The Collector
Page 18
“Yes, of course. You mean the fist, the dark sleeve? Yes.” She paused a moment. “Oliver wasn’t wearing a dark shirt, was he?”
“You saw a flash of movement,” Waterstone reminded her. “In a dimly lit room, and through binoculars.”
“That’s true, but in that flash I saw a dark sleeve, and if Oliver wasn’t wearing a dark shirt, he didn’t push her. I should’ve seen his face. Ash said Oliver was six-one. Why didn’t I see some of his face over her head when he had her against the window?”
“If you remember your statement,” Fine said patiently, “you said it happened very fast, that you were more focused on her.”
“That’s all true, too, but I should’ve seen some of his face. I shouldn’t have seen a dark sleeve—not if Oliver Archer pushed her.”
“But you also didn’t see anyone else in the apartment.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Fine shifted to Ash. “Was your brother in any trouble? Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt him?”
“No, not that I know of. Trouble didn’t stick to him.”
“And you never met Sage Kendall, whom he was involved with, living with, who purchased one of your paintings for a five-figure price tag? Upper five-figure.”
“I knew I couldn’t afford it,” Lila muttered.
“I never met her, and he only recently told me about her—as I told you in my statement yesterday. He didn’t push her. He didn’t kill himself. I know why I’m sure of that, but why are you thinking it?”
“You had some problems with your brother,” Waterstone pointed out. “Your half brother.”
“He was a frustrating pain in the ass.”
“You’ve got a temper, been known to throw a punch.”
“Yeah, can’t deny it. I never threw one at Oliver—it would’ve felt like punching a puppy. And I’ve never hit a woman, never will. Check on it, dig into it, look all you want, but tell me why you’re not sure this is what it was made to look like.”
“I can go outside or into the other room if you don’t want to talk about it in front of me.”
Fine just looked at Lila, then shifted back to Ash. “And whatever we discuss, you’ll pass right on to her.”
“She’s done the right thing all the way down the line. And she showed a complete stranger genuine compassion when she could’ve just told me to leave her alone, she’d already done enough. Why wouldn’t I tell her? And she doesn’t leave the room for anyone.”
Lila could only blink at that. She couldn’t think of the last time someone had stood up for her—or had to.
“Your brother had a mix of alcohol and barbiturates in his system,” Fine said.
“I told you, he’d never have mixed pills with alcohol.”
“He had enough of both that the ME believes he would have OD’d if he didn’t receive medical attention. The ME’s findings are that your brother was unconscious at his time of death.”
The hard look on Ash’s face never changed. Lila knew, as she was watching him.
“Oliver was murdered.”
“We are now pursuing this as a double homicide.”
“Someone killed him.”
“I’m so sorry.” Going with instinct, Lila leaned over, laid a hand on his. “I know it’s what you believed all along, but it’s . . . I’m so sorry, Ashton.”
“Wrong place, wrong time?” he said slowly. “Is that what it was? They put him out, but they smack her around, scare her, hurt her, push her. They finish him off so it looks like he killed himself in regret or despair. But she was the one they hurt, so she was the one.”
“You state you didn’t know her, so we’ll stick with your brother for now. Did he owe anyone money?”
“He always paid back his debts. He’d tap the trust, or our father, his mother, me—but he always paid back his debts.”
“Where did he get his drugs?”
“I have no idea.”
“He traveled to Italy last month, went through London for several days, then into Paris before coming back to New York. Do you know anything about that travel?”
“No. For work, maybe? His mother lives in London. He would’ve gone to see her. I think our half sister Giselle’s in Paris.”
“You have their contact information?”
“Yes. I’ll get it to you. He was unconscious?”
For a moment Fine softened. “Yes. The medical examiner’s findings state he was unconscious when he died. Just a few more questions.”
Lila kept her silence while they asked questions, while Ash struggled to answer. She walked them out when they were done—for now, she supposed. Then she went back, sat.
“Do you want another glass of wine, or some water? Maybe that coffee?”
“No, thanks, no. I . . . No, I need to go. I need to make some calls. And . . . thank you.” He got to his feet. “I’m sorry this . . . landed on you. Thank you.”
She shook her head, then went with her gut again and moved in, wrapping her arms around him for a hug. She felt his hands come lightly, carefully, to her back before she stepped away. “If there’s something I can do, call. I mean it.”
“Yeah, I can see you do.” He took her hand a moment, held it a moment, then released it and walked to the door.
She stood alone, grieving for him, and certain she’d never see him again.
Five
Ash stood in front of the apartment building with his hands in his pockets. Until that moment he hadn’t realized just how much he didn’t want to go in. Some part of him had known it, he decided—and that part had called a friend.
Beside him, Luke Talbot mimicked his pose.
“You could wait for his mother to get in.”
“I don’t want her to have to deal with it. She’s a f**king wreck. Let’s just get it done. Cops are waiting.”
“A sentence nobody likes to hear.”
Ash approached the doorman, stated his business, showed his ID to keep it smooth and simple.
“Very sorry about your brother, sir.”
“Appreciate that.” And was already weary of hearing it. For the past two days he’d made countless calls to countless people, heard every possible variation of condolence.
“You saw a flash of movement,” Waterstone reminded her. “In a dimly lit room, and through binoculars.”
“That’s true, but in that flash I saw a dark sleeve, and if Oliver wasn’t wearing a dark shirt, he didn’t push her. I should’ve seen his face. Ash said Oliver was six-one. Why didn’t I see some of his face over her head when he had her against the window?”
“If you remember your statement,” Fine said patiently, “you said it happened very fast, that you were more focused on her.”
“That’s all true, too, but I should’ve seen some of his face. I shouldn’t have seen a dark sleeve—not if Oliver Archer pushed her.”
“But you also didn’t see anyone else in the apartment.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Fine shifted to Ash. “Was your brother in any trouble? Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt him?”
“No, not that I know of. Trouble didn’t stick to him.”
“And you never met Sage Kendall, whom he was involved with, living with, who purchased one of your paintings for a five-figure price tag? Upper five-figure.”
“I knew I couldn’t afford it,” Lila muttered.
“I never met her, and he only recently told me about her—as I told you in my statement yesterday. He didn’t push her. He didn’t kill himself. I know why I’m sure of that, but why are you thinking it?”
“You had some problems with your brother,” Waterstone pointed out. “Your half brother.”
“He was a frustrating pain in the ass.”
“You’ve got a temper, been known to throw a punch.”
“Yeah, can’t deny it. I never threw one at Oliver—it would’ve felt like punching a puppy. And I’ve never hit a woman, never will. Check on it, dig into it, look all you want, but tell me why you’re not sure this is what it was made to look like.”
“I can go outside or into the other room if you don’t want to talk about it in front of me.”
Fine just looked at Lila, then shifted back to Ash. “And whatever we discuss, you’ll pass right on to her.”
“She’s done the right thing all the way down the line. And she showed a complete stranger genuine compassion when she could’ve just told me to leave her alone, she’d already done enough. Why wouldn’t I tell her? And she doesn’t leave the room for anyone.”
Lila could only blink at that. She couldn’t think of the last time someone had stood up for her—or had to.
“Your brother had a mix of alcohol and barbiturates in his system,” Fine said.
“I told you, he’d never have mixed pills with alcohol.”
“He had enough of both that the ME believes he would have OD’d if he didn’t receive medical attention. The ME’s findings are that your brother was unconscious at his time of death.”
The hard look on Ash’s face never changed. Lila knew, as she was watching him.
“Oliver was murdered.”
“We are now pursuing this as a double homicide.”
“Someone killed him.”
“I’m so sorry.” Going with instinct, Lila leaned over, laid a hand on his. “I know it’s what you believed all along, but it’s . . . I’m so sorry, Ashton.”
“Wrong place, wrong time?” he said slowly. “Is that what it was? They put him out, but they smack her around, scare her, hurt her, push her. They finish him off so it looks like he killed himself in regret or despair. But she was the one they hurt, so she was the one.”
“You state you didn’t know her, so we’ll stick with your brother for now. Did he owe anyone money?”
“He always paid back his debts. He’d tap the trust, or our father, his mother, me—but he always paid back his debts.”
“Where did he get his drugs?”
“I have no idea.”
“He traveled to Italy last month, went through London for several days, then into Paris before coming back to New York. Do you know anything about that travel?”
“No. For work, maybe? His mother lives in London. He would’ve gone to see her. I think our half sister Giselle’s in Paris.”
“You have their contact information?”
“Yes. I’ll get it to you. He was unconscious?”
For a moment Fine softened. “Yes. The medical examiner’s findings state he was unconscious when he died. Just a few more questions.”
Lila kept her silence while they asked questions, while Ash struggled to answer. She walked them out when they were done—for now, she supposed. Then she went back, sat.
“Do you want another glass of wine, or some water? Maybe that coffee?”
“No, thanks, no. I . . . No, I need to go. I need to make some calls. And . . . thank you.” He got to his feet. “I’m sorry this . . . landed on you. Thank you.”
She shook her head, then went with her gut again and moved in, wrapping her arms around him for a hug. She felt his hands come lightly, carefully, to her back before she stepped away. “If there’s something I can do, call. I mean it.”
“Yeah, I can see you do.” He took her hand a moment, held it a moment, then released it and walked to the door.
She stood alone, grieving for him, and certain she’d never see him again.
Five
Ash stood in front of the apartment building with his hands in his pockets. Until that moment he hadn’t realized just how much he didn’t want to go in. Some part of him had known it, he decided—and that part had called a friend.
Beside him, Luke Talbot mimicked his pose.
“You could wait for his mother to get in.”
“I don’t want her to have to deal with it. She’s a f**king wreck. Let’s just get it done. Cops are waiting.”
“A sentence nobody likes to hear.”
Ash approached the doorman, stated his business, showed his ID to keep it smooth and simple.
“Very sorry about your brother, sir.”
“Appreciate that.” And was already weary of hearing it. For the past two days he’d made countless calls to countless people, heard every possible variation of condolence.
