Her hand was trembling as she turned over the third square, and when she saw what was on it her breath caught in her throat. As if moving under its own power, her hand turned over the other photographs, each one more damning than the last. Madre de Dio. Miguel must have gone back after the Judge had pawed at her and seen what had happened. He had taken pictures of the judge and his murderer. Miguel had thought to gain the things they didn't have with these pieces of filth.
She was swept with an enormous rage. The father of her child was dead and this, this cabron was responsible. She gathered the photos together in an abrupt movement and stuffed them back into their envelope. What was she supposed to do with these? Miguel had called them her insurance. If she tried to use them she would end up as dead as he was.
Bianca stared at the envelope. In the moment of quiet she could almost hear Miguel's voice. "They don't know you're alive. You're a part of the furniture." Tears stung at her eyes and the hand that held the envelope tightened. Rage flowed through her. This one would know she was alive. She would make sure of that.
Chapter 19
Conversation was sparse as dandruff on a bald man during the drive to Judge Sarandon's house.
At Cuffy's curt instruction, Finny steered her pickup onto Williams, through a brick gate. She'd never seen the houses here, nestled on the hill above the Denver Country Club. The thick growth of trees and the elegant and forbidding fence on Alameda hardly encouraged sightseeing.
The street wound gently to the right, through a mini-forest of pines and aspens, curving eventually in front of a house that appeared as if it had grown up from the soil, its stonewalls a near-pink support for the Virginia creeper clinging to it. Peeking above a youthful Scotch pine was an eyebrow window in the broach roof. A bay window fronted on a stand of Douglas spruces where a colony of sparrows twittered over the happenings of the day.
Finny took in the perfection of the scene glumly. If I see a lion sunbathing with a lamb, I'm out of here, she thought.
"Don't stop," Cuffy hissed suddenly, and Finny caught sight of a dark green fender at the west side of the house.
Finny obligingly kept her foot on the accelerator and continued along the narrow street that curved through the area. "What's up?" she asked.
"That was my mother's car."
"You sure?"
Cuffy glanced at her. "How many license plates say 'DareCare'?"
"Point made." Finny braked as they came to the next house. "What now?"
Cuffy shrugged. "Why ask me? I'm just along for the ride."
Finny considered her for a moment. "Why would your mother be at your father's house?"
"God knows." Cuffy raised a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Estate details?"
"Who's the executor of your father's estate?"
"MacKenzie Bartholomew."
"You're kidding."
Cuffy lifted a brow at the note of surprise in Finny's voice. "Why shouldn't he be? He and my father knew each other for at least a hundred years."
"He's also Twee's lawyer. Doesn't that strike you as just a tad murky, conflict-of-interest-wise?"
"Not necessarily." Cuffy sounded belligerent. "Mac knows everybody who's anybody. He's probably worked for three-quarters of the people I know."
Finny's lips twisted. "Is he your lawyer, too?"
"I don't need one." Cuffy shifted impatiently. "Look, are we going to hang around here all day? I've got other things to do."
"Sorry." Finny stared out the windshield. She hated like hell to waste the drive over. Turning off the engine, she opened her door. "Let's go."
Cuffy was' watching her with suspicion. "Go where?"
"To your father's house." Finny shut the door and waited for Cuffy to slide out the other side. "We'll walk back and see what we can see."
"You want to peek through the windows?"
"What d'you think we'd see?" Finny met the anger in Cuffy's eyes. "I've got other things to do, too. Now, do you want to try and figure out Twee's part in this, or not?"
Cuffy's eyes clouded. "I don't know. Dammit, I just don't know."
Gored on the horns of a dilemma. Finny gestured her forward.
They walked back to Judge Sarandon's house, Cuffy slightly in the lead. Finny's rubber-soled shoes were silent on the fresh black asphalt; the heels of Cuffy's riding boots thudded in brisk cadence.
"The driveway's just past the corner." Cuffy glanced over her shoulder. "What do you want to do?"
"Let's go around back." Finny stepped off the sidewalk. Trees were bunched like conversation groups, and she could see the dark green of Paige's car through the spaces among them.
Silent, they threaded their way through the trees. They came to the edge of the emerald carpet of grass that surrounded William Sarandon's house. At a sound Finny caught at Cuffy's arm. "Wait a minute," she whispered.
Across the greensward, from behind the house, they saw a figure heading toward the car. It was Paige stalking toward the Mercedes as if she were planning to destroy it.
There was a sharp sound, then Ty Engelman shot around the corner of the house as if he'd been catapulted from it. "Paige," he called loudly. "Wait."
Paige moved on as if she hadn't heard. She reached the side of the car and wrenched open the door. Ty ran to her, grabbing her by one arm before she could get into the car.
"What's going—" Cuffy stopped at the pressure on her shoulder.
Paige had pulled her arm from Ty's grasp, facing him, talking rapidly. Finny strained to hear what she was saying, but she couldn't make it out. From the body language, though, Paige was verbally slicing Ty into julienne strips. When she lifted one hand and slapped Ty across the face, Cuffy gasped. "My God—"
Ty stood still. Paige said something else to him and then brushed past him toward the car. Ty jerked around and caught hold of her arm. "Let go of me," Finny and Cuffy heard her demand. Then Ty hauled off and slapped her.
Cuffy took a step forward, but Finny held her back. "Wait."
Paige had held one hand to her cheek, staring up at Ty as if she'd never seen him before. Then she melted toward him, pressing against him. He bent his head to kiss her and Paige's fingers slid up his shoulders into his hair, her frantic mouth twisting underneath his. Ty swung her up in his arms with their mouths still joined, and carried her toward the house.
Finny didn't meet Cuffy's eyes. "Let's get out of here."
Cuffy turned on her heel and started back to the pickup.
* * *
Finny slid the key into the lock and listened for a moment after the door had swung open. What Barelli had said about her not using her instincts the night before had registered. He'd be so pleased. Especially if he found out about her abortive attempt to case Judge Sarandon's house.
Her own house held an air of empty waiting. Which beat the hell out some of the alternatives.
She locked the door behind her and leaned against it for a minute. The journey back to Cuffy's house had been silent and awkward. Finny had remembered an article she'd once read about sexuality: children, no matter what their ages, could never comfortably accept the idea that their parents actually engaged in the evil act. Cuffy obviously was having a hard time with some of the messier details of Paige's personal relationships. Finny hadn't been too thrilled about seeing behind the veneer herself. Somehow the notion of Paige, lacquered and superior, getting off on violence did not appeal.
Finny sighed, pushing herself toward the living room. She was tired, and she felt dirty from spying on people. She dropped her keys onto the round oak coffee table and glanced toward the answering machine. Its flashing red light winked at her provocatively. More grist for the mill, no doubt. She was sick of the whole thing—this good deed she'd set out to do. She'd stirred up the stewpot and didn't like what had risen to the top. Why couldn't she just face the truth that Twee didn't want to be saved and go back to her thrilling life of creative carpentry?
Because I'm an incurable buttinsky, she pointed out to herself, and bec
ause I hate like hell for things not to work out right. A case of arrested development, stuck at the fairy tale level: and everyone lived happily ever after. Bullshit.
She rewound the tape and turned it on. Woody Jordan's deep-in-the-heart-of-Texas voice poured into the air, as thick as gravy.
"Finny, honey, regardin' our little talk the other day, I tripped over some information you might want to think about. Call me just as soon as you can." He recited both business and home phone numbers.
As soon as she heard the beep indicating the end of the message, Finny turned off the machine and started punching in numbers. When Woody answered his office number after five rings, Finny relaxed a little. "I got your message," she said, sinking onto the sofa. "What's up?"
"I didn't think a whole lot about our talk the other day," Woody said. "But yesterday I had lunch with an old friend of mine, one who keeps his ear close to the ground. He mentioned Ty Engelman and I thought you might want to hear what he said."
"Sure I do," Finny said. "What happened to your accent, Woody?"
"I hang it up after working hours." He sounded tired. "You want the info or not?"
"Go on." Finny levered one shoe off, then the other.
"Engelman was trying to put together a land deal. He'd been pitching it to a number of people until all his financing fell apart. Word has it that William Sarandon put the kibosh on the deal."
Finny shivered. "Who else was involved, Woody? Did you get any other names?"
His raspy voice got even lower. "Keep in mind that I barely got Sarandon's but there were several more, or at least rumors of 'em, like that plastic surgeon, Alden Morrison, and Mac Bartholomew. Maybe Les Trethalwyn. But don't quote me on any of 'em. All I know for sure is whoever they were, they took a bath in red ink."
"What?" Finny's hand was tight on the receiver. "Les Trethalwyn?"
"Don't you know him? He's a Brit—works for the Arts—"
"I know him." Finny remembered the friendly smile Les had given her that morning. "He was involved?"
"Coulda been."
"Woody, why would Sarandon do that to Ty?"
Woody's chuckle sounded like dried cornhusks rubbing together. "Finny, it's as basic as A-B-C: a case of money and women. Ty's been sniffin' around Paige Dexter for a while, almost as long as Les Trethalwyn. I guess ol' William thought he'd get rid of both men. Paige has always had money, and she wouldn't look at anybody who didn't have it or wasn't about to get it."
Finny's head was spinning with possibilities. Les. Maybe he'd thought to kill two birds with one stone, too. He'd been so eager to pass on the dirt about Ty. Of course, it made perfect sense. He'd done it all along, starting with that first phone call. Pointing her in Ty's direction, he'd carefully fed her information to keep her suspicions growing. That had been some performance this morning. Now that she thought about it, Les and Paige had seemed fairly friendly the night of Twee's party.
"Finny?"
"What?"
"I've gotta get going. It's my culture night."
"The Broncos don't start playing again till August, Woody."
"Very funny. I'll have you know I've had season tickets to the opera for many a year. And I got me a cute little redhead waitin' for the steak I promised her."
"Okay, okay, I'm impressed." She paused. "Woody? Thanks—I owe you."
"I still drink Chivas, darlin'. Take care."
Finny replaced the receiver. Oh, things were getting interesting. If Les was setting up Ty, then things were getting very interesting indeed.
She pressed the playback button again. The tape whirred. "Finny, it's Corinne Danovich. Please call me." She sounded very prim and disapproving.
Finny flicked off the message switch and punched in Corinne's number. The poor woman probably wants to fire me, she thought guiltily.
"Hello?"
"Corinne? It's Finny."
"Oh, I'm so glad you called. I was beginning to be afraid you'd get back too late."
"Too late for what?"
"I have a favor to ask," Corinne went on in businesslike fashion. "I have season tickets to the opera and tonight is the opening, as you probably know."
"Yes?"
"I always attend with my friend Louise, but she's in Galveston with her first grandchild, who was born this morning. Would you like to use her ticket? I'd really enjoy your company."
Finny blinked. "Uh, you mean tonight?"
"Yes. The premiere is this evening at eight o'clock."
Irony is at work, Finny thought. Why the hell not? She'd probably see Les Trethalwyn there. She could ask him if he'd killed Sarandon during the intermission. It would be the event of the season.
"Okay. I'd be happy to drive. What time should I pick you up?"
"Well, very soon," Corinne said apologetically. "That is, if you want to have time to get something to eat. And Finny," awkwardly, "it is a premiere. I'm wearing a long dress, but do feel free to wear whatever you like. Some people go to extremes as far as dress is concerned, but the range is from formal to informal to eccentric. Whatever you decide is fine with me."
"Thanks, Corinne." The poor woman had never seen her in anything but jeans and t-shirts. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
Chapter 20
The Denver Center for the Performing Arts was sprawling, multileveled, the straight, harsh lines of its concrete walls softened by archways of glass. Flights of stairs and pipe railings zigzagged in geometric whimsy up, down, and across the impassive gray slabs forming it. Tonight the lights were bright, casting shadows of the people who moved toward glass doors in streams, refracting into glitters off jewelry of gold and precious stones, gleaming dully from rich fabrics of gowns and tuxedos, highlighting hair carefully crafted into curls and waves. Anticipation rode a vagrant breeze like perfume through the molten patterns of the gathering crowd as they moved toward the Boettcher Concert Hall.
Finny walked beside Corinne, unobtrusively shielding her from the momentum of the crush. Looking dignified in a plain black taffeta dress, its severe bodice covered by a short matching jacket, Corinne proceeded in stately fashion. From the smoothly braided coronet to the gold and jet earrings dancing against flushed cheeks, she was clearly afloat on the excitement of the evening. She had met Finny at the door, eager to be underway, smiling her approval at Finny's outfit.
She'd thrown herself into a deep orange cotton sundress, figuring that, with the long circle skirt swirling around her legs, and the brown strappy heels, she'd look somewhat dressy. The oversized gold-rust-brown paisley scarf she wrapped around her bare shoulders deepened her tan and highlighted her black hair. Gold hoops at her ears added to the gypsy effect—surely acceptable for Carmen.
There hadn't been much time to primp. As soon as she'd gotten off the phone with Corinne she'd checked through the rest of the answering machine's messages. Chris's call had been the last.
"Gotta work late, babe. The lab boys came up with a couple of latent prints in the Guiterrez killing and we got somebody who saw a car outside Guiterrez's building. Anyway, I'll see you when I see you."
Finny tried a quick call to headquarters, but Barelli wasn't there. A glance at the clock dictated that she write him a note and hope for the best. If she didn't get out to Corinne's, her ass was grass.
Once through the revolving glass door, Finny and Corinne were pressed into the mass milling outside the concert hall doors. The foyer repeated the modern lines of the building's exterior, carpeted floors easing against more concrete walls soaring upward. A long stairway leading to a second level where the upper tier seats were located was gorged with dresses and suits making their way upward. Waves of sound accompanied them as opera goers found one another and exchanged greetings, their gusts and trills of laughter, soprano to basso profundo, bubbling through the buzz of conversation like birdsong.
"We go this way." Corinne had led the way past the stairway and was serenely dodging bodies as she headed into a passage that circled the round stage inside the concert hall. The t
unnel-like approach widened into a small gallery, its walls sporting etchings and paintings. Moderately sized sculpture stood about like hesitant visitors.
Finny fought back nascent claustrophobia as they went through the passage, wincing as she caught sight of a painting of an anorexic figure on a scaffold. Just the sort of art to have hanging around for an opera about murder.
As they entered through wide doors into the concert hall, Finny glanced around, hoping to catch sight of Les Trethalwyn. For what, she wasn't quite sure. She'd gone from thinking of him as a solid citizen to wondering if he was a murderer. Maybe she wanted to see if he looked any different, if that would help her decide.
It was impossible to find anyone in the large, circular room. Tiers of chairs extended up the walls behind the theater seats on the floor around the stage. The high backs of the far seats framed the people sitting in them, creating an oddly formal effect.
"Here we are." Corinne preceded Finny to their seats, several rows back from the platform stage in the round.
Finny pardoned herself past several sets of knees and sank to her seat.
"I do wish I'd had one more ticket for your lieutenant," Corinne said.
"Remember? He had to work late."
Finny recognized MacKenzie Bartholomew several rows in front of her. He was splendid in a dark suit, bending with old-fashioned courtesy over the person seated next to him, his wife, perhaps? But she couldn't even see if it was a man or a woman thanks to the people seated between them. Her gaze skipped across the orchestra pit to the woman in a Scarlett O'Hara gown, crinolines and all.
"There she is," Corinne hissed.
Finny jerked her head round. "Who?"
"Emeline Hanratty."
Following the direction of her admiration, Finny looked down the row. The glowing aura of mauve was unmistakable, rising from hair tortured into waves of astonishing complexity. Emeline had, if anything, increased the intensity of the rinse she used, and the color clashed impressively with the cloth-of-gold dress hanging stiffly around her. She lowered her body to a sitting position in ceremonial style and Corinne sighed. "Doesn't she look wonderful?"
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