The Collector
Page 8
“Unless?”
Ash dragged his hands through his mop of black hair. “Look, he’s family, and now he’s dead, and I’m trying to get my head around that. I’m not going to punch at him.”
“It’s not punching at him, Mr. Archer. The better picture I have of him, the better I can resolve what happened.”
Maybe that was true, maybe it was. Who was he to judge?
“Okay, Oliver ran hot. Hot deals, hot women, hot clubs. He liked to party.”
“Live large.”
“Yeah, you could say. He liked to consider himself a player, but God, he wasn’t. Always the high-stakes table for Oliver, and if he won—gambling, a business deal, a woman—he’d lose it and more in the next round. So everything was great, until it wasn’t and he needed somebody to pull him out. He’s charming and clever and . . . was.”
The single word slashed through him. Oliver would never be charming and clever again.
“He’s his mother’s youngest, her only son, and basically? He was overindulged.”
“You said he wasn’t violent.”
“No.” Ash pulled himself back from the grief—that was for later—but he let the quick flash of temper come through. “I didn’t say Oliver wasn’t violent, I said he was the opposite of violent.” It stuck in his gut like a knife, the accusation that his brother had killed. “He’d talk himself out of a bad situation, or run from it. If he couldn’t talk himself out of it—and that was rare—or run from it, he’d hide from it.”
“Yet we have a witness claiming he struck his girlfriend multiple times before shoving her out a fourteenth-story window.”
“The witness is wrong,” Ash said flatly. “Oliver’s more full of bullshit and delusions of grandeur than anyone I know, but he’d never hit a woman. And he sure as hell wouldn’t kill one. Over and above? He’d never kill himself.”
“There was a lot of alcohol and drugs in the apartment. Oxy, coke, marijuana, Vicodin.”
As she spoke, cop-cool, Ash imagined her as a Valkyrie—dispassionate in her power. He’d paint her astride a horse, her wings folded, overlooking a battlefield, face carved like stone as she decided who lived, who died.
“We’re still waiting on the tox screens, but there were pills and a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark, a glass still holding a finger of it, on the table beside your brother’s body.”
Drugs, alcohol, murder, suicide. The family, he thought, would suffer. He had to pull this knife out of his gut, had to make them see they were wrong.
“Drugs, bourbon, no argument. Oliver was no Boy Scout, but the rest? I don’t believe it. The witness is either lying or mistaken.”
“The witness has no reason to lie.” Even as she said it, Fine spotted Lila, visitor’s badge clipped to the strap of her dress, walking into the squad room. “Excuse me a minute.”
She rose, headed Lila off. “Ms. Emerson. Did you remember something else?”
“No, sorry. I can’t get it out of my head. I keep seeing her falling. Keep seeing her begging before he— Sorry. I needed to get out, and I thought I’d come in just to see if you’ve finished . . . closed it. If you know for certain what happened.”
“It’s still an open investigation. We’re waiting on some reports, conducting other interviews. It takes a little time.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Will you tell me when it’s done?”
“I’ll take care of that. You’ve been helpful.”
“And now I’m in the way. I should go, get back. You’re busy.” She scanned the room. Desks, phones, computers, stacks of files and a handful of men and women working.
And a man in a black T-shirt and jeans carefully sliding a watch into a padded bag.
“Everyone’s busy.”
“We appreciate the help.” Fine waited until Lila started out, then walked back to her desk and Ash.
“Look, I’ve told you everything I can think of,” he began, and got to his feet. “Gone over it a couple times now. I need to contact his mother, my family. I need a little time to deal with this.”
“I understand. We may need to talk to you again, and we’ll contact you when it’s clear for you to enter the apartment. I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Archer.”
He only nodded, walked out.
And immediately scanned for the brunette in the thin summer dress. He caught a glimpse—grass green skirt, long, straight tail of hair the color of a strong mocha—as she took the stairs down.
He hadn’t caught much of her conversation with the girl cop, but enough to be fairly certain she’d seen something that had to do with Oliver’s death.
Though the stairs were nearly as busy as the hallways, the squad room, he caught up with her, touched her arm.
“Excuse me, Miss . . . Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name up there.”
“Oh. Lila. Lila Emerson.”
“Right. I’d like to talk to you if you’ve got a few minutes.”
“Okay. You’re working with Detectives Fine and Waterstone?”
“In a way.”
On the main level, with cops coming and going, with visitors working their way through security, she unpinned her badge, set it on the sergeant’s counter. After the briefest hesitation, he took his own out of his pocket, did the same.
“I’m Oliver’s brother.”
“Oliver?” It took her a moment, which told him she hadn’t known Oliver personally. Then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. If you’d talk to me about this, it might—”
“I’m not sure I should, that I’m supposed to.” She looked around, gauged her ground. Then looked back into his face, into the grief. “I don’t know.”
“A cup of coffee. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Public place. There’s got to be a coffee shop around here, and it’s probably full of cops. Please.”
He had eyes like Thomas’s—sharp and green—but she could see sadness in them. Sharp features, too, she thought, as if someone had carved them out with a keen and clever blade. The stubble gave him an intriguingly dangerous look, but the eyes . . .
He’d just lost his brother, and more, his brother had taken two lives. Death alone was hard enough, but murder, and suicide, had to be brutal on the family left behind.
Ash dragged his hands through his mop of black hair. “Look, he’s family, and now he’s dead, and I’m trying to get my head around that. I’m not going to punch at him.”
“It’s not punching at him, Mr. Archer. The better picture I have of him, the better I can resolve what happened.”
Maybe that was true, maybe it was. Who was he to judge?
“Okay, Oliver ran hot. Hot deals, hot women, hot clubs. He liked to party.”
“Live large.”
“Yeah, you could say. He liked to consider himself a player, but God, he wasn’t. Always the high-stakes table for Oliver, and if he won—gambling, a business deal, a woman—he’d lose it and more in the next round. So everything was great, until it wasn’t and he needed somebody to pull him out. He’s charming and clever and . . . was.”
The single word slashed through him. Oliver would never be charming and clever again.
“He’s his mother’s youngest, her only son, and basically? He was overindulged.”
“You said he wasn’t violent.”
“No.” Ash pulled himself back from the grief—that was for later—but he let the quick flash of temper come through. “I didn’t say Oliver wasn’t violent, I said he was the opposite of violent.” It stuck in his gut like a knife, the accusation that his brother had killed. “He’d talk himself out of a bad situation, or run from it. If he couldn’t talk himself out of it—and that was rare—or run from it, he’d hide from it.”
“Yet we have a witness claiming he struck his girlfriend multiple times before shoving her out a fourteenth-story window.”
“The witness is wrong,” Ash said flatly. “Oliver’s more full of bullshit and delusions of grandeur than anyone I know, but he’d never hit a woman. And he sure as hell wouldn’t kill one. Over and above? He’d never kill himself.”
“There was a lot of alcohol and drugs in the apartment. Oxy, coke, marijuana, Vicodin.”
As she spoke, cop-cool, Ash imagined her as a Valkyrie—dispassionate in her power. He’d paint her astride a horse, her wings folded, overlooking a battlefield, face carved like stone as she decided who lived, who died.
“We’re still waiting on the tox screens, but there were pills and a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark, a glass still holding a finger of it, on the table beside your brother’s body.”
Drugs, alcohol, murder, suicide. The family, he thought, would suffer. He had to pull this knife out of his gut, had to make them see they were wrong.
“Drugs, bourbon, no argument. Oliver was no Boy Scout, but the rest? I don’t believe it. The witness is either lying or mistaken.”
“The witness has no reason to lie.” Even as she said it, Fine spotted Lila, visitor’s badge clipped to the strap of her dress, walking into the squad room. “Excuse me a minute.”
She rose, headed Lila off. “Ms. Emerson. Did you remember something else?”
“No, sorry. I can’t get it out of my head. I keep seeing her falling. Keep seeing her begging before he— Sorry. I needed to get out, and I thought I’d come in just to see if you’ve finished . . . closed it. If you know for certain what happened.”
“It’s still an open investigation. We’re waiting on some reports, conducting other interviews. It takes a little time.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Will you tell me when it’s done?”
“I’ll take care of that. You’ve been helpful.”
“And now I’m in the way. I should go, get back. You’re busy.” She scanned the room. Desks, phones, computers, stacks of files and a handful of men and women working.
And a man in a black T-shirt and jeans carefully sliding a watch into a padded bag.
“Everyone’s busy.”
“We appreciate the help.” Fine waited until Lila started out, then walked back to her desk and Ash.
“Look, I’ve told you everything I can think of,” he began, and got to his feet. “Gone over it a couple times now. I need to contact his mother, my family. I need a little time to deal with this.”
“I understand. We may need to talk to you again, and we’ll contact you when it’s clear for you to enter the apartment. I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Archer.”
He only nodded, walked out.
And immediately scanned for the brunette in the thin summer dress. He caught a glimpse—grass green skirt, long, straight tail of hair the color of a strong mocha—as she took the stairs down.
He hadn’t caught much of her conversation with the girl cop, but enough to be fairly certain she’d seen something that had to do with Oliver’s death.
Though the stairs were nearly as busy as the hallways, the squad room, he caught up with her, touched her arm.
“Excuse me, Miss . . . Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name up there.”
“Oh. Lila. Lila Emerson.”
“Right. I’d like to talk to you if you’ve got a few minutes.”
“Okay. You’re working with Detectives Fine and Waterstone?”
“In a way.”
On the main level, with cops coming and going, with visitors working their way through security, she unpinned her badge, set it on the sergeant’s counter. After the briefest hesitation, he took his own out of his pocket, did the same.
“I’m Oliver’s brother.”
“Oliver?” It took her a moment, which told him she hadn’t known Oliver personally. Then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. If you’d talk to me about this, it might—”
“I’m not sure I should, that I’m supposed to.” She looked around, gauged her ground. Then looked back into his face, into the grief. “I don’t know.”
“A cup of coffee. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Public place. There’s got to be a coffee shop around here, and it’s probably full of cops. Please.”
He had eyes like Thomas’s—sharp and green—but she could see sadness in them. Sharp features, too, she thought, as if someone had carved them out with a keen and clever blade. The stubble gave him an intriguingly dangerous look, but the eyes . . .
He’d just lost his brother, and more, his brother had taken two lives. Death alone was hard enough, but murder, and suicide, had to be brutal on the family left behind.
