The Collector

by Nora Roberts

  “Uh-huh. A thing.”

  “I don’t have a thing for every woman I paint. I’d never be without a thing.”

  “You have to have some thing for every woman you paint or you wouldn’t paint them. And like I said, she must be a looker.”

  “Not especially. She’s got a good face, sexy mouth, about a mile of hair the color of the dark chocolate mochas you serve in the bakery. But . . . it’s her eyes. She’s got gypsy eyes, and they pull you in, they contrast with this fresh, open sense.”

  “How do you see her?” Luke asked, knowing just how Ash worked.

  “Red dress, full skirt, mid-spin, gypsy camp, with moonlight coming through a thick green forest.”

  Idly Ash took the stub of a pencil he always carried out of his pocket, did a quick sketch of her face on a cocktail napkin.

  “Rough, but close.”

  “And she’s a looker—just not obvious about it. Are you going to ask her?”

  “It doesn’t seem appropriate.” He shrugged when Luke simply raised his eyebrows. “And yeah, appropriate’s not much of a concern to me when it comes to the work, but this situation’s . . . awkward. That’s what she called it. Awkward. Me, I call it fucked to hell and back.”

  “Semantics.”

  That brought out a grin. “Yeah, words are words. Anyway, she’s probably had enough of me, and the cops. I’d say she’ll be glad to move on to the next job, the next place, so she doesn’t have to remember what she saw every time she looks out the window. Added to it, apparently her friend had a break-in the night after this happened. Or thinks she did.”

  “It’s pretty clear when you’ve had a break-in.”

  “You’d think, and I actually know the friend, which adds to the fucked up. She manages one of the galleries I work with. Lila says somebody broke in and took makeup and shoes.”

  “Come on.” On a snort, Luke lifted his beer, gestured. “Shoes in the back of the closet, makeup in some purse she’s forgotten she has. Case closed.”

  “I’d say just that if I didn’t know the woman. She’s pretty damn steady. Either way, more cops, more upset, more . . .” He straightened from broody slouch to furiously rigid. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “She uses that address—that’s Lila’s listed address. Maybe somebody did break in, but not to rob the place. Looking for her. If I found out she was a witness, someone else could.”

  “You’re looking for trouble, Ash.”

  “No, if I was looking for trouble I’d’ve thought of this before. I’ve just been looking to get through. But when you step back, someone killed Oliver and his woman, tried to make it look like murder/suicide. She’s the one who reported it, who actually saw an altercation and the fall. And the day after it happens, someone just happens to prowl around in the apartment she’s listed as her official address?”

  Concern moved over Luke’s face. “When you put it that way. Still, it’s a stretch. What kind of murderer takes makeup and shoes?”

  “A woman. Maybe. Hell, a cross-dresser, a guy who has a woman he wants to impress. The point is it’s awful damn close. I’m going to check on her,” he decided. “And see if Julie’s had any trouble.”

  “Julie?” Luke set his beer down. “I thought you said her name was Lila.”

  “Julie’s the friend—mutual friend.”

  Very slowly, Luke set his beer down again. “Julie. Art gallery. Since this is fucked up to hell and back, tell me what this Julie looks like.”

  “After a date? She’s a jackpot, not really your type though.”

  Ash turned the napkin over, thought for a moment, then did a sketch of Julie’s face.

  Luke picked up the napkin, studied it carefully, his face blank. “Tall,” he said after a moment. “Built. Texas-bluebonnet eyes. Redhead.”

  “That’s Julie. You know her?”

  “I did.” Luke took a long drink of beer. “I was married to her. For about five minutes. In another life.”

  “You’re shitting me.” He knew about the impulsive marriage, the quick divorce—all when Luke had barely been old enough to buy a legal beer. “Julie Bryant’s the one that got away?”

  “That would be her. You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  “She manages a gallery. We’re professional friends. We don’t hang out—never dated, in case that’s an issue here. And she’s not your type. You usually go for the bouncing balls of energy, not smoking-hot class with a side of arty.”

  “Because I still have the scars.” He poked a finger on his own heart. “Julie Bryant. Son of a bitch. Now this is awkward, and I need another beer.”

  “Later. I need to talk to Lila, get more details on this break-in. I wasn’t paying attention before. You should come with me.”

  “I should?”

  “A murderer might be wearing your ex-wife’s shoes.”

  “That’s ridiculous, and it was a dozen years ago.”

  “You know you want to check it out.” Ash tossed some bills on the two-top, then shoved the napkin toward Luke. “Beer and pencil portrait on me. Let’s go.”

  Lila considered grabbing a shower. Since she’d dived straight into the book that morning, and had broken to entertain Thomas by trying out one of the amazing Macey’s many workout DVDs, she probably needed one.

  Plus, she and Julie hadn’t decided if they’d stay in and order in, or go out. Either way, since it was nearly six-thirty and Julie would be here before much longer, she really ought to clean up.

  “I have book brain,” she told Thomas. “And the perky blonde on the DVD was a sadist.”

  Maybe she had time for a hot—but reasonably quick—soak in the wonder tub. If she—

  “Okay, no tub,” she muttered when she heard the bell. “She’ll just have to hang out while I grab that shower.”

  She went to the door, pulled it open without thinking to check. “You’re early. I haven’t— Oh.”

  She looked into Ash’s eyes, and her thoughts went into a chaotic avalanche. She hadn’t washed her hair in three days, she wore no makeup, and the yoga pants and sports top—both sweaty—she’d been meaning to replace for months.

  She smelled like Pilates and the handful of Doritos she’d shoved in her mouth as a reward for the Pilates.

  She managed another, “Oh,” when he smiled at her.

  “I should’ve called. We were just a couple of blocks away, and I wanted to talk to you about something. This is Luke.”

  Someone was with him. Of course someone was with him, she could see that perfectly well. She just hadn’t really registered the cute guy with the killer shoulders.

  “Oh,” she said yet again. “I was working, then I decided to try this exercise DVD designed to make you cry like a baby, so I’m . . . Oh well,” she said as she stepped back to let them in.

  It didn’t matter what she looked like, she told herself. It wasn’t as if they were dating. More important, he looked less strained than he had the last time she’d seen him.

  “It’s nice to meet you. And you, too.” Luke bent down to scratch Thomas, who sniffed busily at his pant legs.

  “Are you with the police?”

  “No, not a cop. I’m a baker.”

  “A professional baker?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a place a few blocks from here. Baker’s Dozen.”

  “Mini cupcakes!”

  Amused by the outburst, Luke straightened. “We’ve got them.”

  “No, I mean, I’ve had them. The red velvet brought tears to my eyes. I went back for more just the other day, and the sourdough bread. And a caramel latte. It’s such a happy place. How long have you been there?”

  “About three years now.”

  “I always wondered what it was like to work in a bakery. Do you ever stop noticing how wonderful it smells or how pretty all the tarts look, that kind of thing? Did you always want to be a baker? And I’m sorry.”

  She shoved at her hair. “I ask too many questions, and I haven’t even asked
you to sit down. Do you want a drink? I have wine, or the sun tea I finally got around to making,” she added with a quick smile for Ash.

  “We’re fine. We just had a beer, and something occurred to me.”

  Luke leaned over again to pet the delighted cat, and his sunglasses fell to the floor. “That damn screw,” he said as he picked them up, then retrieved the tiny screw that had popped out.

  “Oh, I can fix that. Just a minute—go on and sit down.”

  “She can fix that?” Luke repeated when she walked out.

  “Don’t ask me.”

  She came back with what looked to Ash like the nuclear version of a Swiss Army knife. “Let’s sit down,” she said, and took the glasses and tiny screw from Luke.

  “I want to ask if there’s anything new.” She sat, and the minute Ash took a chair, Thomas jumped in his lap as if they were old friends.

  “They’re not telling me much. They let me get his things from the apartment.”

  “That was hard. You had someone with you,” she said with a glance at Luke before she opened the tool, selected a tiny screwdriver. “It’s better to have someone with you when it’s hard.”

  “They didn’t find any signs of forced entry, so they’re assuming they let whoever killed them in. Probably knew them. If they know more, they aren’t saying.”

  “They’ll find who did it. I can’t be the only one who saw something.”

  Maybe not, he thought, but she might be the only one willing to get involved.

  “There.” She tested the glasses, winging the earpiece back and forth. “Good as new.”

  “Thanks. I’ve never seen one just like that.” Luke nodded toward her Leatherman.

  “Three hundred essential tools all in one handy package. I don’t know how anyone lives without one.” She folded it, set it aside.

  “I’m a big fan of duct tape.”

  She smiled at Luke. “Its infinite uses have yet to be fully discovered.” She looked back at Ash. “It’s good to have a friend.”

  “Yeah. And speaking of that. The last time I was here, you mentioned Julie’d had a break-in. Anything new there?”

  “No. The police think she just lost or misplaced what’s missing. That’s what she thinks they think anyway. She changed the locks, put in a second dead bolt, so she’s okay about it, though she may never get over losing the Manolos.”

  “You have her place listed as your address.”

  “You need one for all sorts of things, and since I stay there now and again between jobs, even store some seasonal things there, it made the most sense.”

  “It’s your address of record,” Ash said, “and someone broke in the day after my brother was murdered. The day you called the police, gave a statement, talked to me.”

  “I know. It seems like everything rolled into one big ball of . . .”

  He saw the thought strike home, watched her face fall into thoughtful lines, not fearful ones.

  “You think it’s connected. I didn’t think of that. I should’ve thought of that. If someone wanted to find me who didn’t know me, that would be the first logical point. I didn’t see anyone, couldn’t identify anyone, but they wouldn’t know that. Or not that quickly. They could’ve broken into Julie’s looking for me.”

  “You’re pretty calm about the idea,” Luke observed.

  “Because she wasn’t home, wasn’t hurt. And because they probably know by now I’m not a threat. I wish I was. I wish I could give the police a description. Since I can’t, there’s no reason to bother with me. There’s certainly no reason to break into Julie’s again, or worry her.”

  “Maybe whoever killed Oliver and his girlfriend isn’t as logical as you,” Ash suggested. “You need to be careful.”

  “Who’d look for me here? And in another few days I’ll be somewhere else. Nobody knows where I am.”

  “I know,” he pointed out. “Luke knows, Julie, your clients, probably their friends, their family. The doorman,” he continued. “You go out, walk around, shop, eat. They’d know you were in this area—had to be—that night. Why wouldn’t they look here?”

  “It’s a big here.” Irritation trickled in, as it always did when someone assumed she couldn’t take care of herself. “And anyone who lives and works in New York knows how to be reasonably careful.”

  “You answered the door for us without knowing who it was.”

  “I don’t usually, but I was expecting . . . that,” she finished as the bell rang. “Excuse me.”

  “Hit a nerve,” Luke said quietly.

  “I’ll hit as many as it takes to convince her to take precautions.”

  “You could use the ‘I’m worried about you’ card instead of the ‘Don’t be an idiot’ card.”

  “I never said she was an idiot.”

  “Implied. If you really think—”

  Everything in Luke’s brain simply dropped away. A dozen years had changed her, of course they had, but every change hit the bell.

  “Julie, you know Ashton.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry, Ash.”

  “I got your note. I appreciate it.”

  “And Ash’s friend Luke. Remember those amazing cupcakes? His bakery.”

  “Really? They were—” Her face filled with shock, maybe just a little awe. And years tumbled away and back again. “Luke.”

  “Julie. It’s amazing to see you.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

  “I live here. In New York,” he qualified. “About eight years now.”

  “You know each other. They know each other?” Lila asked Ash when neither spoke.

  “They used to be married. To each other.”

  “They— He’s the— This just gets more . . .”

  “Awkward?”

  She just shot him a look. “I think we should have that wine now,” she said brightly. “Julie, give me a hand, will you?”

  She took her friend’s arm, pulled her firmly away and into the kitchen.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. It’s Luke.”

  She looked like the lone survivor of an earthquake, Lila decided. Shaken, dazed and just a little grateful.

  “I’ll make them leave. Do you want them to go?”

  “No. No, it’s not like that. We were . . . It was years ago. It’s just such a shock to walk in and see him. How do I look?”

  “Considering how I look, that’s a mean question. You look fantastic. Tell me what you want me to do, and it’s done.”

  “The wine’s a good idea. We’ll be civilized and sophisticated.”

  “If that’s on the order, I really need a shower, but we’ll start with wine.” Lila got down glasses. “He’s awfully cute.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” Julie smiled. “He always was.”

  “Since you’re okay with it, we’ll get this out there, then you have to entertain them while I pull myself together. I just need fifteen minutes.”

  “I hate you because I know you can do it in fifteen. Okay. Civilized and sophisticated. Let’s do this.”

  Six

  It wasn’t so bad. Lila didn’t know about sophisticated—she’d never been very good at that—but it was all pretty civilized.