The Collector
Page 50

She’d rather be mad.
She ignored Queen, the African tribal music beating out of the driver’s radio and the “Highway to Hell” guitar riff that was her text signal.
Calmer, clearer—if sulky—she relented a little when they drove into the city. Enough to take out her phone and look at her incomings.
Three calls from Ash, two from Julie. And one text from each. She blew out a breath, decided Ash won on a number of counts.
She listened to his first voice mail, rolled her eyes.
He’d handle it.
Men.
She handled herself and what came her way. That was Lila Emerson rule number one.
She pulled up Julie’s first call next.
“Lila, I just bumped into Giselle Archer. She said you’d left. What’s going on? What happened? Are you okay? Call me.”
“Okay, okay. Later.”
She listened to Ash’s second message. Sneered at his demand that she answer the phone. Then everything froze. Her finger trembled as she played the message back a second time.
“No, no, no,” she murmured, and immediately brought up his text.
Answer, damn it. On my way in via chopper. Need the name of your hotel. Lock the door. Stay.
Going on instinct, Lila leaned forward. “Change of plans. I need you to take me to . . .” What was the damn address? She dug into her memory, pulled out the name of the shop Ash had mentioned, keyed it into a search on her phone.
She rattled it off to the cabbie.
“Cost you more,” he told her.
“Just take me there.”
Ash stood in the doorway of Vinnie’s office beside a uniformed cop. His rage, his guilt, his grief smothered under a thick layer of numb. The short and hellish flight from the compound, all the confusion, the panic faded away as he looked at the man he’d known and loved.
Vinnie’s habitually dapper suit was stained with blood and urine. His face, always so smooth and handsome, showed the raw bruising, the engorged swelling of a vicious beating. The single eye stared out, filmed with death.
“Yes, that’s Vincent Tartelli. In the chair,” Ash added carefully.
“And the other guy?”
Ash took a deep breath. His aunt’s sobs carried down the stairs, terrible sounds he thought might echo in his head forever. A female officer had taken her upstairs, away from this. Taken her and Janis, Ash corrected. Thank God they’d taken her upstairs.
Ash made himself look at the body sprawled on the floor.
Burly, broad-shouldered, big hands showing bruising and scraping along the knuckles. A shaved head, a square, bulldog face.
And a tidy blackened hole dead center between his eyebrows.
“I don’t know him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. His hands—he’s the one who beat Vinnie. Just look at his hands.”
“We’ll take you up with Mrs. Tartelli. The detectives will talk to you.”
Fine and Waterstone, he thought. He’d called from the chopper himself, asked for Fine and Waterstone.
“She can’t see this. Angie—Mrs. Tartelli. She can’t see Vinnie like this.”
“We’ll take care of it.” He drew Ash away, into the main shop. “You can wait upstairs until . . .” He broke off when another cop signaled him from the main door. “Stay here.”
Where would he go? Ash wondered as the cop walked to the door. He looked around the shop Vinnie had such pride in—gleaming wood, sparkling glass, the glamour of gilt.
Old things, precious things. And nothing touched, nothing broken or disturbed that he could see.
Not just a robbery, not just some murderous f**k looking for money or something to pawn.
It all went back to Oliver. It went back to the egg.
“There’s a woman outside looking for you. Lila Emerson.”
“She’s a . . .” What was she exactly? He couldn’t quite pin it down. “She’s a friend. We were at my brother’s funeral this afternoon.”
“Bad day for you. We’re not going to let her in, but you can step outside to talk to her.”
“All right.”
She shouldn’t be here. Then again, Angie shouldn’t be weeping up the stairs. Nothing was as it should be, so he could only deal with what was.
She paced the sidewalk, stopped when she saw him step out the door. She gripped his hands, and like the first time he’d met her, compassion radiated from those big dark eyes.
“Ash.” She squeezed his hands. “What happened?”
“What are you doing here? I told you to go to a hotel.”
“I got your message. Your uncle was killed—Oliver’s uncle.”
“They beat him.” He thought of the ugly bruising on Vinnie’s neck. “I think he was strangled.”
“Oh, Ash.” Though he felt her hands tremble, they stayed strong on his. “I’m so sorry. His wife. I met his wife for a minute.”
“She’s inside. Upstairs. They have her upstairs. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why should you have to deal with this alone? Give me something to do, some way to help.”
“There’s nothing here.”
Her fingers tightened on his. “You’re here.”
Before he could respond, before he could think of a response, he saw the detectives.
“I asked for Waterstone and Fine. They’re here. You need to go to a hotel. No, go to my place.” He started to dig for his keys. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’m staying, for now. They see me standing here,” she said quietly. “I can hardly run off—and I’m not leaving you to deal with all this on your own.”
Instead she turned to stand side by side with Ash.
“Mr. Archer.” Fine met his eyes, looked deep. “Once again, we’re sorry for your loss. Let’s talk inside. You, too, Ms. Emerson.”
They stepped in, out of the summer heat and fuming traffic into the cool and the weeping.
“His wife,” Ash began. “I know you have to talk to her, ask her questions. Could you do that quickly? She needs to go home, get away from this.”
“We’ll expedite that. Officer, find Ms. Emerson a quiet place to wait. Mr. Archer, you can go upstairs, wait with Mrs. Tartelli. We’ll be up to talk to you as soon as possible.”
Separating them, Ash thought, as Lila gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it to go with the officer.