been torture. Honestly, I wouldn’t be working this afternoon if I wasn’t under deadline.”
Dexter leads us through a pair of ornate wrought-iron doors. I finger the intricate pattern of leaves and vines. “Did you make these? They’re beautiful.”
He nods, pausing again to wipe his forehead before climbing the steps to the cottage. “I did. Thanks. Can I get either of you some iced tea? I could sure use some.”
“That would be terrific,” Zack says.
We follow as he crosses a living room and dining room complete with what looks like the original Craftsman sideboards, built-ins of mahogany against buttercream walls. The furnishings, elegant Arts and Crafts pieces, and even the artwork, watercolor landscapes, reflect the period.
“Who’s the Craftsman expert?” I ask Dexter.
He smiles. “Too much?”
“Not at all. I wish everyone who bought into this neighborhood appreciated the beauty of these bungalows the way you obviously do.”
Dexter frowns. “Yeah. You’ve noticed some of the monstrosities that have gone up.”
“Hard not to.”
He pushes through a door and it’s like being thrust from the past back into the twenty-first century. Granite countertops, slate flooring, and stainless steel, luxury appliances that would do a small restaurant proud.
He reads my expression and laughs. “Had to make some concessions to modern living.”
Dexter’s tall, over six feet, and thirty years old, according to the police report. On a better day I would have described him as handsome in a bohemian way—long, dark hair worn in a ponytail, full lips, eyes a pale blue, hooded and intense. But something seems off and I’m starting to realize it’s more than just the long hours and the warmth of the day. He runs cold water in the sink and cups his hands under the stream. They’re shaking.
He splashes his face, washes his hands, then leans on the counter. “Sorry. I’m feeling a little light-headed. Could I impose on one of you to serve the tea? There’s a pitcher in the fridge. Glasses in that cabinet.” He nods toward the one to the right of the sink.
“Maybe you should sit down,” suggests Zack, who moves with concern to Dexter’s side.
I pull the pitcher from the refrigerator and pour the tea. By that time Zack’s helped Dexter into the living room. I spy a tray on the counter and use it to carry in filled glasses. The two men are sitting next to each other on a well-worn overstuffed sofa, speaking in hushed tones. Their voices quiet the moment I enter.
“Do you mind switching on the ceiling fan?” He points to the controller on the far wall. I set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, then oblige. The hum of the fan’s motor and the
“Michael was just telling me this will likely be his last piece,” says Zack, his expression grave. “He’s extremely ill.”
“Liver failure,” he adds with a worn half smile. “I’ll tell you what I can about my visit to Amy’s. I’m afraid thoughts, details, well . . . they’re slipping my mind these days.”
“Do you recall what day it was that you last saw her?” I ask.
He pauses, thinks for a minute. “The twenty-eighth of March? Maybe the twenty-ninth. I think it was a Tuesday. We could probably check my phone. I rang her before going over. She didn’t answer at first, but then she returned the call. Left a voice mail. I went right over to her studio. Took a cab. I don’t drive myself anymore. I’d guess I was there within thirty, forty minutes of getting her voice mail.”
Remembering that SDPD’s check of local taxi and car services showed no record of a pickup at Amy’s address, I follow up with “Did you return by taxi as well?”
Dexter nods. “I had the driver wait for me. We made a couple stops on the way back. The pharmacy. Then the corner market for some ice cream. I’m eating whatever I want for dinner these days. I figure I’m dying, so fuck it.” He pauses. “What’s this about?”
“Amy has been reported missing,” I reveal.
A shadow crosses his face but quickly passes. He shakes his head. “She has a showing in New York. I think it started two days ago. There’s an invitation on the desk over there.” He gestures toward an old rolltop in the corner. “Have you spoken with her manager?”
Obviously Dexter hasn’t seen the news in the last couple of days.
Before I have a chance to respond, Zack fires off another question. “Can you tell us what happened when you went to see Amy?”
Dexter leans forward, his expression earnest. “Sure. Sure. She said on the voice mail she’d be in the studio, to let myself in. So I did.”
“Did she often leave her apartment unlocked?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you. It was that day. Amy was trying to finish a major piece for the show. She’d been up all night working on it, and was running on pure adrenaline. Music was blaring in the studio. I’m afraid I scared the shit out of her. I wasn’t there long. There just wasn’t any way she could do what I asked. I understood. I left. Wished her luck with the show.”
As unlikely as it is that someone in Dexter’s condition would overpower a healthy woman on his own, get rid of the body, and tidy up a crime scene, that doesn’t explain how his fingerprints got on the brush.
“What is it you wanted?” Zack takes a sip of his tea.
I’ve finished mine and set the glass on the coffee table between us on a coaster.
“The piece I’m working on out back is for charity. I was hoping she might be able to donate something for the same auction. I’d contacted her gallery manager a week or so prior. Haskell suggested I speak with Amy directly. It was a few days before I felt up to calling her. It turned out everything in her studio was spoken for. We chatted for a few minutes.” He sits back, sinking into the sofa. “She was excited about some new techniques she was experimenting with. She was planning a series incorporating gouache.”
“What’s that?” Zack asks him.
He points to a painting on the wall. “Think watercolor, only far more vibrant, bright. She’d just purchased a few series seven Kolinsky sable brushes, very expensive.”
Zack pulls out his phone. “Is this one of them?” He shares the image from evidence with Dexter.
For the first time he’s hesitant. “I think so.”
“You handled it?” I ask.
“Yes. Should I call a lawyer? Am I under suspicion again?”
“When I first saw you, I thought maybe you had news of Isabella,” Dexter says.
Zack asks Dexter the question that’s sprung to both of our minds. “Who is Isabella?”
Dexter looks confused. “So you’re not here because you think my knowing two missing women was too much of a coincidence?” His eyes are drawn to a photograph on the end table next to where he’s sitting. It’s of an attractive brunette. She’s barefoot on the beach, hair blowing in the breeze, smile radiant. He reaches out and touches the frame. “Isabella Mancini, I reported her missing about two months ago. I’m afraid the police have given up on her.”
Zack pulls out his notepad and pen. “What is the relationship between you and Isabella?” He writes something down.
“She lived here. We’ve known each other since we were kids. Grew up in the same neighborhood.”
“Where was that?”
“Central Los Angeles. Times were tough back then, for both of us. I got lucky. After graduation, I went to art school in New York on a scholarship.”
“And Isabella?”
He smiles. “That girl’s a fighter. For seven years she worked nights and attended classes during the day. It took her a while to get her psychology degree, but she stuck with it. When she got accepted to grad school at San Diego State, she was so excited. It was a dream come true. I had room for her here in the house, so I invited her to move in.”
He stops to draw a ragged breath. “Is it too much to hope you could look into her case, too? The police aren’t doing a damned thing. I’m beginning to think the PI I have on retainer isn’t, either.”
“We’ll definitely be looking into Isabella’s case. What’s the PI’s name?” Zack asks.
Dexter opens a drawer to the end table and withdraws a card. “His card.”
