Now You See Her Linda Howard(80)

Shakily Sweeney rose and followed Aquino out of the room, with Ritenour right behind her.

"All right." Aquino growled when they were once again in the interrogation room. "So you can do that.

And that thing with the traffic lights. I'm impressed, but I ain't convinced. Convince me."

She stared helplessly at him. "Convince you, how? I can barely believe it myself, and I'm living it. I can't tell you what's going to happen tomorrow, and I can't read your mind. I paint in my sleep and I see ghosts—oh, damn," she finished weakly, seeing those looks they were giving her again. She hadn't meant to mention the ghosts. There was no way to prove she saw them, because she was the only one who did. If she hadn't been so tired, she would have had better self-control.

"Ghosts," repeated Ritenour.

"Forget I said that."

"Uh-huh. I'm going to forget to eat for the next week, too."



She wished he hadn't mentioned eating. She had been trying to ignore her hunger, which was just one more discomfort added on to being cold and exhausted. She made a dismissive gesture. "No one else sees them, so it doesn't matter. They don't bother anyone; most of the time they don't even say hi.

Although Elijah Stokes did tell me his sons' names so I could send a sketch to them."

"Elijah Stokes."

"The hot dog vendor who was killed. The other painting. Have you checked on that yet?"

"I'll see what I can find. Some other precinct probably handled it. Where was he killed?" asked Ritenour.

"I don't know, but one of his sons could tell you. Their names were…" She searched her memory

"Daniel… no, David. David and Jacob Stokes. They're both attorneys."

Ritenour left the room. She leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead where a headache was beginning to form.

"Does anyone else know about that painting?" Aquino asked, and she opened her eyes to find his shrewd gaze on her. "Besides Mr. Stengel."

"Ste—? Oh, Kai. " She had heard his last name only a couple of times, and most of the time it escaped her.

"What about Mr. Worth? He's been in your apartment. Has he seen the painting?"

Not mentioning Richard was one thing; lying to a cop was something else entirely,

"Yes," she said, her voice so weary it was almost inaudible. "He's known about it from the beginning."

Aquino's eyebrows rose. "From the beginning… as in several days ago?"

"That's right."

"I wonder why he didn't see fit to mention this to us yesterday."

"He didn't want to implicate me. He knew this would happen," she whispered. "He said that when I finished the painting and we knew who the murderer is, or at least have a description, he would somehow point you in the right direction."

"Big of him," said Aquino furiously. "I don't like civilians deciding for me how I should do my job."

Sweeney slapped her hand down on the table, suddenly as furious as he. "Just what would you have said, Detective, if Richard had come to you and said, 'Oh, by the way, the woman I'm seeing has some psychic ability and she's doing a painting of the murder'? Would you have believed him, any more than you believe me?"



He put both hands on the table and leaned toward her, aggressiveness in every line of his burly body.

"It isn't my job to believe everything I'm told."

"No, but it is your job to recognize the truth when it's staring you in the face!" She leaned forward, too, bringing her nose as close as possible to his.

To her surprise, he raised his eyebrows. "As far as that goes," he said mildly, "I'm inclined to believe you."

Talk about taking the wind out of her sails. Sweeney sat back, feeling herself go flat without the puff of indignation. "You do?"

"You proved the possibility to me," he said. "I didn't think you could, but you proved everything you said. Traffic lights turn green, parking spaces open up, and you could make a killing playing Jeopardy!

What you did is way beyond the law of averages. So if you can do all that, then… He shrugged. "The painting is possible."

She couldn't think of anything to say. For a second she thought she might cry, but the urge went away.

She was too tired to make the effort.

"Tell me something. Why didn't you call a lawyer?

"I would have, if you actually arrested me. I haven't been arrested, have I?"

"No, but if it hadn't been for that Jeopardy! thing… probably."

"I would like to make a call, though."

"You want a lawyer now?"

"No," she said. "I want to call Richard."

"I think I'll place the call myself," he said.

While they were waiting for Richard, Ritenour returned with a copy of the investigative report on Elijah Stokes's murder, complete with a diagram of the scene. The clothing description matched that in Sweeney's painting, as did the head wound, and the body's location and position. A nineteen-year-old punk had been arrested, and blood splatters matching Elijah Stokes's blood type had been found on a shirt under the kid's bed.