“Draw with your whole arm!”
She drew with her whole arm, giving herself over fully to the lines and the shapes. Shutting down her intellect. Loving it. She cherished her time here in the paint-splattered studio with its huge glass skylights. It was a sanctuary. Every time she walked in here she felt privileged. And had no doubt whatsoever that she had made the right move. None.
“You’ve come with a lot of passion tonight, Desiree,” he said approvingly when he paused at her drawing pad. “Your lines are much more expressive. You’re not just pushing the lead around the page. Good, good.”
She knew why, of course. It was seeing Moose Frye dead. It was the horror. That was what got her started drawing in the first place. And although she hadn’t realized it until this very second, her need to draw had diminished since she’d parted company with Major Crimes. Now that the action had found her once again, she could feel her juices flowing, roiling, demanding.
As the model reached for the heavens with both arms raised, her face exuding unbridled sensual rapture, Des flipped to a new page and kept on stroking, well aware that this was another reason why she was bringing something extra:
Their pleasingly plump model this evening was none other than Melanie Zide.
No mistake about it-Colin Falconer’s dumpy, henna-haired secretary, a young woman who was preparing to sue the school board for sexual harassment, was a nude model after-hours at the Dorset Academy of Fine Arts. And what a model! Freed of her drab clothes and thick glasses, Melanie was a woman transformed-graceful, uninhibited and positively charged with voluptuous female sexuality.
None of which added up. And Melanie knew it. Between poses, she kept shooting uncertain, myopic glances in Des’s direction.
Every twenty minutes, the model got a rest break. When her timer went off, Melanie immediately stepped down from the platform and slipped on her robe and glasses. Most of the models brought a book to read on their breaks. Melanie buried her nose in The Journals of Sylvia Plath while the students streamed out of the studio for some fresh air. It tended to get quite warm in there with the door closed. But it had to stay closed when there was a model, just as there had to be a sign on the door that read: MODEL POSING-DO NOT ENTER.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Melanie,” Des said to her, flexing the cramped muscles in her drawing hand. “We met in Superintendent Falconer’s office yesterday, remember?”
“You probably think me being here is really weird,” Melanie blurted out. Clearly, she’d been expecting Des to come at her.
“No weirder than me being here myself,” Des responded, smiling at her.
“It takes me to another place,” Melanie offered as explanation. “It’s very Zen, very in the moment. I enjoy expressing myself this way.”
“I hear you.”
“Besides, they pay me in cash, and I need it,” she said defensively. “Dorset’s an expensive place to live and I’ve got a mother who’s in a nursing home and a brother who can’t deal with it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Where did you learn to pose?”
“I took modern dance when I was in college.”
“It shows, girl. What school did you go to?”
“Why are you asking me so many questions?” Melanie demanded, her round face scrunching tightly.
Des backed right off, taking a long drink from her bottle of mineral water. “I’m an admirer, that’s all.”
“Look, they know all about this at school, okay? And it’s perfectly okay with them.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Now Melanie shoved her book into the pocket of her robe, peering at Des warily. “You know, don’t you. That Colin’s a cyber creep. Mrs. Leanse told you.”
“Yes, she did.”
“It was awful. The stuff he left on his screen. I mean, you would not believe the things those two men said to each other. I’m glad Colin’s on medical leave, because he is one sick individual. You work alongside someone every day, and you think you know him and then… Wow, it’s just so weird.” Melanie was starting to blither now. She seemed anxious and frazzled, as if she had a special reason to be concerned about Des. Des wondered what it was. “I work in a small-town school, you know? Nothing ever happens. And suddenly there’s this thing with Colin. And Moose Frye getting killed. And, I mean, there was even a television news crew from Hartford in the office this afternoon. That is just so weird.” Melanie paused, chewing on the inside of her mouth. “Do you think they’ll catch her killer?”
“I’m sure they will,” Des said. “They have a top man on the case.”
She had passed along to Soave the information Mitch had picked up from the Frye family. That Takai had been the one who’d informed on Jim, costing him his farm and thereby giving him a reason for wanting her dead. That Hangtown could alibi him for the time of the murder-the two of them were getting high together, which violated Jim’s parole but surely ranked as the least of his worries right now. Des couldn’t help wondering how it all hung together. Were Takai’s fears of Jim warranted? Was Hangtown lying to protect him? Had Jim been the one perched up on that granite outcropping with the Barrett? Why the Barrett? Why such devastating firepower?
Melanie’s timer went off now, ending their rest break. Des returned to her easel as the others trickled back in. As soon as Paul Weiss had shut the door behind him, Melanie discreetly disrobed and returned to the platform, where she stretched out on her side, one arm outreached, the other folded beneath her neck. Her back was arched, her chubby toes pointed. It was a languorous, provocative pose that emphasized the generous curves of her hips and buttocks.
Des was just getting her placed on the page when somebody pushed open the studio door without knocking and barged right in. It was Soave, who stood frozen there in the doorway with his eyeballs bulging. He simply could not believe that he was in a public place staring at a naked woman.
Paul Weiss immediately demanded to know what he wanted.
Des, who had left word where she’d be if Soave needed her, flung her stick down and led him out into the corridor, closing the door behind them.
“Wow, I could get into art big-time,” he said to her eagerly.
“Grow up, Rico,” she snapped. “That is so not mature.”
“What’s her name, anyway? Could I meet her?”
“What you could do is shut up. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Soave held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “My bad. Sorry.”
“Is there something wrong with your setup over at town hall?” she demanded irritably.
“No, it’s perfect. Got everything I need.”
“Then what in the hell do you want?”
“To touch base,” he explained, shrugging his muscle-bound shoulders.
“Does it have to be right this minute?”
“I’m afraid so. You don’t mind, do you?”
They went in the lounge, where Soave flopped down on one of the sofas. There were tables to eat at, vending machines filled with junk food and truly awful coffee. The walls were crowded with drawings and watercolors that students had pinned up. Most were classroom exercises, a number of them astonishingly good. A young couple was slouched on one of the other sofas, eating take-out pizza. Otherwise, Des and Soave were alone in there.
“I’ve been fighting off the media all day,” he complained wearily. “The TV people just nailed me at town hall. Wanted to know what we knew.”
“How much did you give them?” Des asked, standing before him with her arms folded. She generally didn’t care for the way Soave handled himself under the bright lights. Rather than keeping his comments terse and specific, he was prone to making vague, empty promises that made him sound like a politician who was running for something.
“I told them Jim Bolan is presently under house arrest,” he answered. “Pending the results of further investigation.”
“You gave them Jim?” she asked, aghast. It qualified as a total rush to judgment, in her opinion. It would be several days before the forensics lab would know whether the DNA from the saliva on the cigarette butt matched Jim’s blood sample. “He tested positive for gunshot residue, is that it?”
