by Nupur Tustin
Blake read the numbers. “There’s a first name to go with that, assuming she was driving her own car.”
“Any reason she wouldn’t be?”
“It’s a possibility—given that she broke into a crime scene, drugging the officer on duty to do so.”
Ella came as close to whistling as she ever had in all the time he’d known her.
“My, oh my! Quite the determined little thing, isn’t she?”
Blake murmured noncommittally. Jonah was staring at him avidly, like a scavenger eagerly watching for crumbs to drop from a feasting lion’s jaws.
“Did she get anything out of Reynolds’ apartment?”
“No idea. I sure as hell hope not.”
But several minutes after the call had ended, he was still mulling over Ella’s question, his foot tapping a relentless beat on the cracked concrete of the sidewalk.
Thanks to Celine, only eleven of the Gardner’s stolen works were outstanding. Except for one, they were all too large to be tucked into a jeans pocket. And he doubted anyone with any sense would risk putting the eleventh item into their pockets.
No, Sofia Without-a-Last-Name had probably not taken anything at all.
The question was: had the killer? Had Sofia been sent to pick up whatever the killer had failed to find?
Or had she been asked to clean up after him?
After all, Mr. Clean Record hadn’t meant to kill Reynolds. The murder had been a spur-of-the-moment, desperate move. The work of a nervous Nellie rather than a cold-blooded iceman.
Either way, Blake was betting Sofia was an employee. Not a girlfriend. Efficient, capable. Someone the white-collar douche who’d killed Reynolds could trust implicitly.
Someone like Ella. A personal assistant.
If DMV was unable—or unwilling—to help, Blake figured he had a way of tracking the mysterious Sofia down. It would be tedious, time-consuming work, but Blake had never had a problem with that aspect of detective work.
He discovered Jonah studying his face again, reading it like an ancient scholar poring over the Old Testament.
He raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“Shouldn’t we go back up?”
Blake glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to Reynolds’ apartment building, then shrugged. “Nah. We can wait for them down here.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Back in Reynolds’ apartment, Celine allowed Julia to guide her into the middle of the living room. Lightly gripping the former fed’s hand, Celine twirled around the room, head tilted back. The gesture was as much to orient herself as to avoid any possibility of seeing Reynolds’ dead form on the floor.
Open my eyes, Sister Mary Catherine, she whispered to her guardian angel.
Clouds of energy swirled before her mind’s eye, gradually resolving into impressions.
Reynolds stood before her—arms bent at the elbow, hands clenched into fists, a fighting stance. To her growing frustration, he vehemently shook his hand.
“No, no, no!”
They’d been arguing for some time. This was going nowhere.
She reached for him. “You’ve gotta listen to me, Tony.”
“No way.” Reynolds turned his back on her.
The movement enraged her. “Just listen, dammit!”
The muscular form, the broad shoulders, the long neck—turned resolutely away from her—made her feel like a pipsqueak. A helpless pipsqueak. She was only an inch shy of six feet. But he loomed over her.
A figure she was powerless against. Or so he believed.
“You think you can ignore me? Bastard! You think you can mess with me?”
Her arm swung forward. A glint of steel and glass flashed in her hand as it plunged through the air and made contact with Reynolds’ neck. She felt the resistance of muscle as she pushed the syringe in.
“What’s going on?” Julia asked. The sound of her voice—perturbed, troubled—caused Celine’s consciousness to distance itself from Reynolds’ killer.
“Horse tranquilizer,” Celine said. “He used horse tranquilizer to subdue Reynolds.”
The distinction between her personality and the killer’s dissolved again.
The force of her arm had caused the entire contents of the syringe to empty into Reynolds’ veins. Damn, he’d be out before he could reveal where he’d secreted her art.
“Where is it, Tony?” she hissed as he fell back against her arms.
The sculptor’s eyes were beginning to glaze over. “You’ll never find it.” He grinned. “Fussy Phil.”
“Tell me where it is,” she snarled. The wire was around his neck, the smirk on his face turning into a grimace of pain.
She squeezed hard as she repeated her question. “Where is it, you arrogant sonovabitch?”
Reynolds opened his mouth—but refused to answer her question.
“Where is it?” she growled and squeezed harder. And harder.
She could see the thin veins in his eyes bursting, his neck bulging. He struggled, writhing in her arms, too stupefied to fight back.
Then it was over.
A moaning filled the room.
It was her voice.
“Celine?” Julia squeezed her hand. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“I need some air,” Celine gasped. “Is there a balcony?”
“Just beyond the living room.” She felt Julia draw her gently forward. “A few steps forward and we’re there.”
She tore the bandana off her eyes as they stepped onto the tiny balcony. The air was still and sultry, but it helped to clear her mind. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the warm, stultifying air.
It was like trying to quench your thirst with lukewarm water on a sweltering hot day.
“God!” She shuddered, gazing out at the vista of low buildings and skylines spread out before her. “I’d do anything to unsee what I just saw.”
“What did you see?” Julia peered up at her anxiously. “You don’t have to give me a blow-by-blow,” she hastened to add. “Just the broad details will suffice.”
Celine leaned against the wrought iron balcony railing, trying to marshal her thoughts. What were the pertinent facts?
“We’re looking for a man. Five inches shorter than Reynolds. Someone with an interest in art.”
“The General’s partner? The Boston Brahmin?” Julia was using the moniker Ella Rawlins had conferred on the man.
Celine frowned, searching her mind.
“I don’t think so. His personality feels different. Not quite as powerful. He lost control of himself in there. He couldn’t get Reynolds to take him seriously and he lost it.”
“Sounds like he has self-esteem issues.” The wrinkles at the corners of Julia’s eyes deepened. “That should make it easier to catch him. What did he want?”
“A work of art. Something he owned that was in Reynolds’ hands for some reason.”
“One of the Gardner’s stolen works?” Julia surmised. “And Reynolds discovered what it was and refused to give it back?”
“I can’t say for sure, but that’s probably the case.” She’d sensed the killer’s frustration and anger, but she hadn’t been able to penetrate his mind deeply enough to gauge the precise work of art he was after.
And Reynolds’ reasons for not complying with Fussy Phil’s request had been equally obscure.
Fussy Phil? Had she been lucky enough to catch a name? She mentioned it to Julia.
“Sounds like a nickname,” Julia said.
“Well, he was absolutely infuriated when Reynolds called him that.”
“I wonder,” Julia mused. “Fussy as in fusspot, fastidious? That tells us a little more about his personality. And is Phil his first name?”
“They seemed to be on first-name terms.” The killer had repeatedly used Reynolds’ first name.
When she shared that detail with Julia, the former fed nodded. “Sounds like it could be his name, then.” She rubbed her hands together and smiled. “We’re making
good progress. Well done, Celine!
“But now”—she turned back to face the living room—“the most important thing is to figure out which work of art it is that we’re dealing with and to find out where Reynolds hid it. I’m guessing Fussy Phil didn’t find it.”
“Nope.”
Celine slipped her bandana back on.
“Take me to his bedroom and his studio. Maybe we’ll be able to pick up something there. The energy imprint of his murder is so strong, it’s all I can get in the living room.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Bedroom,” Julia said.
Celine heard her push open a door and felt the former fed’s arm gently pulling her in.
Her shoes pressed into a softer, textured surface.
“Carpet?”
“Yup. It’s the only room with wall-to-wall carpeting.” Julia stayed put while Celine slipped her left foot out of its shoe and let it sink into the thick carpet fibers.
“Sofia did a pretty good job straightening up this room,” the former fed continued.
“Did she?”
Celine’s head automatically pivoted around the room, although with Julia’s bandana covering her eyes, the state of the room was lost on her.
“Oh, yes.” Julia tugged her arm, towing her half-across the room.
Celine’s shoe, catching on her toe, dragged along the wide curve after Julia.
“Remember the photos Blake showed us? The bedroom was a complete mess.”
“Sure.”
Celine had given the photos a very cursory glance, but she recalled the bedspread had been dragged off the queen-sized bed onto the floor. The closet doors thrown wide open. Coats still on their hangers piled up on the floor.
She felt Julia come to a stop and hastily slipped her shoe back on.
“Fussy Phil did quite a number on this room,” Julia said. “But look at the bed now, all tidied up. Exactly what you’d expect considering Reynolds didn’t have an opportunity to use it last night.”
“I get the sense he had no use for it most days.”
Celine bent down to touch the thick satiny bedspread. From Blake’s photos, she knew it was patterned in a blue-and-orange abstract design. Reynolds had been a fan of bright colors.
“I think he spent most nights in his studio,” she continued softly, describing the images filling her head. “Falling asleep as he worked.”
“Aha! So this room was just for his lady friends.” Julia sounded amused, cynical. “Figures. It’s full of knick-knacks. Along the headboard. Bright floral paintings on the wall. Definitely a room to entertain women.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Celine said lightly. “But I doubt this bed saw much action these past few days.”
She straightened up, opening her senses. She’d intuited women all right—more than one—but no intimacy. That was odd.
Withdrawing her hand from Julia’s, she slowly turned around, breathing deeply, stretching out to feel the air. A strong feminine energy enveloped her—pushy, predatory, even.
Sofia?
Celine bent down to touch the bed again, feeling under the mattresses, along the headboard. Her fingers touched smooth glass and ceramic—miniature figurines and other decorative items.
Sofia had touched these. Made sure the miniature sculptures were upright, facing the right way.
She’d shaken the dust off the bedspread and neatly covered the bed with it. But the energy emanating from these objects felt softer and more subtle than the other energy that billowed around the room, threatening to overpower Celine.
Celine stood up, turning to where she thought Julia might be.
“I think there were two women here—Sofia and someone else.”
“WHAT?”
The explosive bellow startled Celine.
“Sorry.” Julia pushed her volume down several notches. “Didn’t mean to bark at you. But you’re saying Sofia had . . . someone else with her?”
“Not with her, no.” Celine shook her head. “The other woman was here hours before Sofia arrived. I’m sensing a different personality. Stronger, more powerful—more threatening, I’d say. It’s the same presence I felt in the living room.”
She’d mistakenly attributed the undercurrent of rapacious energy to Fussy Phil. He’d been desperate, had gotten violent. It had seemed to fit. Now she realized she was wrong.
The determination and cunning Celine was sensing were quite distinct from the nervous desperation that characterized Phil. A nervous energy that was markedly absent from this room.
“It’s not the killer?” Julia’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “Not Fussy Phil? You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.” Celine’s conviction was growing. “I don’t think Fussy Phil was in here at all, Julia. He was too distraught to consider searching the apartment of a man he’d just killed.”
“You’re saying someone else searched the apartment.” Julia’s voice was flat. “Before Blake discovered the body?”
Her voice rose as the implications of this seeped in.
“Jesus Christ!”
“The door was open when I got there.” Blake’s voice sounded tinny over Julia’s speakerphone.
Celine had a vision of the special agent standing on the sidewalk, his eye trained on Jonah, making sure the reporter stayed out of earshot in the armored vehicle.
Julia had called to break the news that someone other than Fussy Phil had rifled through the apartment sometime between Reynolds’ murder and the discovery of his dead body.
“Anyone could’ve gone in,” Blake continued. “A curious bystander, someone with an ulterior motive.”
Left unsaid was the notion that the woman could either have entered surreptitiously through the side door or brazenly through the front entrance. There was no way of knowing.
“But what you’ve told me just confirms my belief that Sofia must’ve been sent by our killer—a white-collar individual with no stomach for crime.”
“The question is,” Julia said, “was the other woman sent by the killer as well? Or by someone else?”
“I’d say she has a direct connection to the General,” Celine found herself responding.
She adjusted her bandana as further questions buzzed in her head. Why had it been necessary to send two women? Incensed as Reynolds had been about Sofia’s presence, he’d said nothing about the other woman. Wasn’t that strange?
When you’ve suffered a violent demise, you want your body discovered, Sister Mary Catherine said. It’s the first step toward justice.
Meaning what? That Reynolds didn’t know the woman at all?
Or that he’d seen the woman and had no reason to suspect her motive in entering his apartment? Either way, her guardian angel’s words had provided her with the glimmer of an insight.
“If she didn’t know him well enough,” Celine voiced the thought out loud, “she wouldn’t know where to look. She could trash the place. Make it look like a burglary gone wrong.”
There was a sharp intake of breath—the sound of Blake’s breath snagging painfully in his throat. Something she’d said had struck a discordant chord.
“That’s exactly what it looked like. Are you saying that’s all this other woman was trying to do?”
“I think she was doing both,” Celine spoke quickly, hoping to capture the half-formed thought before it dissipated. “Ransacking the place, in too much of a hurry to be careful about it, but realizing at the same time that her haste could disguise the motive for Reynolds’ murder.”
“Except this place has fairly strict protocols for visitors,” Julia reminded them dryly.
“Yet the killer managed to get in,” Blake pointed out. “Through a side entrance no one bothers to monitor.”
“And Sofia and Fussy Phil would’ve been aware of the fact,” Julia said. “Although I guess a simple reconnaissance mission could have told them that as well.”
“The killing was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Celine interposed quietly. “So ther
e was no reconnaissance. We’re looking for people who’ve visited Reynolds often enough to know the quirks of the building’s security system.”
“Soldi has the visitor’s book. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find what we’re looking for,” Blake said. “The thing is, Reynolds had no visitors yesterday apart from me. So our second mystery woman must’ve come in by the side entrance as well.”
“Unless she lives here.” The possibility had just entered Celine’s mind.
But Blake rejected the idea out of hand.
“Nope, not likely. If that were the case, the General would’ve had no reason to frame Reynolds. A plant—assuming the General had one—could access Reynolds’ apartment any time. A woman especially would’ve had no problem getting in, given Reynolds’ proclivities. No, I’m willing to bet she was sent here.”
“But that would mean Fussy Phil confided in the General—let him know things got out of hand.”
Would a panicking Phil have been willing to admit his mistake? To a cutthroat mobster?
Blake seemed to think so.
“If he was the General’s lackey and had a screw-up of that magnitude, his best bet would be to get it off his chest. Give the boss a chance to rectify the situation. Anything less, and he’d have a target on his back for the rest of his life. Of course, he still might.”
All true, if Phil had been in any condition to make the best choice. Somehow Celine doubted that was the case. But with no tangible insights to offer, she opted to set her doubts aside.
And Julia had accepted Blake’s premise without much question either.
“So Fussy Phil gets word to the General that the situation has gone pear-shaped and the General sends this other woman to clean things up,” Julia summarized the key idea. “Why send a woman, though?”
“Why not?” Blake asked. “It’s the perfect solution. The dead guy has a reputation as a skirt-chaser. A woman snooping around his place looks a little more natural, wouldn’t you say, than a tough guy?”
Pushing her bandana up, she saw Julia bobbing her head in agreement. But Celine didn’t think Reynolds’ reputation as a lady’s man had factored very much into the General’s calculations, if at all.
