And still the phone was silent.
Turning the pad to a fresh page, she drew Anthony’s profile, carved and hawk-like, etched with mourning. Then a portrait of Billie, her skin dark and shining over sharp bones, huge earrings flashing, eyes fierce with determination. At the bottom of the page, one more face emerged as Alexandra drew quick, sharp lines without conscious thought.
For several moments the only sounds in the garden were the murmur of the wind, the whisper of falling leaves and the brush of charcoal over smooth paper. She was only vaguely aware of the distant door chime, sounding deep within the brownstone.
She drew the last few strokes of the eyes and studied the portrait with surprise. The face that stared back at her was strong and edgy, an arresting mix of confidence and stillness. Sculpted granite cheekbones, dark Spanish eyes that were too serious, intelligent and assessing, a hard curve of mouth...
With an angry shrug, she flipped the pad closed.
“You look like a kid curled in that chair,” said a low voice behind her.
She leaped up, bracing her body. Then, “Garcia!”
He was leaning against the French doors, his eyes almost black in the twilight. As he moved toward her across the tiny courtyard, she pushed the pad out of sight, slipping it behind the chair cushion as she faced him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Are you always this cordial? A lovely Irish woman named Mary told me you were out here – and she said you’d been alone quite long enough.” He glanced up at the sky. “Wind’s kicking up, the storm’s blowing back in. Get your raincoat, we’re going to dinner. I think you’re going to like this club.”
“You want to go clubbing?” She looked at him as if he’d just told her he wanted to take her zip-lining. “I’m not going to any club with you!”
His eyes swept over her. “You have to eat, Red. And I think you’ll find this particular club very interesting.”
“You’ve found something.”
He withdrew a paper from his jacket pocket and waved it in front of her. “I’ve tracked down your sister’s credit card records. Two nights before she died, she charged a pitcher of cosmopolitans at Club 1215, a D.C. jazz club on Florida Avenue.”
“Cosmos and jazz, now that sounds like Eve!” She tipped her glasses to the top of her head and looked down at her heavy black turtle neck sweater and leggings. “Just give me a minute to change.”
“No need. Black suits you, Red. And that gaunt New-York-art-world look of yours will fit right in at the 1215.” He looked back toward the brownstone’s lighted windows. “Unless you were planning to have dinner with Rhodes?”
“No, he had a late business meeting.”
“Good.” Garcia dropped into the chair beside her, stretched long jean-clad legs out in front of him. “Still early, we don’t have to leave quite yet.” He gestured toward her phone. “Talk to your kid?”
“Yes.” She hesitated, then sat down beside him. How had they suddenly gone from professional to personal?
“Tell me about her.” His voice held a tone she hadn’t heard before. Emotion? Sadness? No, she decided. It was more - yearning. Hurt.
She looked at him with a question but the dark eyes were unreadable. Okay, then. The truth. She slipped the locket from around her neck, flipped it open and held it out to him.
“I could never imagine anything more beautiful than art, or opera,” she said softly. “But then Ruby was born. I’ve never loved anyone the way that I love this little girl. She’s…” She stopped, closed her eyes. “So expressive, so animated. She loves books about puppies, and dressing up, and strawberry ice cream with sprinkles. Her favorite colors are pink and purple. She gives the sweetest butterfly kisses.” She smiled, picturing her child. “And she likes me to rub her back when she’s falling asleep…”
“Don’t we all. Smart kid.” He gazed down at the tiny photograph for a long moment, with an expression she couldn’t read. Then he closed it gently and pressed it into her hand. “Little Red. She’s beautiful.”
Her phone chimed Puccini and she lunged for it, waving a hand at him with a ‘hold your thought’ gesture. “Marik.”
She listened, then nodded. “Terrific, Ace. I want the best glass restorer you can find. Then contact the folks in Cambridge and Israel and set up the meeting.”
She disconnected and turned back to Garcia. “Sorry, Baranski business.”
“Glass? I thought your gallery dealt in canvasses.”
She smiled. “Stained glass. The art of glass was born 5,000 years ago in the land of the Bible. So fragile and valuable, stained glass windows were removed piece by piece from several of the great European cathedrals during World War II to protect them from the bombing.”
His attention was full on her. “Didn’t know that. Why do you need a restorer?”
“Stained glass is a dying art. For thousands of years, using holy soil, the designs were passed from father to son. Now everything is computerized, no one is learning to work with glass anymore using the old traditions, the ancient techniques.” She looked up at him. “How do we preserve grace and beauty from generation to generation? How do we keep the history alive?” She faltered, too aware of the sudden flare in his eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “When something really matters, I tend to get too passionate.”
“No, I like it. A woman who fights to keep the past alive, who knows that beauty does matter. I do know how to appreciate beauty,” he added, his eyes on her, blazing like the last moment of a sunset.
She felt the sudden flush on her skin and looked away. “It’s too easy to lose sight of what’s important,” she rushed on. “We have to protect our vanishing worlds, for our children. So I’m planning a series of master classes at the Baranski this spring that will teach the earliest glass techniques.”
“What a curator does, right? Takes care of art, other artists. But what about taking care of yourself? You told me when we met that you used to paint. What inspires that?”
She shook her head. “Chagall was inspired by fiddlers and dancing cows. But for me... I remember seeing my first Van Gogh, and Matisse, in Boston when I was a young child. The colors, the emotional intensity – they set me on fire.”
His eyes moved over her, assessing. “I figured you more for… Botanicals? DaVinci charcoals? And portraits - brooding Dutch women staring out at a dark sea.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is that how you see me? Portraits, yes. But I love big swaths of color. Light and shadows. Movement.”
“Like the sea.”
“Yes. Painters find their place. Van Gogh had Arles. Gaugain, Tahiti. Georgia O’Keefe needed the deserts of New Mexico.”
“And Maine’s sea and fog got under your skin.”
He understood. “Yes. As it’s gotten under yours.” She glanced up at the rainswept clouds. “Everywhere I look, I see a painting. Water and sky are as inseparable as Ruby and art in my life. And now, I find myself intrigued by Modern Art. Mark Rothko’s purples, his bright orange sweeps. Abstracts.”
“Abstracts,“ he murmured, amused. “Explains a lot.”
She returned his smile. “Art is art,” she quoted. “Everything else is… everything else.”
“So what happened?”
“Painting was like breathing for me.” She shrugged. “But then – life happened.”
The wind touched her face and she saw her papers begin to flutter. “Oh, no!” Reaching quickly for the photograph of Eve before it blew away, she saw that he was looking down at the crumpled papers now skittering across the flagstones.
“You’ve been trying to sketch your sister?”
“Yes. But I can’t.”
He glanced at the rescued photograph in her hand, then back to her. “She was a beautiful woman.”
“But when I try to draw her, I can’t seem to see her face.”
“You’re never quite what I expect you to be,” he murmured.
She stood abruptly. “We should go,” she said, her voic
e uneven in her ears. Turning too fast, her hip caught the edge of the garden chair and the forgotten sketch pad fell to the stones, fluttering open in the quickening breeze.
Before she could stop him, Garcia bent to retrieve the pad and saw the drawings.
“I can see how much you miss your daughter. These are good.” He studied the haunting sketch of Juliet, head bowed in grief. “Really good.”
Oh, no. She reached for the pad. Too late.
“What’s this?” he said softly. He was staring down at the sketch on the bottom of page. She’d captured him on the beach in Maine, the first time she’d seen him, eyes dark and hair blown across his forehead, with the sky and sea wild and violent behind him like a mirror of his thoughts.
She held out her hand for the drawings. “It’s - just a man and his dog and a deserted beach,” she murmured. She was very aware of his gaze. “You don’t like it…”
He scowled down at her.
“You say a lot with the things you don’t say,” she said finally.
“And you see too much with those eyes of yours.”
He closed the pad gently and held it out to her. “You’re playing with fire when you look into a man’s soul, Alexandra Marik. You might not like what you find there.”
In the shifting twilight, their eyes met. Held. Shadows sharp on his face, a dangerous light in his eyes. She remembered, suddenly, a chilling line from a short story she’d read. If a man locks eyes with you, he’s either going to sleep with you or kill you.
Just breathe.
Clutching the sketches to her chest, she turned away. She felt his eyes on her as she ran across the terraced stones.
CHAPTER 25
“an erring sister...”
Lord Byron
It was raining hard once again by the time the cab wound its way through the traffic and narrow streets of Adams Morgan, an eclectic D.C. neighborhood known for its ethnic food and all-night clubs. Club 1215 was a dark brownstone in an even darker alley. Rain pelted their skin, sharp as needles, as they ran across the wet pavement toward the blue sign blinking above the door.
Alexandra glanced up at the bright neon script blurred by mist, and her eyes widened with shock. “Good Lord! Garcia, look. Appearing tonight – Satin.” She swiped the rain from her lashes as she looked up at him. “I told you that Eve mentioned satin in her recording - she said, ‘I’m counting on satin.’ I thought she meant a fabric, nothing important. But it’s a woman’s name. And we’ve found her.”
The lush, husky notes of a saxophone drew them inside and enveloped them in smoky warmth. The Blues club was dark and sexy and smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and subtle, earthy perfume. Garcia checked their raincoats, then steered her toward a tiny candle-lit table hidden in a shadowed corner. The waiter appeared silently at Alexandra’s elbow.
“Good evening,” she said. “Will you point out Satin to me?”
“Of course,” he murmured. “When she arrives. And y’all will have?”
“Chesapeake crabs and mussels,” answered Garcia, “and a bottle of good Chardonnay.”
“Seafood, at this hour?” Alexandra shook her head. “I was thinking more - salad and coffee.”
“I was in court all day,” growled Garcia, “and I need real food. Do all New York women eat nothing but lettuce? No wonder you’re so damned thin.”
“I’m just not reckless!” she shot back. “Did you send any bad guys up the river today?”
He looked away. “Today I had the privilege of promising jurors evidence that I don’t really have. How’s that for manipulation of our noble judicial system?”
She arched an eyebrow, surprised. Another glimpse of the darkness. “So you’re not Perry Mason. But it’s still better than securing freedom for criminals.”
“Damned with faint praise? Touché.” He gazed around the darkened club. “This place reminds me…” he said softly.
“Of criminals?”
He flashed her a ‘give me a break’ look. “I was an Assistant District Attorney in Boston for several years. Drug trafficking, organized crime, racketeering. High profile. We used to unwind in a club very much like this.”
“Is it so different at Justice?”
“Bigger bad guys, so no time for jazz. Criminal Division, and then - ” He stopped, looked down. In the shadows, she couldn’t see his face.
“And then?”
He turned to her with a hard stare. “And then a woman with wild red hair fell into my life and turned it upside down.”
Okay, she thought, he’s entitled to his secrets. God knows I have mine. Deciding to ignore his mood, she slid her glasses over her nose and checked her cell phone for messages in the dim light.
“You don’t ever stop, do you?” said Garcia.
She looked at him. “I still have a job back in New York, Garcia. A daughter to protect. And I’m trying to keep track of my niece, which isn’t easy, believe me. She’s furious that your female agent has shown up to” – her fingers made quotes – “‘invade her privacy.’ Apparently I’ve ruined her life forever. But she did ask about you and Hoover.” Alexandra smiled in the darkness. “Tomorrow is Juliet’s sixteenth birthday. I was hoping to get back to New York. Do teenagers still like birthday cakes? It’s so hard being away, and I - ” Her voice trailed off.
“And you miss your kid. Little Red.”
She smiled. “Like crazy. I hate being away from her. Is it that obvious?”
He was silent for a moment. “I could see it in your drawing of her. All that love, and longing.”
She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze. “All the more reason to wrap this up,” she said brusquely.
He sat back in his chair. “Everything is on hold until we talk with Satin. So we have time to have dinner, time for you to bring me up to speed. Tell me about Billie Jordan. How did your meeting go at the church?”
“It’s a shelter, Garcia. And not a gun in sight!” She flashed a look at him. “Billie’s an interesting woman. I liked her. She and Eve were close. So close that she knew about the relationship between Eve and her half-brother – and Eve trusted her.” She held out her hands, palms up. “She knows something, I’m sure of it. Billie doesn’t believe that Eve committed suicide any more than we do. But she wasn’t ready to trust me. I’ve been waiting all day for her phone call.”
The waiter returned with the wine and poured two glasses. Turning his back on Garcia, he bowed deeply toward her. “For you, Pretty Laydee, I will bring our specialty house salad,” he said, his Creole eyes glinting with appreciation before he moved away.
“Pretty Laydee?” Garcia lifted his glass to her, drank, and smiled with amusement in the candlelight. “I do believe our waiter is flirting with you. He finds you attractive, Red.”
“Good grief, Garcia. I’m not attractive, I’m a curator!”
“I haven’t seen you look flustered before. It’s a good look for you.” Laughter rumbled in his chest.
“Don’t get used to it. It’s just - Eve flirted enough for both of us!”
He leaned back, crossed one booted foot over his knee, and looked at her speculatively over the rim of his wine glass.
Her stomach tightened. I should have ordered a whiskey, she thought suddenly, glaring at him. “Flirting is for women who believe in romance, Garcia.”
He cocked a surprised eyebrow. “And you don’t, Alexandra? Why is that?”
“Stop doing that!”
He gave her a look of choir boy innocence. “Doing what?”
“Throwing a personal question into the middle of every professional conversation. We were talking about Eve.”
“Ah.” He shrugged without apology. “It’s the lawyer in me, Red. You and Eve are still connected in more ways than you realize.”
“Wrong tree, Counselor. Eve loved men. She was always trying to get someone to love her. But I’m done with relationships. Men are more interesting in art than in real life.” Her words were vehement, and solemn as a vow. “My
name, Alexandra, means ‘warding off men.’” She gave a rueful smile. “Prophetic. I’m a card carrying ‘Don’t love me’ woman now. Never again.”
Surprise flashed in his eyes. “I get that, sure. Romantic illusions are for old movies. But - not even the occasional date?”
“The last time I had a date, Garcia, it was in a Turkish fruit salad at the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue. My life is all work and Ruby. Hiding from life works for me, it’s the way I want it. I don’t need anything – or anyone - else.” She stopped, took a breath. “I hate talking about myself! I’m really bad at it.”
“You think so, Chica?” There was an odd light in his eyes. “There’s no great sweeping romance waiting in my cards, either.” He started to say something else, then thought better of it and turned away to gaze at the empty stage.
“Oh, no, Counselor,” she said softly, touching his sleeve. “It’s your turn in the witness box now. You don’t get to take a pass here.”
“I don’t talk about my feelings.”
“If I can, you can.”
“You are a challenge, Alexandra Marik,” he muttered. He raised a sardonic brow. “Esta bien, you prefer that I incriminate myself? Fair enough.” He took a deep swallow of wine. “Once upon a time I believed that there was someone you were meant to spend the rest of your life with. I believed in the power of redemptive love. But I know better now. The more you have to live for, the more you have to lose. Romance is dangerous for me. And only a fool falls hopelessly in love across a crowded room.”
His brutal honesty threw her. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Somehow she managed to say, “Finally, we agree on something.”
“That’s a fact. So now I only date women with big hair who want no talk and no ties. And no children.” He held up his glass, eyes locked on hers. “To ‘No-Happily-Ever-Afters.’”
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