by Mary Burton
Sharp waited until she reached her husband’s side. “It was tattooed. The ink was designed to look like a doll’s face.”
Mrs. Emery raised a trembling manicured hand to her lips. “I can’t believe this.”
“We’re trying to find out if the tattooing might have been a choice she made,” Vargas said. “We found antidepressant prescriptions in her apartment.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest,” Mrs. Emery said.
“We’re just trying to fill in the gaps of the last three weeks so we can bring you closure,” Vargas offered.
“She didn’t disfigure herself,” Mrs. Emery said. “She was a smart, bright young woman who was mentally balanced.”
“How do you know she would not have tattooed her face?” Sharp asked gently.
“Diane was vain,” Mrs. Emery said, her eyes watering with fresh tears. “She would never damage her face. She likes—liked—to look her best. You make her sound sick.”
Mrs. Emery’s cool demeanor cracked, and she sobbed. She reached for a tissue in her pocket and pressed it under her eyes to catch the spilling tears.
“We’re not trying to put your daughter in a bad light,” Sharp said. “I’m trying to create a picture of the woman she was.” These same questions had been leveled at Sharp’s stepfather, mother, and even him after Kara died. He remembered feeling offended and angry by the assumptions his sister had been a drug addict. “I can only catch this killer if I fully understand Diane.”
A breath shuddered through Mr. Emery as if the anger had drained the last of his reserves. No doubt today had been a living hell since Vargas had made the death announcement. “I know you’re trying to help, Agent Sharp. This just isn’t easy.”
“I know that, sir.” He asked more questions. Did she have a history of drug use? Did she exhibit any erratic behavior? No followed all the questions.
When Sharp and Vargas left the house, he pictured Diane as a rising star in her career. She had taken excellent care of herself, and if she had any vice, it was that she had been vain. She painted in her spare time. Her work hadn’t been Rembrandt, but her parents saved her art pieces because they’d loved her. She was definitely not the kind of woman to disfigure her face.
“So who in her life hated her so much that he wanted to permanently mess up her face?” Vargas asked.
“Why do you assume it was done in hate?”
“He fucked up her face,” Vargas hissed. “It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”
“This work was done with great care and precision. An angry person would not have gone to this length. Remember, there were no signs of infection, and she had been eating. This guy cared very much about Diane.”
Vargas dug in her pocket and pulled out a packet of unopened cigarettes. “You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I were,” Sharp said.
“We need to talk to the boyfriend,” she said, tapping the packet against her thigh.
“I went by his place earlier. There’s no sign of him.”
“This killer isn’t a stranger. Women, more often than not, are killed by someone they know or perhaps by someone who loved them at one time.”
“Tessa said Stanford Madison knew Diane in college. She said they dated.”
“Oh, really,” Vargas muttered as she opened the pack and put a cigarette to her lips.
Sharp pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit the tip of her cigarette. “He has the artistic chops, and she did break up with him.”
She inhaled, shaking her head. “Could it be that simple?”
“I don’t know. But I want to pay him another visit tonight.”
“Count me in.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday, October 7, 9:00 p.m.
Sharp and Vargas parked their cars on Hanover Avenue. A full moon glistened over a sidewalk flanked by tall trees clinging hopelessly to their orange and red leaves.
This time there were lights on in the art studio. Sharp and Vargas walked up to the front door. He tried it and discovered it was unlocked. They entered a room filled with the portraits of women painted with exquisite detail. The only furniture was a simple white desk.
“Hello,” Sharp said. “Anyone here?”
From a back staircase came the sound of footsteps, and a muscled man stepped out from around the partition. He was wearing a gray V-neck sweater, jeans, and black boots. “We don’t officially open for a couple more days.”
Sharp pulled his badge and identified Vargas and himself. “We’re looking for Stanford Madison.”
The man twisted a ring on his index finger. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
Sharp sensed the man’s unease. “We came to ask you a couple of questions about Diane Richardson.”
Madison lifted a brow and folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what she’s been telling you, but I can guarantee it’s not true.”
“What would she be telling us?” Sharp asked.
Madison sighed. “We dated, and the breakup didn’t go well. She sat for several portraits for me, and she wanted them back after she left. They were nudes and some of the best work I’d ever done. I said no. She said she’d sue.”
“She didn’t mention the paintings to us,” Vargas said, testing for a reaction.
“What’s she saying about me?”
Sharp shook his head, picking up on Vargas’s lead. “She was upset.”
Madison held his hands up in surrender. “You know how women can be. Emotional. Difficult.”
Vargas raised a brow. “Really?”
Madison looked at her, his gaze imploring. “She and I had a relationship, and it was intense and amazing. She was a muse to me. I created some of my best work when we were together.”
“How’s the work been going since she left?” Sharp asked.
“I’m holding my own.”
“But it’s a struggle,” Sharp offered. “Not eating. Not sleeping. Generally in a foul mood.”
“Sure. You understand.”
“I surely do,” Sharp said honestly.
“When people saw the work I’d done with her, I started to get more commissions, so I didn’t have as much time for her. She didn’t like being ignored, and she became demanding. She got clingy. Then I was told she was stepping out on me.”
“Who was the other guy?” Sharp asked.
“Another artist, I heard. At that point I didn’t care, so I broke it off.”
“Someone told us she broke it off with you,” Vargas said.
Madison laughed as his gaze settled on Sharp. “She’s a woman. You know how it goes. They don’t want anyone to know they’ve been left. What’s this all about?”
Vargas rested her hand on her hip, her index finger tapping her gun holster. “When did you break up?”
Madison’s smile faded. “About four months ago. Why do you care?”
“Bear with us. When’s the last time you saw her?” Sharp asked.
“Six weeks, give or take.” His fingernails were cut short and neat, though there was a hint of paint still embedded in the cuticle of his right thumb.
“Was she into drugs?” Vargas asked.
“No. She’s always saying her body is a temple. The occasional white wine, but that was it.”
“What do you know about tattooing?” Sharp asked.
“I have several, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And Diane?”
“Two, as I remember. She had a filigree at the base of her spine and a heart on the inside of her right ankle.”
“No tattoos on her face?” Sharp asked.
“No. What’s all this about?”
Sharp watched him very carefully. “Diane’s body was found in a park a couple of days ago.”
His eyes widened, and he leaned in a fraction. “That makes no sense. I just saw her.”
“Six weeks ago, right?” Vargas asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where was that?”
&nbs
p; “Here. Like I said, she came by to try and get the paintings I’d done of her.” He shook his head. “Are you sure you found Diane? None of this makes sense.”
“We’re sure.” The guy had paled. He looked upset, but skilled liars always played their part well. “Did you sell or give her any of the paintings?”
Madison ran a trembling hand through his hair. He drew in a breath. “No. Several were going to be the centerpiece of my show next week.”
“May we see the paintings?”
“Why?”
“Curious,” Sharp said.
Madison shook his head as he fisted his right hand. He appeared to be struggling to hold on to control. “I don’t understand how seeing my paintings will help you find out who killed Diane.”
“We never said it was murder,” Sharp said. “But I’m looking to piece together her life.”
“Fine. Sure. If you think it’ll help.” Madison guided them into another exhibit room. Centered on the back wall was a three-by-three-foot painting of Diane. She was nude and draped over a red velvet couch, the long fingers of her right hand clutching a strand of pearls.
Sharp walked up to the portrait. The attention to detail was stunning, and he found himself drawn in by her dark eyes and the slight smile on her lips that suggested she knew a secret. Madison was a hell of an artist.
“How did she die?” Madison asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Vargas replied.
“How could you not know?” Madison’s tone held a new sharpness. “Don’t you have people to figure that out?”
Sharp turned from the painting. “I’m the guy that figures stuff like that out. Do you have a basement in this building?”
“Sure. Why?”
“May I see it?”
Madison folded his arms. “Why do you want to see it?”
“Curious.”
Madison hesitated before saying, “These questions are making me feel like a suspect.”
Vargas shrugged and managed an innocuous smile. “Everyone is a suspect during the initial stages of an investigation.”
“Should I have a lawyer?” Madison asked.
“This is simply fact-finding, Mr. Madison,” Sharp said. “I just want to see the basement.”
Madison drew in a breath. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice,” Vargas said.
“Right,” Madison said. He moved to a side door and unlocked it. He flipped on a light, and as he descended the stairs, Vargas glanced at Sharp.
She raised a brow. “What’s his deal?” she mouthed.
“Wait and see,” he whispered.
The two detectives descended the old set of wooden stairs leading to a dank basement with a low ceiling. The lighting was poor, but Sharp could see the space was crammed full of boxes, easels, and props. There were no signs anyone had been held here.
“You own any other properties?” Sharp asked.
“No.”
“Would you mind if we searched this room?” Sharp asked.
“For what?” Madison demanded.
Sharp shrugged. “Just want a look around.”
Madison shook his head, his mouth tightening into a grim line. “Get a warrant. I’ve been patient with you long enough.”
“I’ll do that,” Sharp said.
“Get out of here now.”
Sharp and Vargas climbed the stairs. When Madison came up behind them and locked the door, Vargas tossed Sharp a glance that told him the artist topped her suspect list.
Once Sharp had his warrant, he would be back to search the premises as well as dig deep into Madison’s finances. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Madison.”
Thoughts of Diane stalked Tessa the better part of the day, so as soon as she left work, she went to the storage shed she’d rented before leaving the country. It held what she’d taken from their apartment, along with her medical books. She opened the small roll-top door and clicked on a light. Inside was basically her entire past crammed into a couple dozen boxes. When her mother had died, she’d moved in with her aunt Grace and cousins, Rebecca and Holly. Because their house was small, she’d not been able to keep much. Pictures, selected keepsakes, and her mother’s desk had been all she really wanted. By the time she left Dakota, she’d not really accumulated all that much more. More pictures. Some clothes. Books. A painting. Enough to fit in this small unit.
She moved the boxes marked “Winter Clothes” and “Medical Books,” then grabbed another box labeled “Pictures.” It had been a long time since she’d gone through the images from college, but talk of Kara had turned her thoughts back to then.
Tessa dug into the box and worked her way through the years, first looking at when she and Dakota had been together. To her surprise, she didn’t have many printed pictures. What she did have was mostly on her phone.
Going back further, she found photos documenting the medical school years. More memories bubbled up from those days and brought a smile.
And then she reached the pictures capturing her college memories. One of the first pictures she touched was of herself and her three friends from freshman year. Kara, Diane, and Elena.
The photo that caught her eye was taken the first day she’d moved into her dorm. Kara was front and center, grinning, her arms wrapped around Diane and Elena while Tessa leaned in by Diane’s left shoulder, close but still separate from the group. They’d all been girls from town, and because of that connection, they grew close as a foursome quickly.
And now two of the four girls were dead.
She searched the box for the pictures she knew she’d taken the night of the Halloween party. Not finding them, she realized they must still be at her aunt’s house.
“Damn it,” she muttered. She quickly replaced the lid on the box and locked up the shed.
The drive across the city took Tessa twenty minutes. By the time she arrived at her aunt’s house, she was determined to track down the photos. If anyone had saved the pictures, it had been her aunt.
Knowing her aunt was on vacation and her cousin was house-sitting, she used her key to push through the front door of their home. The large brick colonial was located on the steep side of a hill overlooking the James River. Keys jangled in her hands as the hum of the television echoed from the den. “Holly!”
“In the den!”
She found Rebecca’s sister, Holly, sprawled on an overstuffed couch, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. The wide sliding windows overlooked the hill sloping sharply toward to the river. A large leather sofa backed up to the window and faced a couple of club chairs upholstered in bright floral prints. A glass coffee table was covered with magazines, spilled popcorn, and empty diet soda cans.
“Aunt Grace will kill you if she sees this mess,” Tessa said.
Holly sat up and muted the television. An old T-shirt brushed past her knees, and her long hair hung wild around her shoulders. Grinning, she said, “She won’t know if you don’t snitch.”
“When is she due back?”
“Cruise ship docks in Miami next Tuesday, and then I think she’s visiting friends in Tampa. Home by next weekend. Plenty of time to clean.”
Tessa picked up a couple of Holly’s rumpled shirts from one of the club chairs and sat. “How’s school?”
“Third-year law isn’t taxing. Mostly clerking for the judge these days.”
“Anything of interest?”
Holly yawned. “No.”
Holly was five years younger than Tessa and would graduate law school in the spring. She was near the top in her class and the “not so interesting job” she referenced was a prestigious clerkship with a federal judge. Her mother fully expected her to be running the world one day.
“Hey, do you know where your mom stowed all my junk from college?”
“She was threatening a major purge last year, so not sure if it survived.”
“She’s been threatening to toss my stuff for years. What did she do with all my boxes when she had my room rem
odeled?”
“They’re in the room over the garage. I know because she made me haul all your crap up there when she had the painters come through.”
“Great.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Some photos that I took right before my accident. I know I took pictures and Aunt Grace developed them, but they aren’t in my storage bin.”
Holly yawned. “And why the walk down memory lane?”
“Just want to have a look.”
Holly rose. “I’ll give you a tour of the junk piles. If Mom hasn’t done another purge, I can find your boxes.”
“Thanks.”
Holly shoved her feet into slippers. Outside, they crossed to the garage and entered by the side door. A short flight of stairs took them to the second floor. Holly clicked on the light, which illuminated a collection of random items no one likely wanted to deal with, including holiday decorations, clothes, furniture, and boxes from college.
Holly picked her way through a narrow trail toward the back of the room. She searched a couple of boxes and said, “Here it is. All the college crap you saved that you should have thrown out years ago.”
Tessa knelt and opened the first box filled with textbooks.
“So why do you care about the photos?”
“I’m looking for pictures of the girls in my freshman hall.”
“Why?”
“One was murdered this week.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Finding nothing of use, Tessa closed up the first box and dove into the second and then a third. It was at the bottom of the third box where she found an album covered in red cloth. She lifted it out, half amazed it still existed.
When she opened the album, the first pictures she saw were taken before her mother died. For a moment she sat, silently staring at her mother hugging her in an apple orchard. “I miss her.”
“Yeah. She was pretty great.”
Clearing her throat, she turned the page. The album’s spine creaked in protest.
“Why don’t we look at this in the kitchen? It’s a little bit of a mess in here.”
“Sure.” Tessa closed the album, grateful for the pause. She straightened and backed out the narrow path. Holly followed and shut off the lights.
