“Maybe not secure enough.”
The elevator opens and we realize there are only two residences on the floor. Amy’s is to the left. Zack unlocks the door. We pause for a moment to don gloves, then step inside.
My first impression is that Amy
Zack is looking over my shoulder. “She must order in a lot.”
I look for and find a trash can under the sink. It’s empty with a fresh liner.
“Someone tidied up.”
“Haskell?” Zack asks. “She said she hadn’t touched anything.”
I move on to the living room. Amy’s furniture is plain, functional. A couch and a love seat arranged to take advantage of the views. No television or other electronics. I wander over to the windows. There are no curtains or screens. The bay sparkles in the distance and I watch a plane dip into position to land at the airport just visible to the right. The streets below are dotted with houses and other apartment buildings. The city lights must be spectacular at night.
Zack joins me, follows my line of sight across the street.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask him.
Zack nods. “There is one building across the way that looks into this apartment. Maybe someone saw something the day Amy disappeared.”
There’s a remote lying on a small table near the windows. It seems out of place since there’s no television or stereo in the room. I pick it up, press a button. The window brightens, as if a shield had been lifted.
“So much for interviewing the neighbors,” Zack says. “I’ve heard of these windows. Highly energy-efficient. And impossible to see in from the outside. Appears Amy really did value her privacy.”
I step toward a closed set of doors. They open onto a bedroom. There’s a queen-sized bed, dresser, walk- in closet. The top of the dresser is bare except for three pictures in silver frames. I recognize Amy in one of them—the one the police copied for her missing person’s report. It’s an outdoor shot, probably professional, judging from the way the background has been blurred to emphasize a pretty thirtysomething redhead with laughing green eyes and an impish smile.
The second is a picture of an older couple taken on what looks like the front porch of a comfortable suburban home. I hold the picture up to Zack. “Her parents?”
“Probably. And this one.” He points to the third picture. It’s an informal shot of Haskell and Patterson. They have their arms around each other’s waists and are grinning into the camera. In the foreground is a birthday cake, ablaze with dozens of candles. “Seems to lend credence to what Haskell told us about the two of them being friends.”
I cross the room to peek into the bathroom. Towels are hung neatly, cosmetics lined up in orderly fashion next to a toothbrush holder.
“What woman goes on a trip without her makeup or a toothbrush?” Zack asks. He’s rejoined me and is looking over my shoulder into the bathroom.
From the way she looked this morning, certainly not his ex, I want to say. Instead I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.
There’s one room left and we check it out together.
Amy’s office is the only room that reflects more personality than orderliness. This is the room where she undoubtedly spends the bulk of her time. In it are two computers, a laptop and a desktop. Her desk is covered with unopened mail and stacks of magazines. The nearby floor-to-ceiling bookshelves contain everything from Nora Roberts to Nietzsche.
“A woman of eclectic tastes,” Zack says.
There are double doors at the back of the room that I assume is a closet. When I pull the doors open, however, I reassess my opinion that her office is where she spends her time.
This is the heart of Amy Patterson’s home.
It’s her studio.
Zack pushes past me. “Look at this,” he says with obvious appreciation. “North light, high ceiling, expansive windows. It’s the perfect setup.”
“For what?”
“For a studio.” Zack stops in front of a large canvas spread in the middle of the floor. “The northern exposure means the space is bright, but the light is even. Not shining directly onto the canvas or in the artist’s eyes.”
“So you know a
“This must be the last project she worked on.” He squats down for a closer look.
I join him. All I see is an explosion of red in a pattern that resembles poppies, intertwined with blotches of bright blue, orange, and dribbles of yellow.
“It’s beautiful,” Zack says. “Primitive and alive. Soulful.”
“Yeah. Just what I was thinking.” I stand back and let Zack continue his rapt study of the canvas. I move around the room looking for anything that might give us a clue as to what became of Amy. I stop in front of a credenza covered in plastic and topped with cans, bottles, and tubes of paint. There are brushes soaking in jars of some kind of oil. Others are standing upright in an old ceramic vase. A couple have been left to dry on the top of the workspace.
I pick one up. The bristles are stiff with red paint. The other one on the credenza is caked with orange.
Zack has come up behind me. He takes the brush from my hand. “Remember when I asked what kind of woman would go on a trip without her makeup and toothbrush?”
“Yeah.”
He turns the brush slowly in his hand. “Well, what kind of artist walks out of her studio and leaves an expensive brush to dry without cleaning it first?”
“I’m guessing the answer’s the same.”
He returns to the painting. The canvas is stretched out on the floor, a taut plastic tarp underneath, anchored on the four corners with tacks. There’s a heavy blotch of bright red paint that bleeds from the corners of the canvas onto the tarp as if in her exuberance, Amy overshot her target. It’s at these places that Zack focuses his attention. I remember what Haskell said about those short, intense brushstrokes. What Zack said about Amy being controlled and deliberate.
He looks up at me. “I’m going to call Forensics. I think there might be more than paint here.”
CHAPTER 3
Zack and I are seated on an outside patio in a restaurant not far from Amy’s condo. Our forensics team is busy inside, and since we just seemed to be in the way, Zack and I left to grab lunch while we await their findings.
“You really think there might be blood on the floor?” I ask to break the silence that’s fallen.
Zack takes a pull of his iced tea. “I think it’s worth looking into. Call it a hunch.”
Or a Were sensibility. Could it be Zack was able to smell two-week-old blood through the paint? If so, neat trick.
Silence descends once more. We’ve exhausted the subject of the case. My choices are small talk or the topic we’ve been avoiding all day. I suck at small talk. So I drag in a deep breath and go for the second. “It’s lunchtime. Time for that awkward conversation you and I need to have.”
It’s hot. Zack and I have both shed our jackets. Our food has been in front of us for all of two minutes. He’s gone for a double portion of slaw with his pulled pork sandwich. I’ve picked the corn on the cob and the onion
