The Collector
Page 5

Mmm, Louboutins.
Lila scanned down.
Blondie hadn’t turned in yet either. She wore black again—snug and short—with her hair tumbling out of an updo. Been out on the town, Lila speculated, and it didn’t go very well.
She’s crying, Lila realized, catching the way the woman swiped at her face as she spoke. Talking fast. Urgently. Big fight with the boyfriend.
And where is he?
But even changing angles she couldn’t bring him into view.
Dump him, Lila advised. Nobody should be allowed to make you so unhappy. You’re gorgeous, and I bet you’re smart, and certainly worth more than—
Lila jerked as the woman’s head snapped back from a blow.
“Oh my God. He hit her. You bastard. Don’t—”
She cried out herself as the woman tried to cover her face, cringed back as she was struck again.
And the woman wept, begged.
Lila made one leap to the bedside table and her phone, grabbed it, leaped back.
She couldn’t see him, just couldn’t see him in the dim light, but now the woman was plastered back against the window.
“That’s enough, that’s enough,” Lila murmured, preparing to call 911.
Then everything froze.
The glass shattered. The woman exploded out. Arms spread wide, legs kicking, hair flying like golden wings, she dropped fourteen stories to the brutal sidewalk.
“Oh God, God, God.” Shaking, Lila fumbled with the phone.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“He pushed her. He pushed her, and she fell out the window.”
“Ma’am—”
“Wait. Wait.” She closed her eyes a moment, forced herself to breathe in and out three times. Be clear, she ordered herself, give the details.
“This is Lila Emerson. I just witnessed a murder. A woman was pushed out a fourteenth-story window. I’m staying at . . .” It took her a moment to remember before she came to the Kilderbrands’ address. “It’s the building across from me. Ah, to the, to the west of me. I think. I’m sorry, I can’t think. She’s dead. She has to be dead.”
“I’m dispatching a unit now. Will you hold the line?”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll stay here.”
Shuddering, she looked out again, but now the room beyond the broken window was dark.
Two
She dressed, caught herself actually debating over jeans or capris. Shock, she told herself. She was in a little bit of shock, but it was all right. She’d be all right.
She was alive.
She pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, then paced around the apartment carrying a confused but willing Thomas.
She’d seen the police arrive, and the small crowd that gathered even at nearly two in the morning. But she couldn’t watch.
It wasn’t like CSI or SVU or NCIS or any of the initial shows on TV. It was real. The beautiful blonde who favored short black dresses lay broken and bloodied on the sidewalk. The man with wavy brown hair, the man she’d lived with, had sex with, talked with, laughed with, fought with, had pushed her to her death.
So she needed to be calm. To get calm and stay calm so she could tell the police just what she’d seen. Coherently. Though she hated reliving it, she made herself see it again. The tear-streaked face, the tumbling hair, the blows. She made herself see the man as she’d seen him through the window—laughing, ducking, arguing. In her mind, she sketched that face, etched it there so she could describe him to the police.
The police were coming, she reminded herself. Then jumped at the sound of the buzzer.
“It’s okay,” she murmured to Thomas. “Everything’s okay.”
She checked the security peep, saw the two uniformed officers, read their name plates carefully.
Fitzhugh and Morelli, she repeated to herself as she opened the door.
“Ms. Emerson?”
“Yes. Yes. Come in.” She stepped back, trying to think of what to do, what to say. “The woman, she . . . she couldn’t have survived the fall.”
“No, ma’am.” Fitzhugh—older, more seasoned to her eye, took the lead. “Can you tell us what you saw?”
“Yes. I . . . We should sit down. Can we sit down? I should’ve made coffee. I could make coffee.”
“Don’t worry about that. This is a nice apartment,” he said conversationally. “Are you staying with the Kilderbrands?”
“What? Oh, no. No, they’re away. In France. I’m the house-sitter. I’m staying here while they’re away. I don’t live here. Should I call them? It’s . . .” She stared blankly at her watch. “What time is it there? I can’t think.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he repeated, and led her to a chair.
“I’m sorry. It was so awful. He was hitting her, then he must’ve pushed her because the window broke, and she just—just flew out.”
“You witnessed someone strike the victim?”
“Yes. I . . .” She clutched at Thomas another moment, then put him down. Instantly he jogged over to the younger cop, jumped straight into his lap.
“Sorry. I can put him in the other room.”
“It’s okay. Nice cat.”
“He is. He’s really sweet. Sometimes a client will have a cat who’s aloof or just plain nasty, and then . . . sorry.” She caught herself, took a shaky breath. “Let me start at the top. I was getting ready for bed.”
She told them what she’d seen, took them into the bedroom to show them her view. When Fitzhugh stepped out, she made coffee, gave Thomas an early breakfast as she talked to Morelli.
She learned he’d been married a year and a half, and his wife was expecting their first child in January. He liked cats, but was more a dog person, came from a big Italian-American family. His brother owned a pizzeria in Little Italy, and he played basketball in his downtime.
“You’d make a good cop,” he told her.
“I would?”
“You get information. I’m halfway to telling you my life story.”
“I ask questions—I can’t help myself. People interest me. Which is why I was looking out the window. God, she must have family, parents, siblings, someone who loves her. She was just gorgeous, and tall—maybe a model.”
“Tall?”
“Oh, the window, where she stood in it.” Lila held her hands out, palms facing to indicate height. “She had to be about five-nine or -ten.”