Now You See Her Linda Howard(59)
"I'm not the one who's made a mistake. You are."
There didn't seem to be any point in pretending ignorance. Candra was too tired and too angry to try, anyway. "This is because of the money. Look, it isn't personal. I need money, a lot of it, and this is the only way I can think of to get it. It's a onetime thing."
Her assurance seemed to pass unheard. "Did you really think I'd let you wreck what I've worked so hard for?"
"You knew what you were getting into, so don't play the victim."
"What I know is that if there's a victim, I won't be it." The words were soft, almost serene. The approach was not.
Suddenly alarmed, Candra backed up. "Get away from me! Get out of my apartment."
"You aren't giving the orders now, darling." A gloved hand lifted, and in it was a long-bladed kitchen knife.
Candra made an instant decision, feinting to her left as if she would make a break for the door.
Immediately she cut back right and dived for the telephone. It wasn't a cordless; she had gone for style over convenience and chosen an ornate European desk model. She had time to punch in the 9 before the blade slashed downward, catching her on the arm. She screamed and threw herself backward, catching her right heel on the leg of the telephone table and sprawling on her back. She rolled, still screaming, and managed to gain her feet before the knife plunged into her back. An agony that was both icy and burning-hot speared through her, almost making her faint.
Desperately, her vision dimming, Candra threw herself forward, away from that searing blade. "No no no," she heard herself babbling. She lurched to the side, trying to throw herself over the back of the sofa to gain some time, but she was clumsy from shock. Her elegant high heel caught on the carpet and her ankle turned with a sickening wrench that almost overrode the pain in her back. The shoe twisted off, and she fell on her hands and knees. Another tongue of cold fire pierced her, below her right shoulder blade. And again, farther down in her side.
The pain convulsed her, drew her body tight with agony. She couldn't even scream. Her mouth gaped open in a silent battle for air, but her lungs refused to cooperate. Somehow she rolled again, gained her hands and knees, and crawled. The effort was superhuman, and yet she knew it wasn't enough. She knew.
She toppled over onto the thick carpet and feebly kicked out. Through a dark haze she saw the blade flashing down again, and she managed to raise her left arm. She felt the shock of the blow, but no pain.
Then there was another thud, this time in her chest; her ribs gave under the force of the impact.
Another blow, into the soft flesh of her belly.
She gasped, flopping on the carpet like a landed fish. Time slowed to a feeble crawl, or perhaps it only seemed as if a long time passed. The terrible pain ebbed, to be replaced by a growing lassitude.
Something must have happened to all the lamps; all she could see was a faint glimmer of light coming through the darkness. She needed to move… The knife… but the knife wasn't there anymore. She could just lie there, in the dark, feeling an odd coldness spread through her body, feeling her heartbeat slow… slow… slow… stop.
Her assailant watched the moment of death. The disgusting release of bladder and bowels was somehow pleasing; the bitch deserved to be found in her own embarrassing waste.
The scene had already been set. The apartment had been thoroughly searched, but no interesting packet had turned up, damn it. That was a problem, a big one. It was a good thing they had been smart enough to take precautions.
Thank God for the phone call warning that Candra had left the party early and was on her way home, otherwise the outcome could have been very different. What money Candra kept in the apartment, as well as her jewelry, had been gathered. The refrigerator door was open, which would suggest a burglar had been in the kitchen when Candra surprised him. That would also explain the use of one of the knives from the expensive set Candra. kept next to the cutting board: a weapon of opportunity.
The gloved fingers opened, let the knife drop to the floor beside the body. The knife belonged here; it couldn't be tied to anyone but the victim.
A screwdriver was taken from a hip pocket. A few minutes at the door with the tool made the lock look as if it had been carefully jimmied. No real damage done, not enough for a woman coming home to a dimly lit hallway to notice, but the police certainly would. An unforced entry would mean she either opened the door herself, which would imply she knew the person, or that a key had been used. A forced entry would indicate a stranger.
The money and the jewelry—mostly jewelry, very little cash—were in a small black bag. That bag would be put in a very, very safe place—just in case it were ever needed.
Chapter 15
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Sweeney left her bed a little after three A.M. She made the trip through the dark apartment without stumbling or hesitating. Her expression was calmly distant; she scarcely blinked. Her heartbeat was slow and regular.
When she reached the unfinished painting, still propped on the easel, she stood before it for a long time with her head slightly tilted, as if listening to some unseen voice.
Her movements were slow, dreamy, as she mixed a rich brown pigment and then darkened it with black. When the shade was that of dark, lustrous mink, she began to paint, her precise brushstrokes recreating a fan of dark hair, spread in disarray across an oatmeal carpet.