The Collector Page 5

  mentioned West Chelsea. I didn’t hear the specific apartment building, if they released that.”

  “I don’t know. They have by now. I can see people down there, taking pictures. And some TV crews have done stand-ups in front of the building.”

  “It’s awful. A terrible thing to happen, and awful for you, sweetie. They hadn’t released the name of the guy who pushed her, then killed himself, not this morning. I haven’t checked since.”

  “Oliver Archer, aka Mr. Slick. I met his brother at the police station.”

  “Well, that’s . . . awkward.”

  “It probably should’ve been, but it wasn’t.” She sat on the floor of the bathroom, carefully sanding some shiny spots on the runners of one of the vanity drawers. It kept sticking, but she could fix that.

  “He bought me a lemonade,” she continued, “and I told him what I’d seen.”

  “You . . . you had a drink with him? For God’s sake, Lila, for all you know he and his brother are both homicidal maniacs or made men, or serial killers who worked as a team. Or—”

  “We had the drink at the coffee shop across from the police station, and there were at least five cops in there while we did. I felt terrible for him, Julie. You could see him struggling to come to grips with it, just trying to make some sense out of what’s just not sensible. He doesn’t believe his brother killed Sage, or himself, and he actually made a pretty good case against.”

  “Lila, nobody wants to believe their brother’s capable of this.”

  “I get that, I do.” She blew lightly on the runners to clear off the dust from the sanding. “And that was my first reaction, but like I said, he made a pretty good case.”

  She slid the drawer back in, out, in. Nodded in satisfaction. Everything should be so easy.

  “He wants to come over here, see his brother’s apartment from this perspective.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Just wait. He suggested I have somebody here with me, and I wouldn’t consider it otherwise. But before I decide anything, I’m going to Google him. Just make sure he doesn’t have any nefarious deeds in his past, any wives who died under mysterious circumstances, or other siblings—he said he had twelve, half and step.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I know. I can’t imagine. But I should make sure none of them have a shady past or whatever.”

  “Tell me you didn’t give him the address where you’re staying.”

  “No, I didn’t give him the address, or my number.” Her brows drew together as she reloaded her makeup in the drawer. “I’m not stupid, Julie.”

  “No, but you’re too trusting. What’s his name—if he gave you his real name. I’ll Google him right now.”

  “Of course he gave me his real name. Ashton Archer. It does sound a little made up, but—”

  “Wait a minute. You said Ashton Archer? Tall, rangy, blow-up-your-skirt gorgeous? Green eyes, a lot of wavy black hair?”

  “Yes. How do you know that?”

  “Because I know him. He’s an artist, Lila, a good one. I manage an art gallery, a good one—and we’re his main venue in New York. Our paths have crossed a number of times.”

  “I knew the name was familiar, but I thought it was because I had the brother’s name on my mind. He’s the one who did that painting of the woman in the meadow playing the violin—ruined castle, full moon in the background. The one I said I’d buy if I actually owned a wall to hang it on.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Does he have any wives who died under mysterious circumstances?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Unmarried, but was linked with Kelsy Nunn—American Ballet prima ballerina—for a while. Maybe he still is, I can find out. He’s got a solid professional reputation, doesn’t appear to be completely neurotic, as many of them can be. Enjoys his work, apparently. There’s family money, both sides. I’m doing the Google just to fill in the blanks. Father’s side real estate and development, mother’s shipping. Blah blah. Do you want more?”

  He hadn’t looked like big money. The brother had, she decided. But the man who’d sat across from her in the coffee shop hadn’t looked like money. He’d looked like grief and temper.

  “I can check for myself. Basically, you’re saying he’s not going to throw me out the window.”

  “I’d say chances are slim. I like him, personally and professionally, and now I’m sorry about his brother. Even though his brother killed one of our clients.”

  “I’m going to let him come over, then. He has the Julie Bryant seal of approval.”

  “Don’t rush this, Lila.”

  “No, tomorrow. I’m too tired for all this tonight. I was going to beg you to come over again, but I’m just tired.”

  “Take a long soak in that fabulous tub. Light some candles, read a book. Then put on your pj’s, order a pizza, watch a romantic comedy on TV, then cuddle up with the cat and sleep.”

  “That sounds like the perfect date.”

  “Do it, and call if you change your mind and just need the company. Otherwise, I’m going to do a little more checking on Ashton Archer. I know people who know people. If I’m satisfied, then he gets the Julie Bryant seal of approval. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  Before she took that long soak, she went back out on the terrace. She stood in the late afternoon heat, looking over at the window, now boarded up, that had once opened into a private world.

  Jai Maddok watched Lila walk into the building—after the skinny brunette stopped for a brief chat with the doorman.

  She’d been right to follow the woman, right to trust her instincts and keep Ivan on the idiot’s brother.

  It wouldn’t be a coincidence the brunette and the brother came out of the police station together, had a long talk together, not when the woman lived, so it seemed, in the same rich American complex as the idiot and his whore.

  The police had a witness—this was her information. This woman must be the witness.

  But what had she seen?

  Her information also indicated the police were investigating a murder-suicide. But she had little hope, even with her disregard for police, that would hold up long, witness or no. She’d had to cobble that ploy together quickly due to Ivan’s overenthusiasm with the whore.

  Her employer was not happy the idiot had been disposed of before he’d given a location. When her employer was unhappy, very bad things happened. Jai usually made those very bad things happen, and didn’t want to be on the receiving end.

  So the problem must be resolved. A puzzle, she decided, and she enjoyed puzzles. The idiot, the whore, the skinny woman and the brother.

  How did they fit, and how would she use them to reach the prize for her employer?

  She would consider, study, resolve.

  She strolled as she considered. She liked the wet heat, the crowded city. Men glanced at her, and those glances would linger. She agreed with them—she deserved much more than a second look. And still, in the hot, crowded city, even she would not make a lasting impression. In affectionate moments, her employer called her his Asian dumpling, but her employer was . . . an unusual man.

  He thought of her as a tool, occasionally as a pet or a pampered child. She was grateful he didn’t think of her as a lover, as she’d have been obliged to sleep with him. The thought offended even her limited sensibilities.

  She stopped to admire a pair of shoes in a display window—high, glittering gold heels, thin leopard-spot straps. There had been a time when she was lucky to have a single pair of shoes. Now she could have as many as she liked. The memory of hot, blistered feet, of hunger so deep and sharp it felt like death, crossed the years.

  If she had business in China now, she stayed in the finest hotels—and still memories of dirt and hunger, of terrible cold or terrible heat, could haunt her.

  But money, blood, power and pretty shoes chased ghosts away again.

  She wanted the shoes, wanted them now.
So she walked into the shop.

  Within ten minutes she was walking out wearing them, enjoying the way they showed off the knife edges of her calf muscles. She swung the shopping bag carelessly, a striking Asian woman in black—short, tight-cropped pants, snug shirt—and the exotic shoes. Her long tail of ebony hair swung down her back, and pulled high and tight, left her face with its deceptively soft curves, full red lips, large almond eyes of coal-black unframed.

  Yes, men looked, and women, too. Men wished to fuck her, women wished to be her—and some wished to fuck her as well.

  But they would never know her. She was a bullet in the dark, a knife slicing silently across the throat.

  She killed not only because she could, not only because it paid very, very well, but because she loved it. Even more than the lovely new shoes, more than sex, more than food and drink and breath.

  She wondered if she would kill the skinny brunette and the idiot’s brother. It depended on how they fit into the puzzle, but she thought it might be both necessary and enjoyable.

  Her phone pinged, and taking it out of her bag, she nodded in satisfaction. The photo she’d taken of the woman now had a name, an address.

  Lila Emerson, but not the address of the building she’d entered.

  Odd, Jai thought, but still it would not be a coincidence she’d gone into that building. But since she was there, she was not at the address displayed on the phone.

  Perhaps she would find something interesting and useful at the address of this Lila Emerson.

  Julie unlocked the door of her apartment just after nine P.M. and immediately pulled off the shoes she’d been in far too long. She should never have let her coworkers talk her into going to that salsa club. Fun, yes, but oh God, her feet had been wailing like colicky babies for over an hour.

  She wanted to soak them in warm, scented water, drink a few gallons of water to filter out the far too many margaritas she’d downed, then go to bed.

  Was she getting old? she wondered as she secured the door. Stale? Boring?

  Of course not. She was just tired—worried a little about Lila, still raw from the breakup with David, and tired after about fourteen straight hours of work and play.

  The fact that she was thirty-two, single, childless and would sleep alone had nothing to do with it.

  She had an amazing career, she assured herself as she went straight into the kitchen to grab a giant bottle of Fiji water. She loved her work, the people she worked with, the people she met. The artists, the art lovers, the showings, the occasional travel.

  So she had a divorce under her belt. All right, two divorces, but she’d been insane and eighteen the first time, and it hadn’t lasted a year. It really didn’t count.

  But she stood, drinking straight from the bottle in the gleaming, state-of-the-art kitchen used primarily to store water, wine and a few basics, and wondered why the hell she felt so unsettled.

  Loved her work, had a great circle of friends, an apartment that reflected her taste—just her taste, thank you—a most excellent wardrobe. She even liked her looks most of the time, especially since she’d hired the Marquis de Sade as a personal trainer the year before.

  She was a buff, attractive, interesting, independent woman. And she couldn’t maintain a relationship for more than three months, not happily, she amended. Not happily for her.

  Maybe she wasn’t meant to. She shrugged it off, took the water with her across the living area with its warm, neutral colors and electric splashes of modern art, into the bedroom.

  Maybe she should get a cat. Cats were interesting and independent, and if she could find one as sweet as Thomas, she’d . . .

  She stopped short, a hand on the light switch. She caught the fading scent of perfume. Her perfume. Not her signature daytime scent, the Ricci Ricci, that stood as her go-to for work, but the heavier, sexier Boudoir she used only on dates, and then only when the mood struck.

  In any case, thanks to salsa, what she wore now was a light hint of sweat, but she knew that scent.

  It shouldn’t have been there.

  But the pretty gold-topped pink bottle should have been, and it wasn’t.

  Baffled, she crossed over to her dresser. The antique trinket box sat in its usual spot, as did her workday perfume, the tall, slim silver vase with its single red lily.

  But the bottle of Boudoir was gone.

  Had she moved it somewhere without thinking? But no, why would she? Yes, she’d been a bit hungover that morning, a little slow and blurry, but she remembered seeing it there. She’d dropped the back of her earring. Even now she could visualize herself trying to fumble it on, cursing when it dropped onto the top of the dresser—right beside the pink bottle.

  Muttering to herself, she moved off into the bathroom to check. Looked in the train case she used for makeup. Not there, she mused. And, what the hell, neither was the YSL Red Taboo lipstick, or the Bobbi Brown liquid eyeliner. She’d just put them in there last week after a trip to Sephora.

  She marched back to the bedroom, checked her evening bags—just in case, the travel makeup bag she kept at the ready and had used for the Hamptons Wedding Week From Hell.

  She stood in her closet, hands on her hips. Then gaped when she saw—or rather didn’t see—her brand-new, yet-to-be-worn Manolo Blahniks—five-inch platform sandals, diamond pattern in coral.

  Frustration turned on a dime as her heart began to pound. She made a wild run back to the kitchen and her bag, dragged her phone out and called the police.

  Just after midnight, Lila opened the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Julie said immediately. “Just what you don’t need after last night.”

  “Don’t be silly. Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know what I am. The cops think I’m crazy. Maybe I am.”

  “No, you’re not. Here, let’s take this into the bedroom.”

  She took the handle of Julie’s overnight herself, wheeled it into the guest room.

  “No, I’m not. I’m not crazy. Things were gone, Lila. Strange things, I’ll give you that. Who breaks in, takes makeup and perfume, a pair of shoes and a leopard-skin tote, apparently to carry it all in? Who takes that and leaves art, jewelry, a really nice Baume & Mercier watch and my grandmother’s pearls?”

  “A teenage girl maybe.”

  “I didn’t misplace them. I know that’s what the cops think, but I didn’t misplace those things.”

  “Julie, you never misplace anything. What about your cleaning service?”

  Julie dropped down on the side of the bed. “The cops asked about that. I’ve been using the same service for six years. And the same two women come in every other week. They wouldn’t risk their jobs for makeup. You’re the only other one who has the key and the code.”

  Lila X’d her heart with her finger. “Innocent.”

  “You don’t wear my shoe size or red lipstick—though you should think about the lipstick. You’re in the clear. Thanks for letting me stay over. I just couldn’t stay there alone tonight. I’m having the locks changed tomorrow, and I already changed the alarm code. A teenage girl,” she considered. “There has to be some in the building. Maybe that’s it, just a silly stunt. A kind of shoplifting.”

  “Silly, maybe, but still really wrong. Poking around in your things, taking stuff. I hope the police find her.”

  “Be on the lookout for a teenage girl in Manolos wearing Red Taboo lipstick and smelling of Boudoir?” Julie snorted. “Fat chance.”

  “It could happen.” Bending over, she wrapped Julie in a hug. “We’ll go out first chance, replace everything. Do you want anything now?”

  “Just a good night’s sleep. I can bunk on the couch.”

  “It’s a big bed, plenty of room for you, me and Thomas.”

  “Thanks. Okay if I grab a quick shower? After-work salsa dancing.”

  “Fun. Sure, go ahead. I’ll leave the light on on your side of the bed.”

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” Julie said as she rose to take her n
ightclothes out of the overnight. “Ash passed the screening. I talked to several people—discreetly. Upshot is, he can get pretty absorbed in his work, has a bit of a temper when buttons are pushed at the wrong time, doesn’t socialize as much as his agent—and some