The Collector
Page 17

“Help me what?”
“Make the arrangements? With a family that big, that spread out, it’s a lot. Not even considering the circumstances, and with both his parents out of the country. I know it’s not my place, but I could help if you need it. I’m good at making calls, following instructions.”
He looked back at her, into those big dark eyes, saw only compassion. “Why would you offer that?”
“I’m sorry, it really isn’t my place.”
“That’s not what I meant, at all. It’s kind, very kind of you.”
“Maybe it’s the window watching, or the writing, but I have a habit of putting myself in someone else’s place. Or maybe the habit is why I do the other. Either way, in your place I’d be overwhelmed. So if there’s something, just let me know.”
Before he could speak, before he could think what to say, his phone rang. “Sorry.” He lifted a hip to pull it out of his back pocket. “It’s the police. No, stay,” he said when she started to stand up. “Please.”
“Detective Fine.” He listened a moment. “No, actually I’m not home, but I can come to you or . . . Hold on a minute. They have something,” he told Lila. “The cops want to talk to me again. I can go there, or I can have them come here. They went by my place looking for me.”
She’d offered to help, hadn’t she? Lila reminded herself. She’d meant it, so here was something she could do. “You can tell them to come here. It’s okay.”
He kept his eyes on hers as he lifted the phone again. “I’m with Lila Emerson, where she’s staying. You have the address. Yeah, I can explain that when you get here.”
He slid the phone back into his pocket. “They didn’t like me being here, connecting with you. I could hear that loud and clear.”
Lila took a contemplative sip of wine. “They’re going to wonder if we knew each other before, and if we somehow cooked all this up, and you killed your brother, I covered for you. Then they’ll realize that doesn’t work on many levels.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No, because you wouldn’t have invited them here, with me, so they’d have this to wonder about. But more, I called nine-one-one seconds after she fell. How is that covering for anyone? Why call at all? Why not let some bystander call? And why not say I saw your brother push her when I called? Clean and simple. So they’ll chew on it, then just want to know how we ended up sitting out on the Kilderbrands’ terrace having a glass of wine. And that’s a reasonable question with a reasonable answer.”
“That’s logical and straightforward.”
“When you write you have to figure out what makes sense.”
Compassion, he thought, married to logic and flavored with what he believed to be a well-honed imagination.
“High school werewolves make sense?”
“It doesn’t have to be possible so much as plausible, within the world you create. In my world, my werewolves make perfect sense. Which doesn’t explain why I’m so damn nervous. Too many police.” She rose, grabbed the watering can though she’d already watered. “I’ve gone my entire life without any real contact with the police, and now it’s all over. I’m talking to them, you’re talking to them, and I’m talking to you, which is one degree of separation. Julie’s talking to them, so—”
“Because she brokered the painting?”
“What? No. Her apartment was broken into last night. Just some kids—it had to be, because all they took were a pair of Manolos, a bottle of perfume, a lipstick—that sort of thing. But it’s still a break-in, still a police report. And now here they come again. Now I’m overwatering the plants.”
“It’s hot. They’ll be fine.” But he stepped over to take the can from her, set it down again. “I can meet them downstairs.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. Besides, I want to talk to them now since you’ve talked me back into believing your brother didn’t push her. Should I make coffee? I have a stash of goldfish—the little crackers. I could set them out. I never know what to do. Why didn’t I make sun tea?”
“It’s that buckshot again,” he decided. “I think you should relax.” He picked up the wine she’d set aside, handed it to her. “And we’ll go inside and talk to the police.”
“Right. I’m glad you’re here,” she said as they went inside. “Although if you weren’t here they wouldn’t be coming here. But I’m glad you’re here. And here they are,” she said when the bell rang.
Stop thinking about it, she told herself, and walked straight to the door.
“Detectives.” She stepped back to let them in.
“We didn’t realize the two of you knew each other,” Fine began.
“We didn’t—before.”
“I overheard enough at the precinct yesterday to realize Lila was the nine-one-one caller.” Ash took a seat in the living room, waiting for the others to do the same. “I caught up with her on her way out, asked if she’d talk to me.”
Fine gave Lila a long, speculative look. “You asked him to come here?”
“No. We talked in the coffee shop across from the police station. Ash asked if he could see the perspective where I saw what happened. What I saw of what happened. I didn’t see the harm, especially since Julie knows him.”
Waterstone cocked his eyebrows. “Julie?”
“My friend Julie Bryant. She manages Chelsea Arts, and they carry some of Ash’s work. I told you about Julie,” she remembered. “I use her address.”
“Small world.”
“It seems that way.”
“Small enough,” Fine picked up. “The victim has one of your paintings in her apartment, Mr. Archer—purchased through Chelsea Arts.”
“So I’m told. I didn’t know her. It’s more unusual for me to meet or know someone who buys my work than not. I’m not pushing myself into your investigation. He was my brother. I want answers. I want to know what happened. Tell me what he was wearing,” Ash insisted. “What was he wearing when you found him?”
“Mr. Archer, we have questions.”
“You told them what you saw?” he asked Lila.