We found the other murder weapon, Andy stated as he approached.
Pauls gaze jumped to Megan to see her reaction. She showed no effects of Andys announcement. Innocence? Or confidence?
Paul nodded to a uniformed officer standing close by. Take Ms. McClain to the station.
Her blue eyes widened with panic, her body stiffened, her arms straight and held tight against her sides, her knees and feet pressed together. You want me to go to the station.
Yes, he replied, forcing patience into his tone. Thats usually what happened to murder suspects, but he refrained from pointing that out. Well need a formal statement.
How?
He frowned. How what?
She seemed to have trouble finding her voice. Howhow are we going to the station?
By car. I certainly dont plan on making you walk ten blocks in a snowstorm. His trousers were still damp from when hed walked the short distance from the car to the gallery entrance.
Car, she repeated. Cars are safe.
His curiosity piqued by her odd behavior, Paul said, Officer Johnson will escort you to find your coat and then hell take you to the station. Ill see you again there.
Can I change? My shoes at least? she asked, her expression nearing panic.
Paul hid a smile at having pegged her correctly and sought for a soothing tone. Of course you may.
She moved stiffly to a panel of wall behind the reception desk. With a little push the panel opened, revealing a closet.
Paul exchanged a curious glance with his partner.
Ill tell Sims, Andy stated and retreated back to the workroom to inform the lead CSI of the secret hole in the wall.
Megan retrieved a pair of tall, black snow boots. Methodically, she unzipped each boot then grabbed an aerosol can from a shelf inside the closet and sprayed the insides of each one. The scent of lemon filled the air.
Then Megan slipped one foot out of a pump, while balancing on the other heeled shoe while she carefully placed her stocking foot into the boot. She repeated the process with the other foot then bent to zip up each boot.
Figuring she was done, Paul started to turn away, but stopped to watch in rapt fascination as she once again reached for something on the shelf inside the closet. This time she pulled out a moist square sheet, which she used to thoroughly wipe each pump down before putting the shoes in the closet where the boots once had been.
Then using the same moistened wipe, she ran the cloth over the door panel where shed touched the wall before pressing the wood back into place. Using the tips of two fingers, she dropped the cloth into the wastebasket.
With a tenuous smile, she announced to Officer Johnson, Im ready.
That was some routine. The woman became more interesting each passing second. And by the time he was done hed get to know her a whole lot better.
Paul noted the stiff way she held herself as Johnson helped her don her long woolen coat. Johnson took her elbow to lead her out and she shied away. Like someone once abused? Or did she just not like being touched?
The officer shrugged, dropped his hand and opened the gallerys front door for her to pass through. At the last moment, before stepping outside, she turned her head and met Pauls gaze.
There was panic in her eyes. Fear, maybe. But also something else, something vulnerable, that slammed into his gut.
Hating that hed let his guard slip even a fraction, Paul shook himself and dispensed with any softening toward Ms. McClain.
Obviously, if he saw fear in her eyes it was only because she was guilty.
Fifty-two steps.
Thats how many footsteps Megan counted as she was led to the waiting police vehicle at the curb. She shivered as flakes of snow covered her hair and landed on her face. Her heart thudded in her chest, making breathing difficult. Horror nearly choked her. She fought for control, but any semblance of control had been taken away from her.
By a murderer.
Two men had been killed, and she was the number one suspect.
With a father who had been a cop on the Boston police force and a brother who was a sheriff, she knew the law would shield her. The maxim innocent until proven guilty would hold, but it wouldnt save her from accusations and assumptions. Her only real protection would come from God.
Just as her psychologist, Dr. Miller, had suggested she do when she was confronted by any source of fear, she whispered the mantra over and over, When Im afraid, Ill trust in the Lord. When Im afraid, Ill trust in the Lord.
She took comfort in her faith even as disbelief and terror that this whole nightmare was happening took hold of her stomach and twisted her insides into tight knots.
Officer Johnson, twentysomething with a clean-shaven jaw and a lump at the bridge of his nose, opened the back door of the white cruiser with the blue lettering of the NYPD across the side.
Her gaze strayed to the ten-story building a half a block away. She counted the windows up three floors and across six to her apartment. She just wanted to go home and cocoon herself inside the four walls where everything was neat and orderly. Where there were no dead men, and no police detective who looked at her with accusation in his jade-colored eyes, making her feel like she were scum on the bottom of his shoe.
Maam, Officer Johnson prodded with a gesture to the interior of the car.
Swallowing back her panic, she told herself, Cars are safe. Shed be safe. Nothing bad was going to happen to her in the car. Only in a car she wasnt in control. Walking, she could control. She could control her steps, her pace and her path.
She slid onto the seat in the back of the cruiser, the cracked leather creaking beneath her. The car smelled like stale coffee and greasy food, making her stomach riot with nausea. She shuddered, wishing she had her lemon-scented air freshener handy.
Officer Johnson slid into the drivers seat and soon they were sloshing their way through the late evening traffic.
She stared straight ahead and briefly met the officers gaze in the rearview mirror. Did he, too, think she killed those men?
Quickly she averted her eyes to watch the neighborhood go by. She counted how many people she saw wearing brimmed hats, beanie caps and how many were braving the elements with bare heads. But she kept losing count as the frightening picture of the two dead men crept into her mind.
The image of her scissors embedded deep into the stomach of Mr. Drake would forever be imprinted on her brain.
She gagged, fighting to control her bodys need to lose the salad shed had for dinner.
She replayed the whole evening over and over again, looking for some way to make the outcome different. But that was an impossibility.
The past could not be undone.
A lesson shed learned long ago but still struggled to come to terms with. She so wanted to be able to turn the clock back, to force events to be redone so that her father wouldnt have been murdered and her life shattered by grief and illness.
Stop it, she commanded herself. She wouldnt go down that road. Not now. Now, she had to think about tonight and the two men who had died in the gallery.
Shed been in the workroom tending to the Wahlberer, a lovely landscape of the Mexican Riviera, with lots of color and bold strokes that were softened by featherlight shading that inspired, giving the onlooker a sense of place that only the masters usually accomplished.
But shed met the artist Wahlberer, a talented young upstart out of Canada whod flirted shamelessly and hadnt really taken seriously his good fortune at having his work displayed at the Sinclair Gallery. His flippant attitude about his art and the gallery had grated on her nerves.
As shed told Detective Wallace, she couldnt understand the compulsion of either of the two dead men to buy the painting. The amount had been way above the value, and, yes, a boon for the gallery and the artist, but a poor investment in her mind.
Then when Mr. Vanderpool had shown up, saying hed been told that he could have the painting, the yelling had started. Overwhelmed by the feral angriness of the two men, Megan had retreated in search of her boss.
Why hadnt Sinclair been in his office? He always worked until eight. A shiver hit her flesh as possibilities of what could have happened ran rampant through her brain.
There had been another person in the gallery. But who? And why murder the two men?
A thought clamped on to her mind and wouldnt let go. If she hadnt gone in search of her boss, would she, too, have been killed?
TWO
A 9 mm revolver, Andy said, holding up the weapon with his pencil through the trigger guard. Found in the Dumpster out back.
Paul moved to the exit leading to the back alley of the building. Putting his overcoat back on before stepping outside, he blinked to clear his vision as a sheet of cold snow hit him in the face. A streetlamp provided a small measure of light over the Dumpsters, while lamps had been set up to illuminate the work area for the CSI team as they continued their part of the investigation.
Paul found the team leader and asked her to extend the search in the upper part of gallery.
Already on it, Barbara Sims stated in her no-nonsense way. Weve dusted the door and lifted at least a dozen prints on the outside, but inside, everything She paused to emphasize her words. And I mean nearly every square inch of that workroom has been wiped clean.
Megan rubbing down her pumps before using the cloth to set them on the floor of the closet flashed in Pauls mind.
Had her routine with the shoes been for real or for show?
He reentered the workroom, his gaze taking in the orderly way the room was arranged. Packing materials lined up neatly in one corner, brushes hung upside down from a rack, shortest to longest. The worktable where Megan claimed to have been working hardly looked messy at all.
A ball of string sat on one corner of the table, a tape dispenser beside it, a ruler next and a roll of brown packing paper, all lined up with the beveled edge. Everything one would need to secure a package, except the scissors.
Lemon, Paul said as he breathed in the scent.
Andy held up a can of lemon-scented air freshener. One of five that were lined along the bottom shelf of the workbench. This.
The same spray Megan had used earlier. Paul also noted the dozen boxes of antibacterial wipes stacked next to the air-freshener cans.
A commotion back in the gallery drew Pauls attention. He and Andy moved together out of the workroom and found a uniformed officer trying to prevent a short, thin, elderly gentlemen, wearing a long trench coat, from entering the crime scene.
Whats going on here? the man asked, his nasally voice echoing off the walls. Im Lester Sinclair. I own this gallery. Mr. Sinclair spotted Paul and directed his words to him. I demand you tell me whats going on this instant.
Paul nodded for the officer to let Mr. Sinclair pass. Sir, Im Detective Wallace and this is my partner, Detective Howell. There has been a double homicide on the premises.
Mr. Sinclairs face turned ashen. Oh, mercy no. Is Megan?
Ms. McClain is fine. Shes been taken to the station for further questioning. Paul pulled out his notepad. Keeping meticulous records of all interviews had served him well over the years, especially when some ambitious defense attorney tried to reinvent testimony.
Whos been killed? Sinclair rose on the toes of his brown loafers, trying to look past Pauls shoulder.
A Thomas Drake and a Henry Vanderpool. Do you know them?
Recognition registered in Sinclairs green eyes. What was Mr. Vanderpool doing here? He lost the bid on the painting last night.
Thats a good question. So that confirmed what Megan had said about Vanderpool not being expected, only Drake. Where have you been for the past three hours?
Sinclairs eyes widened. I was here, until 6:00 p.m. Then I went out to get a bite to eat since I skipped lunch.
And where did you dine tonight? Andy asked.
Sinclair cast him an irritated glance. What does it matter?
Andy leaned in intimidatingly closer. Establishes an alibi.
Sinclair blanched. Oh. Oh, well, I was at Figaros.
Paul arched an eyebrow at the name of the well-known restaurant where reservations were required to be made at least a month in advance. And Sinclair just decided to pop in for dinner? Did you inform your curator that you were leaving?
Sinclair frowned. I dont answer to my staff.
Almost the same statement that Megan had made. What about a night-shift security guard? Paul questioned.
Mack called in sick. Its the third time this week. I think Im going to have to fire him. The security company we use was supposed to send someone over at five. I assumed since Megan hadnt said anything to the contrary that the guard had arrived as scheduled.
Interesting. Megan claimed she didnt know what was happening with the security guards. So you informed Ms. McClain that a replacement guard would be arriving at five.
Yes. He paused for a moment, a thoughtful look crossing his thin face. Or maybe I just told Lacy. He shook his head, his gaze befuddled. I dont really recall. Oh, what a mess. This will be bad for business. He grabbed Andys arm. Can you keep this out of the paper?
Doubtful, once the pariah of the media get a whiff of murder, Andy stated with contempt and shook off Sinclairs hand.
The assistant whod left early for an appointment? Paul asked to keep the focus on the investigation. He wasnt concerned with Sinclairs business or reputation.
Sinclair sighed. Yes. Shes always running off to one appointment or another.
Convenience or coincidence? Paul would find out. Im going to need the names and addresses of all your employees and anyone else who has the security codes for the gallery.
Yes, of course. You can have anything you want, Sinclair said, and pointed up with his long, bony finger. All that information is in my office.
Well also need the video feed from the monitors in the yellow room and if theres one in the workroom, Paul stated.
Sinclair grimaced. Actually, the video monitors are deterrents only. Our security is set up to stop theft, not catch a murderer. All the pieces of art are wired so if they are removed or tampered with, the gates go down.
Frustration beat a steady tattoo at Pauls temple. Video of the murders would have been so much more efficient in apprehending the villain.
Paul escorted Sinclair upstairs, and after getting a nod to go ahead from the CSI techs, they entered the plush, opulent office. A wall of windows overlooked Lexington Avenue. Paul made a note to check the building across the street and find anyone who might have seen something at the gallery.