The Collector
Page 99
“Julie.”
“Mmm.” She tipped her head onto his shoulder, smiling as she watched Ash sketch.
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you. It makes me so happy.”
“I want to make you happy. Julie.” He shifted, turned, turned her so they faced each other. “I want us to make each other happy, for a lifetime.”
He took the ring box out of his pocket, flipped it open. “Marry me, and let’s get started.”
“Oh, God. Luke.”
“Don’t say no. Say ‘Let’s wait’ if you have to, but don’t say no.”
“No? I’m not going to say no. I was going to ask you, tonight. At sunset. I had it planned.”
“You were going to ask me to marry you?”
“I don’t want to wait.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to wait. I want to marry you, again. And like it was the first time, like this is the first time. You bought me a ring.”
“I didn’t want to go with a diamond. New start. So.” He slipped the square-cut emerald on her finger. “For today, and all the tomorrows we can pack in.”
“We found each other again.” Her eyes filled as she framed his face in her hands, and the stone flashed in the white sun. “And it’s perfect, Luke.” She laid her lips on his. “We’re perfect.”
It was closer to twenty minutes than five, but Ash finally walked to her, crouched down. He turned his sketch pad around.
She scanned the various views of herself sitting among the shrubs with the water at her back, the god rising.
He’d had her lift her hand, palm up.
“What am I?”
“A latter-day goddess, drawing new power from the old. I might do it in charcoal, an absence of color, with a hint of a storm in the western sky.” He rose, held out a hand to help her up.
“You got all that from the pool?”
“It’s you,” he said simply, then glanced around. “There they are.” He took Lila’s hand, walked to the bench. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
“Me, too.” Julie held out her hand.
“Oh, what a gorgeous ring. When did you— Oh my God!”
“We’re getting married.” Julie leaped up, hugged Lila, then Ash.
“What about sunset?”
“He beat me to it.”
“Congratulations.” Lila threw her arms around Luke in turn. “I’m so happy. We need to have a toast.”
“I know a place,” Ash said.
“So you said before. Lead us to it. We’re going to drink to true love, lost then found.”
“Sorry,” he said when his phone signaled. “I should get this.”
“Is it—”
He only held up a finger, moved off.
Focus on the moment, Lila ordered herself. “We have a wedding to plan.”
“And fast. The end of September.”
“That is fast, but I’m up to the job. We need the where. I’m going to make a list. And . . . What is it?” she asked when Ash came back.
“She wasn’t there. Maddok.”
“I’m telling you it was her. I watched her go in.”
“You weren’t wrong. It was her—she wasn’t there. But an art dealer by the name of Frederick Capelli was. She’d slit his throat.”
Jai texted her employer from her pretty suite of rooms in Florence. Package dispatched.
And simple enough, she thought as she set aside the phone, sat to thoroughly clean her knife. The little side job added to her account, and the efficiency would please her employer. She needed something on that side of the scale after the debacle in New York.
The skinny bitch should never have gotten away from her, she had to admit she’d been careless there. Who would’ve thought the bony bimbo had enough guts to run—or packed a real punch.
She wouldn’t forget it.
She wasn’t to blame for Oliver and his whore, or his ethical uncle. She’d been saddled with a fool in Ivan, a hotheaded one.
But she understood, very well, her employer didn’t care for excuses.
She studied the knife, watched it glint clean and silver in the light spearing through the windows. The art dealer had been easy and quick—one easy slice.
Slitting his throat had brightened her day, even though it had been a pathetically pedestrian kill. She glanced over at what she thought of as her bonus.
His wallet—with some nice fresh euros—his watch—an antique Cartier—his pretentious pinky ring, but still the diamond was a decent carat weight and had good light.
She’d taken the time to search through the apartment, take valuables easily transported. On a whim she’d taken a Hermès tie.
She’d dispose of everything but the tie—that would go in her collection. She did enjoy her little souvenirs.
And the police would, at least initially, look at the murder as a robbery gone bad.
But Capelli was dead because she’d made him dead, and because he hadn’t located the egg, as promised, and Oliver Archer had.
No one would miss him until the following Monday, which gave her plenty of time to locate Archer and his bitch.
She’d tracked them this far, hadn’t she? She’d been right to pay—at her own expense—for rooms where she could keep watch on Archer’s New York loft. And she’d been lucky to have seen the limo, seen him leave with a suitcase.
But luck meant nothing without skill. Trailing him to the airport, finessing the flight data—that had taken skill. And had satisfied her employer enough for him to arrange for her flight to Florence on one of his jets.
A little vacation, she assumed, after death. Some friends to share it with. They’d be unaware they remained in her crosshairs, and all the more careless.
A man like Archer, with his money, would stay at a grand hotel, or lease a grand private accommodation. They would visit typical tourist attractions—art would play a part.
Now that she’d dispatched the package, she could begin the hunt.
And the hunt would be followed by the kill. She was looking forward to it.
She slid the knife into the custom-made case that carried her sharps, folded it neatly. She intended to use several of them on the bitch who’d bloodied her lip.
They celebrated, raising sparkling drinks at a sidewalk table while Florence streamed by.
“Mmm.” She tipped her head onto his shoulder, smiling as she watched Ash sketch.
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you. It makes me so happy.”
“I want to make you happy. Julie.” He shifted, turned, turned her so they faced each other. “I want us to make each other happy, for a lifetime.”
He took the ring box out of his pocket, flipped it open. “Marry me, and let’s get started.”
“Oh, God. Luke.”
“Don’t say no. Say ‘Let’s wait’ if you have to, but don’t say no.”
“No? I’m not going to say no. I was going to ask you, tonight. At sunset. I had it planned.”
“You were going to ask me to marry you?”
“I don’t want to wait.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to wait. I want to marry you, again. And like it was the first time, like this is the first time. You bought me a ring.”
“I didn’t want to go with a diamond. New start. So.” He slipped the square-cut emerald on her finger. “For today, and all the tomorrows we can pack in.”
“We found each other again.” Her eyes filled as she framed his face in her hands, and the stone flashed in the white sun. “And it’s perfect, Luke.” She laid her lips on his. “We’re perfect.”
It was closer to twenty minutes than five, but Ash finally walked to her, crouched down. He turned his sketch pad around.
She scanned the various views of herself sitting among the shrubs with the water at her back, the god rising.
He’d had her lift her hand, palm up.
“What am I?”
“A latter-day goddess, drawing new power from the old. I might do it in charcoal, an absence of color, with a hint of a storm in the western sky.” He rose, held out a hand to help her up.
“You got all that from the pool?”
“It’s you,” he said simply, then glanced around. “There they are.” He took Lila’s hand, walked to the bench. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
“Me, too.” Julie held out her hand.
“Oh, what a gorgeous ring. When did you— Oh my God!”
“We’re getting married.” Julie leaped up, hugged Lila, then Ash.
“What about sunset?”
“He beat me to it.”
“Congratulations.” Lila threw her arms around Luke in turn. “I’m so happy. We need to have a toast.”
“I know a place,” Ash said.
“So you said before. Lead us to it. We’re going to drink to true love, lost then found.”
“Sorry,” he said when his phone signaled. “I should get this.”
“Is it—”
He only held up a finger, moved off.
Focus on the moment, Lila ordered herself. “We have a wedding to plan.”
“And fast. The end of September.”
“That is fast, but I’m up to the job. We need the where. I’m going to make a list. And . . . What is it?” she asked when Ash came back.
“She wasn’t there. Maddok.”
“I’m telling you it was her. I watched her go in.”
“You weren’t wrong. It was her—she wasn’t there. But an art dealer by the name of Frederick Capelli was. She’d slit his throat.”
Jai texted her employer from her pretty suite of rooms in Florence. Package dispatched.
And simple enough, she thought as she set aside the phone, sat to thoroughly clean her knife. The little side job added to her account, and the efficiency would please her employer. She needed something on that side of the scale after the debacle in New York.
The skinny bitch should never have gotten away from her, she had to admit she’d been careless there. Who would’ve thought the bony bimbo had enough guts to run—or packed a real punch.
She wouldn’t forget it.
She wasn’t to blame for Oliver and his whore, or his ethical uncle. She’d been saddled with a fool in Ivan, a hotheaded one.
But she understood, very well, her employer didn’t care for excuses.
She studied the knife, watched it glint clean and silver in the light spearing through the windows. The art dealer had been easy and quick—one easy slice.
Slitting his throat had brightened her day, even though it had been a pathetically pedestrian kill. She glanced over at what she thought of as her bonus.
His wallet—with some nice fresh euros—his watch—an antique Cartier—his pretentious pinky ring, but still the diamond was a decent carat weight and had good light.
She’d taken the time to search through the apartment, take valuables easily transported. On a whim she’d taken a Hermès tie.
She’d dispose of everything but the tie—that would go in her collection. She did enjoy her little souvenirs.
And the police would, at least initially, look at the murder as a robbery gone bad.
But Capelli was dead because she’d made him dead, and because he hadn’t located the egg, as promised, and Oliver Archer had.
No one would miss him until the following Monday, which gave her plenty of time to locate Archer and his bitch.
She’d tracked them this far, hadn’t she? She’d been right to pay—at her own expense—for rooms where she could keep watch on Archer’s New York loft. And she’d been lucky to have seen the limo, seen him leave with a suitcase.
But luck meant nothing without skill. Trailing him to the airport, finessing the flight data—that had taken skill. And had satisfied her employer enough for him to arrange for her flight to Florence on one of his jets.
A little vacation, she assumed, after death. Some friends to share it with. They’d be unaware they remained in her crosshairs, and all the more careless.
A man like Archer, with his money, would stay at a grand hotel, or lease a grand private accommodation. They would visit typical tourist attractions—art would play a part.
Now that she’d dispatched the package, she could begin the hunt.
And the hunt would be followed by the kill. She was looking forward to it.
She slid the knife into the custom-made case that carried her sharps, folded it neatly. She intended to use several of them on the bitch who’d bloodied her lip.
They celebrated, raising sparkling drinks at a sidewalk table while Florence streamed by.
