“The police?” Her face clouded, her smile dipped.
“You called 9-1-1 at just after eleven.” Bowie clarified as he glanced at his notebook.
“Oh, right.” Her eyes flashed and cleared. “The murder.”
“The murder.” Whatever he’d been expecting to hear, that wasn’t it. Jack leaned an arm on the counter and kept his tone even as he saw Bowie roll his eyes so hard they should have fallen back into his skull. “You witnessed a murder?”
“Mmm-hmm.” When she nodded, a strand of long, silver-blond hair fell over one eye. “I was afraid when you didn’t arrive, I might have...” She trailed off again, pushed the unspoken thought along with her hair away. “Never mind.”
“Where was this murder exactly?”
Jack straightened at the strained patience in his deputy’s voice.
“Across the street. In that new building.” She sipped her tea. “I can show you.” She set her cup down and floated out of the kitchen before either of them could respond.
She reminded him of a sprite, Jack thought. Or perhaps a siren. He had the sneaking suspicion she could lure him into the afterlife and he’d gladly follow. And that, he told himself, would be a very bad idea.
“Don’t mind Cerberus.” Greta flicked dismissive fingers toward the sleek gray cat perched sphinx-like on the top of one of the bookcases. “He’s harmless. Mostly,” she added when Cerberus batted a paw at Bowie’s head and hissed as they passed.
Jack tried to focus on his surroundings as he followed her down the wide hall. The loft in its entirety was enormous, with a maze of copper pipes twisting against the ceiling. Expansive skylights allowed for a starry night view as the sun had begun its rise. Her furnishings for the living room, besides the array of neatly arranged bookshelves, seemed both comfortable and practical. The medium-sized flat-screen was off. An orderly stack of DVDs sat on a short sleek table below. To his right, floor-to-ceiling windows encompassed the entire north wall and were draped with a shimmery gray fabric with gauzy white overlay that pooled on the floor. The hardwood floors had been refurbished with just enough give he could hear her bare feet slap as she led him deeper into the unknown, to the narrow door at the end of the hall.
The smell of paint and turpentine grabbed him around the throat as he stepped inside an artist’s studio that would have brought the old masters to tears.
Thick, paint-spattered beige tarps had been spread across the floor. Built-in cabinetry with glass doors allowed a person to see the arranged brushes and paints and other supplies inside. A small speaker system was situated on the counter by the door along with a pod coffee machine and a collection of pristine white mugs. Jack couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone’s house look so tidy and efficient. Sparse even.
Greta stood in front of a half-finished canvas that was almost twice her height. The explosions of colors—blacks, purples, blues, with splashes and dots of pinks and red made him feel as if he’d stepped out of the earth’s gravitational force and into the spinning universe. She’d only covered half the canvas in paint, however, as if it had been cut off, waiting for whatever its creator deemed necessary.
Jack was about to clear his throat when he caught sight of a painting across the room. A seascape seen from atop cliffs. Pastels and primary colors intermingling in unnatural yet symbiotic waves. And there, standing at the very edge of the most delicate rock, a solitary female figure stood, arms outstretched as if embracing the coming storm.
A woman with shimmering silver hair.
“Crashing Waves.”
“Excuse me?” Bowie’s question broke through Jack’s trance.
“You know it?” Greta’s voice just over his shoulder should have surprised him, but it didn’t. He’d known she was there before she spoke.
“I—yes.” He nodded. Now wasn’t the time to admit he had a signed print of the painting over his sofa. It had been one of the few items he’d brought with him from Chicago. He could still remember the moment he’d first seen it in the gallery a little more than four years ago; the first showing for the artist responsible. His date for the evening hadn’t appreciated his shift of obsessive attention. His bank account hadn’t appreciated the purchase price. But something about the piece, about the woman facing the forces of the darkness closing in on her, had spoken to him.
Now, standing in Greta Renault’s studio, Jack glanced at the signature. “G. Renault. I should have realized.” Bowie had told him their supposed witness was an artist. “Your work is spellbinding.”
“Thank you.” The smile she gave him illuminated the dark spaces inside of him. “There’s little an artist enjoys more than the expression you’re wearing on your face at this moment, Detective McTavish.”
“Jack,” he corrected automatically.
“Miss Renault.” Bowie cleared his throat. “About this murder?”
Jack turned in time to see the light fade in Greta’s eyes.
“Yes, about that.” She managed a strained smile, crossed her arms over her chest and walked over to where she perched on a high stool by the long, narrow window. “I was just finishing for the night, so it must have been around eleven. I like to work late. Fewer distractions. Not as much noise out there.” She tapped the side of her head. “Or in here. You know?”
Jack nodded. He did know.
“I had just turned out the light to go fix some tea when one came on across the street. There.” She pointed to the steel-and-glass building. “Third floor, corner office. It stopped me cold.”
“Is that unusual?” Jack pulled his attention away from her paintings and refocused on his purpose for being here. Aside from the dim
