’s possible she owns something by every contemporary artist who’s ever been worth collecting.”

The supercollector. My old suspect. I’ve been wrong before. I need more proof now. Was the scene of the crime Brent’s office? If it was, it looks clean; besides, I’m no forensics team. I excuse myself to use the restroom and sneak into Evie’s dark alcove instead.

I flip a switch. White light stains the walls and shelves. Evie hasn’t left an item out of place—huge blue binders lined up straight, pens standing erect in a cup, keyboard and mouse at exact angles to the computer—and yet there’s nothing here to soften all the hard lines. No photographs or stained mugs. She makes Juanita look like a slob. And human. Still, a murderer? Shy, quiet Evie?

Flipping through neat files of yellow carbon invoices, I find three outgoing deliveries last Wednesday, two to the airport and one to our off-site collection facility. Maybe I am staring at the ticket for the crate that held Kim Lord’s body, but why would a killer keep a record?

Evie is cleverer than that. She wouldn’t send the crate to the facility the Rocque usually used. What about that second one in Van Nuys that she was checking out?

I peek out the doorway, spot Dee and Yegina still waiting by the crates, and flip through another binder. There’s a delivery of a sculpture a few weeks ago in the Ds: Diamond Storage, Van Nuys, California. She had already set up a contract with them. I grab Evie’s black office phone and dial.

When the receptionist picks up, I introduce myself as Evie. “I was calling to inquire about an item we had delivered last Wednesday,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I lost the tracking number and we actually need to bring it back to the museum for restoration.”

“Please hold,” the receptionist says in an annoyed tone. I pull the phone as far as I can to check on Evie’s arrival. Yegina is tapping her foot. She glances back and I duck out of sight. How much time do I have? I open another line on the phone and dig in my bag for Hendricks’s card. And dig. Past the recorder, the wallet, the receipts, the lipstick. The card is gone. I must have dropped it at Grand Central Market. I have no way to reach him.

The storage facility line starts playing Vivaldi. I put the soaring strings on speaker and search Evie’s windowless office.

The computer is locked. I open drawers, find nothing but paper clips. On a low shelf behind the desk, all art catalogs—except one textbook, in worn dark-green cloth, Introduction to Drama and Stage. I open it, shake it. Nothing falls out. But inscribed on the first page, right-hand corner, is a name in girlish handwriting. Evie Long.

I’m sliding it back when I see a familiar shape, hidden behind the volumes. I pull it out, flip it open. The screen and keypad are dead. The SIM card is gone, but all the scratches and dents are mine. My cell.

The Vivaldi stops.

“We had an escorted delivery from the Rocque on Wednesday, but your staff member rerouted it almost as soon as it arrived,” the receptionist says. “We’re working out the charge.”

Someone grabs my elbow and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Evie’s waiting,” Yegina says, and stalks away before I have a chance to respond.

I apologize to the receptionist, hang up, throw my phone in my purse, and run after my friend. A beige sedan has pulled up, Evie silhouetted inside. We hurry toward her through the canyon of crates, Dee first. Watching Evie’s profile, I can suddenly picture it: the cold, focused look she must have had when she killed Kim Lord. I picture Brent’s tiny office, Kim Lord changing clothes in front of his desk, by the door. Evie must have opened the door fast, brought the mallet down. One blow. One blow only? What about the blood? She could have shut and locked the door, cleaned it up. Changed clothes.

Shock tastes like soap on my tongue. I still don’t have physical proof. I should get Hendricks’s number from Yegina, go back upstairs, involve him and the police. Instead, I’m still walking through the loading dock to Evie’s car. If I don’t get into it now, she will escape. She will board the plane to Amsterdam tonight, never to be seen again. I’m sure of it. Yet as I pass beyond the massive doors, the day’s heat rolls over me and I halt, afraid.

Dee opens the passenger side, hops in. Yegina bumps against my arm, brushing past, to take one of the back seats. I usually think of Yegina as solid as granite—but not today. No one is safe today. That high white shirt. Her neck appears encased in bandages.