The Collector
Page 52

“Was Vinnie keeping something for your brother?”
“No, but someone may have thought he was. Vinnie was absolutely honest—you don’t have to take my word, and you won’t. You’ll check into it, and you’ll see.”
“And Oliver?”
The pounding in his head kicked up enough it nearly drowned out her voice. “Oliver could bend the line to suit the circumstances, and never understand—genuinely not understand—he’d crossed it. Detective, my family is shattered.”
He thought of his father—inflexible, unreachable in his anger and grief.
“Finding who did this is a start to putting it back together.”
“And family is the thing?”
“Yeah, it has to be. Even when it’s f**ked up.” Again, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Maybe especially when it’s f**ked up.”
She got to her feet. “It won’t hurt to show you. Why was Ms. Emerson here?”
“She was at the funeral, and left before I did.”
“She came to your brother’s funeral?”
“I asked her to. I wanted her there. When Janis called, after finding Vinnie, I contacted her. If this is connected to Oliver, it could put her in the middle.”
“What’s your relationship?”
“Evolving,” he said simply.
“We’ll have her look at the recording. Problem with that?”
“No.” He shook his head as they walked downstairs. “It’s probably better if she does.”
“A screwed-up family can bog down an evolving relationship.”
Oh boy, couldn’t it just. “I guess we’ll find out.”
More cops now, Ash noted. And techs—crime scene techs, he assumed. Going about the business of blood and death. Fine signaled for Ash to wait, then walked over to speak with one of the officers. As he waited, Ash stepped over, looked into the office.
Sometime during the endless interlude of wait, comfort, wait, they’d taken Vinnie and the other body away.
“She’ll have to see him the way I saw Oliver,” he said when Fine came back. “On a slab, covered by a sheet. Through the glass. She’ll never erase that memory, no matter how many others they made over the years. She’ll never erase that single one.”
“Come with me.” She carried a laptop and a sealed evidence bag holding a CD. “Does Mrs. Tartelli have a minister, a priest, a rabbi?”
“They weren’t especially religious.”
“I can give you the names of a couple of grief counselors.”
“Yes.” He latched onto that. “Yes, thank you.”
They made their way back, through chairs, tables, displays and shelves.
Lila sat with Waterstone at a pedestal dining table with Lila listening intently as Waterstone talked.
Waterstone glanced up, and a faint flush rose up his neck. Clearing his throat, he sat back.
“I’m going to have them look at the surveillance footage,” Fine announced.
Waterstone’s eyebrows drew together. Ash thought he started to speak, likely to object or question, then perhaps reading some silent signal from his partner, he shrugged.
“I’m going to start it when Mr. Tartelli was alone in the shop with an as-yet-unidentified female.”
“A woman?” Lila watched Fine open the laptop, turn it on. “A woman did this? That’s a stupid thing to be surprised about,” she said immediately. “Women do terrible things just as men do.” She reached over, touched Ash’s hand when he stepped beside her chair. “Angie.”
“They let her go home. Her family’s there.”
Fine inserted the CD, cued it.
Ash watched Vinnie offer wine to a woman in a floaty summer dress and heels. Short, dark hair, sleekly muscled arms, great legs. She turned, and he caught the full profile. Asian, he noted. Full, sculpted lips, angular cheek, almond eyes, a thick fringe of bangs.
“You’ll see she doesn’t worry about the cameras—and she knows they’re there. Earlier footage shows her going through the shop, floor by floor, with the victim. She touches a number of things, so she’s not concerned with prints either.”
“I can’t really see her face,” Lila said.
“You will.”
But Ash could. His artist’s eye only needed that profile to put the rest together. Exotic, stunning, with features beautifully chiseled and balanced.
He’d have painted her as a Siren, one who called men to their deaths.
On the laptop screen, she smiled, turned.
“Wait. Can you— Wait. Can you stop it, just go back a few seconds and stop it?” Lips pressed together, Lila leaned closer. “I’ve seen her. I’ve seen her somewhere, but . . . The market! The market between the bank and the apartment I was sitting. But her hair was long. She was in the market. I spoke to her.”
“You spoke to her?” Fine demanded.
“Yes. I was leaving, with my bags, and she was standing there. I told her I liked her shoes. They were great shoes. She said she liked mine, but she didn’t. They were just my walking sandals.”
“Are you sure it’s the same woman?” Waterstone asked her.
“Look at that face. It’s amazing. How many women have a face that fabulous?”
“Did she have an accent?” Fine asked.
“No, not at all. She was wearing a dress—shorter than the one there, and sexier. More skin, and these high wedge sandals. She looked a little surprised when I spoke to her, but people often do when you just blurt something out to a stranger. But she was polite. She had gorgeous skin, like gold dust over porcelain.”
“Where’s the market?”
Waterstone noted it down when Lila told him.
“And you? Do you recognize her?”
“No.” Ash shook his head. “I’d remember that face. She’s tall. Vinnie’s about six feet, and in the heels they’re eye level. She’s got about an inch on him. So she’s about five-nine. Slim, but ripped. I’d know her if I saw her again. She’s playing client with a rich husband, major sale coming up.”
“How do you know that?”
“Janis told Angie, Angie told me. Vinnie stayed after closing to wait for the husband.”
Saying nothing, Fine continued the feed.