The security chief nodded to an assistant, who scurried off.
On the videotape, words were exchanged between patient and nurse. The nurse picked up Faye’s wrist and looked at her own wrist, as if taking Faye’s pulse.
“The nurse is not wearing a watch,” Connor said.
“And her fingers aren’t on the pulse point,” Dillon added.
The woman on the video wrote something down on a chart and handed Faye a small cup, then the water from the side table.
“She drugged her,” Will said.
“We’ll run a tox screen for psychotics and other drugs,” Dillon said.
More conversation. Then the “nurse” left. Faye lay there.
Connor watched the second camera. Faye had something in her hand under the blanket. She was moving her hand back and forth. For the first time that Connor had seen, Faye’s face was peaceful. Almost joyous. She rolled to her right side. Pain crossed her face, but she just lay there, eyes half closed. Sleeping? No. Darkness spread under the blanket. Blood. It looked black on the black-and-white video.
“Why didn’t anyone see this?” Dillon demanded.
“We did and called the nurse. But it was too late.”
“Why?”
Nurse Klein had come down with them. “The blood wouldn’t stop. She was bleeding for less than ten minutes. She shouldn’t have died. But maybe with her other injuries and her anemia…I don’t know.” The nurse was obviously pained. “I couldn’t staunch the blood.”
They reviewed the tapes again. Connor stopped it at the profile of the unknown nurse. He tapped the screen. “That’s Cami, the woman I encountered at Bowen’s house.”
After Nurse Klein left, Will put an APB on Michelle O’Dell a.k.a. “Cami” while Connor filled Dillon in on what they’d learned about Tristan Lord.
In the basement room, Dillon sat down and contemplated what Connor had said.
Connor added, “He’s involved-you should see the paintings, Dil. It’s like they tell a story, almost like a confession.”
“Almost impossible as far as evidence that will stand up in court,” Will said.
“What I don’t understand is
“Sunday was the anniversary of Bowen’s sister’s death,” Dillon said. “Tristan’s mother, Monica. You said Tristan’s mother was ill and they moved in with Garrett and Eric Bowen. What about his father?”
“Eric didn’t know much about Tristan’s father, other than that he hasn’t been part of Tristan’s life since he’d been a young child. Monica Lord traveled a lot, and Tristan went with her.”
“So his mother dies, Tristan starts self-mutilating, and Garrett Bowen created an anonymous group to help his nephew.” Dillon thought more on it. “There’s something there-the anniversary of Monica Lord’s death, the use of Wishlist, killing Bowen. It all circles around Tristan Lord. But why? What did he have against Bowen? And why the elaborate plan to kill Paul Judson, Jason Ridge, and Victor Montgomery? And there may have been others. Faye denied knowing anything about Jason Ridge’s death, but that could be to protect this ‘Cami’-Michelle O’Dell-who ended up killing her.”
“We’re looking for Lord and O’Dell,” said Will. “It’s only a matter of time before we pick them up.”
“Unless they’ve already left the country.”
Will said, “I have flags on their passports and we’ve alerted airport security.”
“They could drive over the border and disappear, especially with enough money,” Connor said. “I need to call Julia, fill her in.”
“She’s on her way here,” Dillon said. “I talked to her when Officer Diaz called Will.”
Connor glanced at his watch and frowned. “That was over an hour ago.” He pulled out his phone and dialed Julia’s number. Her voice mail picked up immediately. He left a message, hung up, tried her home number. Her answering machine came on after four rings.
Worry, and a deep-seated fear, hit Connor as he dialed her office direct line. Her voice mail picked up once again. “It’s not like Julia to not check in or be unavailable,” he said. “Where was she when you told her about Faye?”
“Her office.”
Will said, “I’ll put all-units on the lookout for her. What rental is she driving?”
“A white Ford Explorer from Enterprise.” Connor walked to the elevator, pushed the button. “I’m going to find her.”
“I’m coming with you,” Dillon said.
When the elevator didn’t come right away, they ran up the stairs. In the parking lot, they jumped into Connor’s truck and peeled away. “We’ll go back to the DA’s office and retrace her steps,” Connor said.
As they drove in front of the hospital, from the corner of his eye, Connor saw a white Explorer. He slowed down and gave the vehicle a closer look. On the back bumper was an Enterprise company sticker.
Hitting his hazard lights, he pulled parallel to the SUV and jumped out. Looking in the window, Connor saw Julia’s briefcase on the front seat.
“This is her rental car.” Connor pulled out his phone again, dialed her number. Again, voice mail picked up immediately.
He walked around the car, stopped next to the meter. Two quarters reflected the falling sunlight. Squatting, he studied the ground next to the car, but there was nothing to see on the cement.
Dillon phoned Will. “We found Julia’s rental out front. Has she come up there? Maybe we missed her.”
Dillon shook his head when Connor caught his eye.
Dammit, where in the hell was Julia?
When Julia woke, her body was physically drained, but her mind was instantly alert. She remembered being attacked as she fed the meter outside the hospital, but she hadn’t seen who’d grabbed her.
Her neck hurt, and she put her hand on a sore spot that stung something fierce.
She blinked open her eyes, saw a familiar man leaning against the doorjamb of an unfamiliar room. The walls were covered with paintings, some half complete. The only light came from small spotlights over a few of the pieces.
She glanced behind her. She was leaning against a railing, at least three stories up. Paintings and art hung everywhere. Most she couldn’t make out in the shadows. One huge painting, however, hung in the middle of a brick wall, the streetlights casting a dim glow into the vast room. As she stared, an image emerged of a woman hanging. A man stood beyond. Julia blinked, and the image seemed to change.
The drugs in her system-whatever it was that had knocked her out so completely-were still messing with her mind. She slowly sat up. Feeling nauseous, she leaned against the pillar, willing her body to get it together. She would need all her strength to figure a way out of here.
Julia stared at the figure in the open doorway. It took her a minute to recognize Tristan Lord, the young artist, Bowen’s nephew, whose studio had benefited from Saturday night’s charity event. She’d only seen the tall, slender artist briefly at the party, but his shaved head and arty tunic were distinctive.
But the quietly confident, almost ethereal appearance of the man Julia had seen at the fund-raiser didn’t match the wild-eyed, vicious glare of the monster staring down at her.
There was no doubt in Julia’s mind that Tristan meant to kill her.
She unconsciously scooted back, but had nowhere to go. Below her was a three-story fall. She was in his studio. It was late. The sun was down, the shops on the street were closed.
If she screamed, who would hear?
“Why?” he said to her.
“Why what?” Her voice was hoarse.
“Why did you give Faye the knife? She was no harm to you.”
“I didn’t give Faye a knife.” Julia swallowed.
“I saw you.” A woman’s voice came from her side. “Just like you saw me. Loose ends.”
Julia hadn’t been able to see her from her position on the floor, Michelle O’Dell had been hidden by a large metal art object. But when Michelle stepped into view, there was no doubt this was the same girl who told Connor
