Now You See Her Linda Howard(68)

He checked the answering machine in the den for messages. There were eleven of them, and he listened impatiently, fastforwarding to the next one as soon as he identified each voice. Sweeney's wasn't one of them. He dialed her number and listened to the rings, counting them in his head. On the sixth ring, her machine picked up. Her voice recited the number; then she ended with a terse, "Leave a message." Normally he would have been amused. Now he was worried sick. Goddamn it, where was she?

Sweeney hadn't meant to walk so far. The severe episode that morning had left her feeling dazed and dopey, even after she woke from the deathlike, three-hour nap. She had wandered around the apartment for hours, not expecting Richard to call but hanging around anyway, just in case he did. He would be so busy with the arrangements that she didn't expect to hear from him for a couple of days, at least.

Around sundown, though, she began to feel as if she couldn't stay inside another moment. Her thought processes felt slow and clumsy, as if she had been drugged, and she thought some fresh air might help clear her mind. Not trusting the chirpy weather lady who said the temperature was a pleasant sixty-four degrees, she pulled on a denim jacket and hit the street.

She didn't have any destination in mind. She just walked. She lived on the fringes of the Lower East Side, and the area was full of color, especially the human variety. The relatively low rents attracted artists and students by the thousands. Actors and musicians mostly gravitated to Greenwich Village, but scome of the overflow ended up in the Lower East Side. The faces were fascinating, young and old. A young couple were out for a stroll, pushing their infant in a stroller, pride and contentment shining on their faces. She caught a glimpse of the baby's tiny, flowerlike face and its minuscule hands curled on the edge of the blanket, and her hands ached to touch the fuzz that covered its head.

A teenager was walking a tangle of dogs, ranging in size from an English sheepdog, peeping through its mop of hair, down to a dachshund, trotting along in double time. A big grin lit the boy's face as he was literally towed along the sidewalk: he was on roller skates. The dogs looked happy to be of use.

Gradually the neighborhood changed. Sweeney looked at window displays, stopped in a tiny bakery for a cinnamon roll with thick icing on top, then had to have a cup of coffee to wash it down. She strolled along, hands in the pockets of her jacket, a light breeze flirting with her curls.

She tried not to think about Candra. She deliberately did not allow the image of the painting to form in her mind. She didn't think about much of anything, just kept walking.

Still, it wasn't a surprise when she looked around her and recognized the luxurious town houses and high-rise apartment buildings of the Upper East Side. She had walked at least a couple of miles, maybe more; she didn't know how many blocks constituted a mile. Richard lived here, in a town house off of Park Avenue. Candra had lived somewhere near here; Sweeney remembered Kai telling her that Candra's new apartment was in the upper somethings; she didn't remember which block.

Sweeney hadn't watched the news, just the weather. The local news would probably be full of the murder; such things didn't happen every day in one of the swank apartment buildings, and Candra was socially prominent, which made her murder even more newsworthy' Sweeney hadn't wanted to see anything about it, or hear any of the speculation.

All she wanted was to see Richard.



She walked up the street and stood looking up at the town house for several moments. She had been here once, three or four years ago, when she had briefly been in town and had stopped by at Candra's invitation while a party was in progress. Sweeney had stayed just long enough to pretend to sip some champagne, tell Candra hello, then she escaped.

Light shone through the fantail window above the door. She stared at the window, wondering if he was at home or if the light was on to make people think someone was there.

This was a bad idea. If he was home, surely there were other people with him. Friends would be offering their condolences—or perhaps not, considering the circumstances. But they would definitely be trying to get all the gory details, hot gossip they could share over coffee with other friends the next day.

She wouldn't have to go in. Just ring the doorbell, tell him… tell him something inane, such as she was thinking about him, or offer her sympathy, something like that. Maybe he had staff and didn't answer the door himself. In that case, she would leave a message. He would know she had been there, and that was the important thing.

She climbed the steps and punched the doorbell, then stuffed her hands back in her pockets, standing with her head down and the night breeze ruffling her hair while she waited for the door to open.

It was jerked open so abruptly she jumped, startled.

Richard loomed over her, glaring. "Where in hell have you been?" he barked.

She blinked. "Walking."

"Walking," he repeated in disbelief "From your apartment?"

"Yeah. I just took a walk and… ended up here."

He stared down at her, his face expressionless but his dark eyes glittering with some unreadable emotion. "Come in," he said, stepping back so she could pass by him, and after a slight hesitation, she did.

Sitting in his car thirty yards down the block, Detective Aquino raised his eyebrows, and made note of the woman's time of arrival. No particular reason why, he thought, just a cop's general nosiness.