Zack is back behind the wheel. He smiles. Nope.
His manner is more relaxed. He seems to have shaken off the effects of his encounter with the woman in the parking lot.
So, how do you know your way around San Diego so well?
Long story. Ill tell you about it sometime. Right now I want to know your reaction to Haskell.
Smart. Efficient. All business. But her feelings for Amy are real. Shes worried. And it goes beyond her own self-interest in a business that appears to be doing very well.
We should look into the gallerys financials, as well as Amys and her own.
I put in a call to the office and let Johnson know what we need. He says hell get the warrants and put one of our people right on it.
I disconnect. How do you know so much about art? I ask when Ive slipped my cell back into my handbag.
I know a little about a lot of things, he answers.
Did you really like Amys paintings?
You didnt?
By now were making good time. Zack has navigated his way out of La Jolla, and Interstate 5 is wide open.
Give me Giorgiones Sleeping Venus or Hedas Breakfast. I sigh. Thats art.
He laughs. You realize most people our age dont even know who the Old Masters are?
Our age? I stifle a snort.
Age has nothing to do with preference. Its what I say, but actually, it does. I was living in Europe during the fourteenth through eighteenth centuries. While the art was magnificent, living conditions were decidedly not.
Ten minutes later weve pulled off the highway and I sit quietly with my thoughts as Zack winds through the maze of one-way streets downtown. Were not so lucky in finding a parking spot this time. It takes several turns around the block before we spy a driver pulling out of a metered space. Fortunately, we manage to snag it before anyone else.
I look up at the building while Zack feeds quarters into the meter. Nice digs.
Its an upscale condo complex, lots of glass, very modern in design. We let ourselves in through a locked entry with one of the keys on the ring Haskell gave us. Theres a concierge desk, unoccupied at the moment, so we walk straight to the elevators. Amy lives on one of the top floors, requiring use of another key to gain access.
Secure building, I note.
Maybe not secure enough.
The elevator opens and we realize there are only two residences on the floor. Amys is to the left. Zack unlocks the door. We pause for a moment to don gloves, then step inside.
My first impression is that Amy must make a good living with her art. The layout of her apartment is open, airy, with windows overlooking the city and the bay beyond. I take mental inventory. Theres a small kitchen and a dining area just to the left of the entryway. There are no dishes in the sink, nothing on the table or on the counters. I open one after another of the cupboards. A few cups and glasses. A set of dishes. No food. Not even crackers or a box of cereal. The refrigerator contains bottled water.
Zack is looking over my shoulder. She must order in a lot.
Like me, I think.
I look for and find a trash can under the sink. Its empty with a fresh liner.
Someone tidied up.
Haskell? Zack asks. She said she hadnt touched anything.
I move on to the living room. Amys furniture is plain, functional. A couch and a love seat arranged to take advantage of the views. No television or other electronics. I wander over to the windows. There are no curtains or screens. The bay sparkles in the distance and I watch a plane dip into position to land at the airport just visible to the right. The streets below are dotted with houses and other apartment buildings. The city lights must be spectacular at night.
Zack joins me, follows my line of sight across the street.
You thinking what Im thinking? I ask him.
Zack nods. There is one building across the way that looks into this apartment. Maybe someone saw something the day Amy disappeared.
Theres a remote lying on a small table near the windows. It seems out of place since theres no television or stereo in the room. I pick it up, press a button. The window brightens, as if a shield had been lifted.
So much for interviewing the neighbors, Zack says. Ive heard of these windows. Highly energy-efficient. And impossible to see in from the outside. Appears Amy really did value her privacy.
I step toward a closed set of doors. They open onto a bedroom. Theres a queen-sized bed, dresser, walk-in closet. The top of the dresser is bare except for three pictures in silver frames. I recognize Amy in one of themthe one the police copied for her missing persons report. Its an outdoor shot, probably professional, judging from the way the background has been blurred to emphasize a pretty thirtysomething redhead with laughing green eyes and an impish smile.
The second is a picture of an older couple taken on what looks like the front porch of a comfortable suburban home. I hold the picture up to Zack. Her parents?
Probably. And this one. He points to the third picture. Its an informal shot of Haskell and Patterson. They have their arms around each others waists and are grinning into the camera. In the foreground is a birthday cake, ablaze with dozens of candles. Seems to lend credence to what Haskell told us about the two of them being friends.
I cross the room to peek into the bathroom. Towels are hung neatly, cosmetics lined up in orderly fashion next to a toothbrush holder.
What woman goes on a trip without her makeup or a toothbrush? Zack asks. Hes rejoined me and is looking over my shoulder into the bathroom.
From the way she looked this morning, certainly not his ex, I want to say. Instead I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.
Theres one room left and we check it out together.
Amys office is the only room that reflects more personality than orderliness. This is the room where she undoubtedly spends the bulk of her time. In it are two computers, a laptop and a desktop. Her desk is covered with unopened mail and stacks of magazines. The nearby floor-to-ceiling bookshelves contain everything from Nora Roberts to Nietzsche.
A woman of eclectic tastes, Zack says.
There are double doors at the back of the room that I assume is a closet. When I pull the doors open, however, I reassess my opinion that her office is where she spends her time.
This is the heart of Amy Pattersons home.
Its her studio.
Zack pushes past me. Look at this, he says with obvious appreciation. North light, high ceiling, expansive windows. Its the perfect setup.
For what?
For a studio. Zack stops in front of a large canvas spread in the middle of the floor. The northern exposure means the space is bright, but the light is even. Not shining directly onto the canvas or in the artists eyes.
So you know a little about art, huh?
This must be the last project she worked on. He squats down for a closer look.
I join him. All I see is an explosion of red in a pattern that resembles poppies, intertwined with blotches of bright blue, orange, and dribbles of yellow.
Its beautiful, Zack says. Primitive and alive. Soulful.
Yeah. Just what I was thinking. I stand back and let Zack continue his rapt study of the canvas. I move around the room looking for anything that might give us a clue as to what became of Amy. I stop in front of a credenza covered in plastic and topped with cans, bottles, and tubes of paint. There are brushes soaking in jars of some kind of oil. Others are standing upright in an old ceramic vase. A couple have been left to dry on the top of the workspace.
I pick one up. The bristles are stiff with red paint. The other one on the credenza is caked with orange.
Zack has come up behind me. He takes the brush from my hand. Remember when I asked what kind of woman would go on a trip without her makeup and toothbrush?
Yeah.
He turns the brush slowly in his hand. Well, what kind of artist walks out of her studio and leaves an expensive brush to dry without cleaning it first?
Im guessing the answers the same.
He returns to the painting. The canvas is stretched out on the floor, a taut plastic tarp underneath, anchored on the four corners with tacks. Theres a heavy blotch of bright red paint that bleeds from the corners of the canvas onto the tarp as if in her exuberance, Amy overshot her target. Its at these places that Zack focuses his attention. I remember what Haskell said about those short, intense brushstrokes. What Zack said about Amy being controlled and deliberate.
He looks up at me. Im going to call Forensics. I think there might be more than paint here.
CHAPTER 3
Zack and I are seated on an outside patio in a restaurant not far from Amys condo. Our forensics team is busy inside, and since we just seemed to be in the way, Zack and I left to grab lunch while we await their findings.
You really think there might be blood on the floor? I ask to break the silence thats fallen.
Zack takes a pull of his iced tea. I think its worth looking into. Call it a hunch.
Or a Were sensibility. Could it be Zack was able to smell two-week-old blood through the paint? If so, neat trick.
Silence descends once more. Weve exhausted the subject of the case. My choices are small talk or the topic weve been avoiding all day. I suck at small talk. So I drag in a deep breath and go for the second. Its lunchtime. Time for that awkward conversation you and I need to have.
Its hot. Zack and I have both shed our jackets. Our food has been in front of us for all of two minutes. Hes gone for a double portion of slaw with his pulled pork sandwich. Ive picked the corn on the cob and the onion rings. Admittedly the corn was a mistake. The kernels are shriveled like raisins from sitting in water for too long.
Zack makes a face. I was hoping youd forgotten. He scrunches his napkin into a ball and tosses it on the table. Looks like itll be an early dinner tonight. Next time, I pick the place.
Dont change the subject. What are you doing here?
Id say enjoying barbecue, but that would be a bald-faced lie. He pushes his plate back, then combs his fingers through his hair. I notice it looks a little lighter in the full sun.
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. You know what I mean.
He sighs. Youre pissed.
You thought I wouldnt be?
He takes a bite of his sandwich and chews. Since hes so eloquently expressed his opinion of the food, I know hes stalling. Im not one of those people who feel the need to fill gaps of silence with needless chatter, so I just wait.
Finally he answers, I guess I hoped you wouldnt be. He leans forward, forearms on the table. I remember what you said about not being able to afford anything complicated. Ive played by your rules. No cards. No flowers. Theres a long pause and then he asks, I suppose its too much to hope for that youre pissed because I didnt send flowers?
Way too much to hope for. At the airport we agreed there wouldnt be any calls, any emails . . .
He nods. And there havent been. Look, I didnt come here with the expectation that wed pick up where we left off in Charleston. You made your feelings perfectly clear.
Im not sure I believe him, but I desperately want to. Then why are you here?
Zack wears a ring on his right hand. Its gold and reminiscent of a wedding band, engraved with a pattern resembling a tangle of thorns. He taps it three times on the table. Then the explanation comes out in a rush. Lets just say Ive been struggling with my career path.
Not the answer I was expecting. It brings a rush of relief right along with a not so surprising flash of disappointment.
Go on, I say.
After the case we worked in Charleston, there was a lot of pressure for me to join the hostage rescue team. It was like at the Academy, only worse.
I dont understand. What happened at the Academy?
He shrugs. My marksmanship scores were perfect. They recommended me for sniper training. Wanted me on the HRT then. Its not what I wanted.
Because?
I have my reasons. Can we just leave it at that?
I nod. For now. The guys in HRT are a tight-knit group. Itd be tough to hide going furry three nights a month in that environment. Thats reason enough for him to avoid the assignment. But Im somehow left with the impression its more than that.
Theres a moment of silence. I can tell hes searching for the right words.
Ive been struggling to find my place. Then I bumped into your boss at Quantico a few months ago. We had a couple beers. I asked about you. He mentioned your partner was leaving. I think my place is here. Youre the best field agent Ive ever met. I want to work with you again, Emma.
There are plenty of good agents. I lean forward and lower my voice. Ones you havent slept with.
He looks away briefly before responding. You might find this hard to believe, but I dont generally have trouble finding sexual companionship. Finding a partner that makes me better than I am alone? Thats far more difficult.
He says the word partner as though it means something special. Having worked alongside him, I dont doubt it does.
That month in Charleston, he continues, we were good together. Damned good. No one has closed as many cases in as little time as you. Youve got one of the best clearance records in the Bureau.
I brush off the compliment. Ive had some terrific partners. Ive been lucky.
Luck doesnt have anything to do with it. Ive seen you in action. The way you handled the Mason interrogation? It was magic.
Hes not wrong. It was magic. In part. After all, a Siren is a Siren. Every once in a while I step over the line, help things along, insinuate myself into the mind of someone in order to extract truth or exert influence. I did it with the case I worked with Zack. It was a kidnapping. We had a suspect, Mason. We were sure he was involved. Zack and I had been tag-teaming him and coming up empty. Hed been taking a hard line with the suspect. I suggested he give me a few minutes alone to play the sympathy card. Then I did what I had to do. I unleashed my gift and discovered the truth, the location of the missing child.