The Collector
Page 19
“We’ll go have a beer when this is done,” Luke suggested as they rode up to the fourteenth floor.
“I hear that. Look, I know Olympia’s going to want to go through all of his things. I figured maybe I’d cull it all down some. She wouldn’t know the difference, and it might not be as hard on her.”
“Let her decide, Ash. You’re taking on enough—and how the hell would you know if you cull out the sweater she gave him for Christmas?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Luke stepped off the elevator with Ash, a man with broad shoulders, strong arms, big hands. He stretched to six feet, four inches, had a curling mass of brown hair streaked from the sun and falling over the collar of a plain white T-shirt. He hooked his sunglasses in the waistband of his jeans, took a quick scan of the hallway with eyes of arctic blue.
“Quiet,” he commented.
“Yeah, I bet they have a noise ordinance in this place. They probably have an ordinance for everything.”
“Rules and more. Not everybody can afford to buy a whole damn building so he doesn’t have rules or neighbors.”
“It’s a small building.” Ash hesitated at the door, one still marked with police tape, though he could see where it had been cut for entry. He thought, Shit, and pressed the buzzer.
It threw him off stride when Detective Waterstone opened the door.
“I figured you’d have a regular cop sitting on the place.”
“Just doing some follow-up.”
“Luke Talbot.” Luke held out a hand.
“Okay. You don’t look like a lawyer,” Waterstone commented.
“Because I’m not.”
“Luke’s going to help me pack up what I can. Other than Oliver’s clothes, I’m not sure what . . .” He trailed off as he glanced over, around, and saw the pale gray sofa with its ugly splash of dried blood, the deeper gray wall behind it with its horrible pattern of blood and gore.
“Jesus, you couldn’t have covered that up?” Luke demanded.
“Sorry, no. You might want to talk to Kendall’s next of kin, work out the cleanup. We can give you the name of a couple of companies that specialize.”
Fine walked in from another area. “Mr. Archer. You’re prompt.” Her eyes narrowed on Luke a moment, then she pointed at him. “Baker’s Dozen—the bakery on West Sixteenth.”
“That’s right, that’s my place.”
“I’ve seen you in there. I owe you an extra five hours a week in the gym.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s the chunky brownies. They’re deadly. Friend of yours?” she said to Ash.
“Yeah. He’s going to give me a hand. Oliver’s mother gave me a list—a few things. Heirlooms she’d passed to him. I don’t know if he still has them, if they’re here.”
“You can give it to me. I can check.”
“It’s on my phone.” He pulled it out, brought it up.
“I’ve seen these cuff links, the pocket watch. They’re in the bedroom. Antique silver cigarette case, no, haven’t seen that or any mantel clock. No, just the cuff links and watch are here. I don’t think we’d have missed these other things.”
“He probably sold them.”
“You might ask his boss—his uncle at the antique place.”
“Yeah.” Ash took the phone back, looked around again. And saw his painting on the wall across from the ruined sofa.
“Nice painting,” Fine commented.
“It makes sense.” Waterstone shrugged at Ash’s blank look. “A lot of them don’t.”
The model’s name was Leona, he remembered. She’d been soft and curvaceous with a dreamy, barefoot look about her. So he’d seen her in a meadow, flowing hair and skirts with the violin poised to play.
And painted that way, she’d watched his brother die.
No, it really didn’t make sense at all.
“I’d like to get this done. I was told we still can’t claim his body.”
“It shouldn’t be much longer. I’ll check on it myself and get back to you.”
“All right. I’ll get his clothes, and what’s here on the list. That’s what matters to his mother. I don’t know about the rest.”
“If you see something you recognize, just check with us.”
“He must have had some files, paperwork, a computer.”
“We have his laptop. We’re still processing that. There’s a box of documents. Insurance papers, trust documents, legal correspondence. It’s been processed, and it’s in the bedroom. You can take it. There’s some photographs, too. Would you know if he kept a safe-deposit box?”
“Not that I know of.”
“There was six thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars, cash, in his dresser. You can take that. When you’re done, we’ll need you to sign off. We’ll also have a list of anything that was removed from the premises for evidence or forensics. You’ll need to check on when any of it’s cleared for pickup.”
He only shook his head, walked back the way she’d come, and into the bedroom.
The deep, dark plum of the walls against stark white trim gave the room a stylish, faintly regal feel that worked well with the glossy wood of the massive four-poster.
The cops, he assumed, had stripped the bed down to the mattress. Forensics, he supposed. The painted chest at the foot had been left open, its contents jumbled. Everything seemed to hold a fine layer of dust.
The art was good, probably the woman’s choices of the misty forest scene, the rolling, star-struck hills. They suited the baronial feel of the space—and gave him a little insight into his brother’s doomed lover.
She’d been a romantic under the gloss.
“He’d have slid right into this,” Ash commented. “This place, just lofty enough, stylish but with an edge of old class. That’s what he’d have wanted. He got what he wanted.”
Luke put together the first of the banker’s boxes they’d brought. “You said he sounded happy when you talked to him last. Happy, excited.”
“Yeah, happy, excited. Buzzed.” Ash rubbed his hands over his face. “That’s why I put him off. I could hear some scheme or deal or big idea in his voice. I just didn’t want to deal with it, or him.”
“I hear that. Look, I know Olympia’s going to want to go through all of his things. I figured maybe I’d cull it all down some. She wouldn’t know the difference, and it might not be as hard on her.”
“Let her decide, Ash. You’re taking on enough—and how the hell would you know if you cull out the sweater she gave him for Christmas?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Luke stepped off the elevator with Ash, a man with broad shoulders, strong arms, big hands. He stretched to six feet, four inches, had a curling mass of brown hair streaked from the sun and falling over the collar of a plain white T-shirt. He hooked his sunglasses in the waistband of his jeans, took a quick scan of the hallway with eyes of arctic blue.
“Quiet,” he commented.
“Yeah, I bet they have a noise ordinance in this place. They probably have an ordinance for everything.”
“Rules and more. Not everybody can afford to buy a whole damn building so he doesn’t have rules or neighbors.”
“It’s a small building.” Ash hesitated at the door, one still marked with police tape, though he could see where it had been cut for entry. He thought, Shit, and pressed the buzzer.
It threw him off stride when Detective Waterstone opened the door.
“I figured you’d have a regular cop sitting on the place.”
“Just doing some follow-up.”
“Luke Talbot.” Luke held out a hand.
“Okay. You don’t look like a lawyer,” Waterstone commented.
“Because I’m not.”
“Luke’s going to help me pack up what I can. Other than Oliver’s clothes, I’m not sure what . . .” He trailed off as he glanced over, around, and saw the pale gray sofa with its ugly splash of dried blood, the deeper gray wall behind it with its horrible pattern of blood and gore.
“Jesus, you couldn’t have covered that up?” Luke demanded.
“Sorry, no. You might want to talk to Kendall’s next of kin, work out the cleanup. We can give you the name of a couple of companies that specialize.”
Fine walked in from another area. “Mr. Archer. You’re prompt.” Her eyes narrowed on Luke a moment, then she pointed at him. “Baker’s Dozen—the bakery on West Sixteenth.”
“That’s right, that’s my place.”
“I’ve seen you in there. I owe you an extra five hours a week in the gym.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s the chunky brownies. They’re deadly. Friend of yours?” she said to Ash.
“Yeah. He’s going to give me a hand. Oliver’s mother gave me a list—a few things. Heirlooms she’d passed to him. I don’t know if he still has them, if they’re here.”
“You can give it to me. I can check.”
“It’s on my phone.” He pulled it out, brought it up.
“I’ve seen these cuff links, the pocket watch. They’re in the bedroom. Antique silver cigarette case, no, haven’t seen that or any mantel clock. No, just the cuff links and watch are here. I don’t think we’d have missed these other things.”
“He probably sold them.”
“You might ask his boss—his uncle at the antique place.”
“Yeah.” Ash took the phone back, looked around again. And saw his painting on the wall across from the ruined sofa.
“Nice painting,” Fine commented.
“It makes sense.” Waterstone shrugged at Ash’s blank look. “A lot of them don’t.”
The model’s name was Leona, he remembered. She’d been soft and curvaceous with a dreamy, barefoot look about her. So he’d seen her in a meadow, flowing hair and skirts with the violin poised to play.
And painted that way, she’d watched his brother die.
No, it really didn’t make sense at all.
“I’d like to get this done. I was told we still can’t claim his body.”
“It shouldn’t be much longer. I’ll check on it myself and get back to you.”
“All right. I’ll get his clothes, and what’s here on the list. That’s what matters to his mother. I don’t know about the rest.”
“If you see something you recognize, just check with us.”
“He must have had some files, paperwork, a computer.”
“We have his laptop. We’re still processing that. There’s a box of documents. Insurance papers, trust documents, legal correspondence. It’s been processed, and it’s in the bedroom. You can take it. There’s some photographs, too. Would you know if he kept a safe-deposit box?”
“Not that I know of.”
“There was six thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars, cash, in his dresser. You can take that. When you’re done, we’ll need you to sign off. We’ll also have a list of anything that was removed from the premises for evidence or forensics. You’ll need to check on when any of it’s cleared for pickup.”
He only shook his head, walked back the way she’d come, and into the bedroom.
The deep, dark plum of the walls against stark white trim gave the room a stylish, faintly regal feel that worked well with the glossy wood of the massive four-poster.
The cops, he assumed, had stripped the bed down to the mattress. Forensics, he supposed. The painted chest at the foot had been left open, its contents jumbled. Everything seemed to hold a fine layer of dust.
The art was good, probably the woman’s choices of the misty forest scene, the rolling, star-struck hills. They suited the baronial feel of the space—and gave him a little insight into his brother’s doomed lover.
She’d been a romantic under the gloss.
“He’d have slid right into this,” Ash commented. “This place, just lofty enough, stylish but with an edge of old class. That’s what he’d have wanted. He got what he wanted.”
Luke put together the first of the banker’s boxes they’d brought. “You said he sounded happy when you talked to him last. Happy, excited.”
“Yeah, happy, excited. Buzzed.” Ash rubbed his hands over his face. “That’s why I put him off. I could hear some scheme or deal or big idea in his voice. I just didn’t want to deal with it, or him.”
