Intimate Portraits (28 page)

But that wasn’t true. Someone was
trying to implicate her. Or kill her. Because of Sarita.

Francisco. Had his brother met
Sarita in the last few weeks? Had he seen her here in Atlanta?

No. Francisco had more sense than
to hang around a woman who’d made it plain she was through with him.

But Francisco and Sarita. He’d
never seen Francisco so obsessed about any woman.

Autumn wet her lips. “I don’t
want to get involved.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

“I’m afraid, Rennie.”

He started to reassure her but
couldn’t.

“So am I.” For his brother; no
one could tell what Francisco might have done if he was somehow involved, if he’d
lost his temper. And for himself.

Once the police started sifting
through Sarita’s background, the ugly details of his involvement would all come
out. Autumn would have to know. He ought to confess. Before…

He couldn’t. Not now. “I’m afraid,
too, Autumn. But you’ve got to go to the police. Sooner or later they’ll see
the proofs and be suspicious if you don’t tell them.”

“All right.” She pulled away but
covered her eyes. “You’re right. I see that now. I can’t think straight.”

“We’ll start with Captain
Cunningham. She should be able to advise us.” He cranked the Lexus and started
back the way they had come.

Francisco couldn’t be mixed up in
Sarita’s murder.

“What about the necklace and
other jewelry?” Autumn asked after they rode a few minutes.

The jewelry. Autumn thought the jewelry
in Sarita’s photos had come from the exhibit.

Francisco was close to the Huertoles.
Could he have somehow gotten it and given it to Sarita?

No. Sarita had dropped Francisco
months ago. He might have seen her again, but he wouldn’t risk his job and
reputation by borrowing museum jewelry. Even if he could. Not for Sarita. Not
after the malicious way she’d discarded him.

And even if Francisco could have
gotten the jewelry, if he’d seen Sarita while she was in Atlanta and she’d
talked him into loaning her the jewelry, did that explain the accident to
Autumn? Or Kiki’s death and the studio fire? What did they have to do with
Sarita?

Francisco would never hurt
Autumn.

No, his brother couldn’t be mixed
up in any of this.

“Rennie?”

She was waiting for an answer. What
had she asked? The jewelry. “What about it?”

“You know. I told you it looked
like that in the exhibition. Do you suppose it’s connected to the fire and what
happened in Helen?”

“I don’t know.” He needed to talk
to Francisco. He could tell if Fran was implicated in whatever was going on by
talking to him, questioning him, watching him. His brother had never been able
to lie without a shift of the eye, a twitch of his lip.

But surely Francisco wouldn’t
have put Autumn in danger. And he couldn’t have had any part in borrowing—stealing—priceless
jewelry for Sarita. Fran was reckless, but not suicidal.

No, he had to be wrong about his
brother fitting into this mess. “The jewelry could be replicas. We don’t know
that it’s the same stuff.”

“I have the thumb drive. We could
make some more prints and compare the pieces.”

“We could.” The more he
considered, the more he believed the jewelry must be a part of whatever was
going on.

That brought it back to Francisco.
He was close to the Huertoles and had once been Sarita’s lover. Could he have
hoped to win her back with the jewelry? If so, it had to be without Danielle Huertole’s
approval or knowledge.

How could Francisco have been so
foolish?

But now the jewelry was back
where it belonged. That TV interview last night proved it. And Sarita was dead.

Rennie didn’t like what he was
thinking.

Francisco was impulsive, given to
rash acts later regretted. And Sarita had driven him wild. He had worshiped
her.

The Degardoveras didn’t know
about Francisco and Sarita.

Their mother had jumped on Rennie
when he dated her in high school. Fran wouldn’t have dared let Reseda know how
involved he was with a woman she despised.

But Francisco had been seriously
depressed when Sarita dumped him. If he’d thought the jewelry might get her back,
would he have risked everything to reclaim her?

No. Impossible.

Rennie would have to confront
Francisco. Alone.

As soon as Autumn talked to
Captain Cunningham.

****

Getting into the gated condo complex
was a piece of cake. A small car entered, and Sam followed it in.

When he found the photographer’s
condo number, he parked up the street and looked around. There weren’t too many
nosy people around these places because most people worked weekdays. The few he
saw today seemed engrossed in their own affairs.

Like they should be. Everybody
ought to mind their own business. Make the whole world a lot easier to live in.

He got out a new stick of gum.
Then he unzipped his bag and pulled out the Ruger and its silencer.

It was messy and loud. But it was
also quick and easy.

Final.

Okay, if she answered the door,
he’d pop her and push her inside before anyone saw. If she was gone, he’d get
in through the garage door and wait.

Drawing on latex gloves, he fiddled
in his bag for the garage door code gadget. Then he screwed the silencer on his
gun, hid it beneath his coat, and left the car.

He ambled down the empty sidewalk
toward Autumn Merriwell’s condo. The gum helped his dry mouth.

No one answered the doorbell.

Looked like no alarm system, and
a quick gander didn’t turn up anybody in view. In less than a minute, his
remote retrieved her garage door combination and opened it. Inside sat an old
minivan and a neat row of storage shelves.

A switch closed the garage door,
a pick opened the inner door lock, and he was in.

An orange cat on the counter
raised its head.

Jeez, his stomach tensed like a
first-timer. “Nice kitty.”

It got up, still watching him.
When he neared it, it jumped down and disappeared up the stairs.

Just a cat. He let his heart
slow.

Hey, he may’ve had a run of bad
luck on this job, but that didn’t mean it was going to last. It had to get
better.

Or maybe not. He’d got a weird
feeling the moment he saw those photos with the stuff plastered all over Sarita
like she was flaunting it for everyone to see. It was like fate was sick and
tired of him, and was fooling around, trying to make him shit his pants.

Hell. He was losing it.

About time to get out of this rat
race and buy into that motel in Florida like his brother-in-law kept after him
to do. Maybe when the kids got out of high school. Except then there’d be
college. Both his boys had to go to college, become accountants or doctors or
something like that. No lawyers.

Yeah, well, that was for the future.
Right now he had to find a way to do the frigging broad.

First the fiasco on the bridge. Then
a woman in her coat. Now she wasn’t home.

What sour luck. Never been this
bad before. He never should’ve agreed to do Sarita. If he ever got this frigging
job finished, he’d go back to the old system. Do the ones who needed doing and
damn the money they waved in front of him.

But right now, he’d wait for the
photographer and pop her when she walked in. She’d come home sooner or later. She
couldn’t stay gone forever.

The only question was whether she’d
get home before they found Sarita, but he’d worry about that later.

After he made sure nobody besides
the cat was around.

He wandered through the living
area and curled his lip.

Jeez, this place was like a frigging
model house. Personally, he liked books on tables and a few dirty dishes in the
sink. Then it looked like somebody’s home instead of an ad layout for
House
Beautiful
.

But that was him. Different
strokes for different folks.

Small, too.

Sarita’s house in LA, now. Man,
that was a real house. And her mother’s place here in Hotlanta was more than
okay. But this joint was dinky. The living area, dining area and kitchen all
run together with no pitched ceilings, no spectacular window walls, no rock
fireplaces taking up one end of the living room.

Just somewhere to hang your hat.

And everything stowed away.

Nobody down here.

Upstairs, her bedroom presented
the same order. A neatly made cannonball bed like his grandparents had owned
stood on one wall with a chest, top uncluttered and shiny, on another.

No gown hanging from the back of
a door like his wife had, no house shoes in the corner, no lipstick and lotion
marring the clean surface of the bureau, no laundry hamper.

A rack held magazines and
paperbacks while a floral arrangement decorated a small bedside table.

Who the hell was she trying to be?
Hazel Housekeeper?

Ah, there. Something out of
place.

He turned around a big picture
frame on the floor with its face to the wall and grinned.

Some stud. Hanging off the hook
above, it woulda faced the bed. Bet the other guy took him down.

They had to be brothers. Both
with the pretty photographer? Maybe she favored one over the other. Maybe she’d
had a spat with one. Maybe they all got it on together.

She looked kind of prim for a
threesome, but the prim ones sometimes surprised you.

Opening the louvered closet doors,
he found her clothes sorted by color with shoes and purses stored in boxes. Other
accessories draped around different outfits, all ready to wear.

Couldn’t help but admire a woman
who planned so thoroughly for the future. Too bad she wouldn’t have one.

Oooh, his damn tender heart.

The cat peeked out from under the
bed. “Good place for you, kitty. Why doncha stay put for a while.”

Back downstairs, he picked out a
chair in a corner near the front window. One not too comfortable but still easy
on the ass. His gum had hardened so he got out a new piece, carefully wrapped
the old in the paper for disposal later. Once settled, he laid the silenced gun
down and took out the
Readers’ Digest
he’d brought from her bedroom.

His cell vibrated.

What now? His luck got shittier
and shittier.

He glanced at the message.
Call
me.

Bernie. For a supposedly shrewd
lawyer, Bernie sure could pick his moments. What the shit did Bernie want, texting
him on his personal cell in the middle of the job?

He looked at the phone on a
nearby table, tempted.

No, he wasn’t about to be caught
like some frigging amateur.

He’d go out, get a throwaway, but
not now. Autumn Merriwell might come home any minute.

Frigging Bernie. Sam couldn’t run
pick up a phone every time Bernie shit. Idiot.

The gloves made it hard to turn the
magazine pages, but he managed. He started to read a first-person account of an
alligator attack.

Bernie would have to wait.

****

After Rennie and Autumn explained
why they thought Sarita Sartowe’s death was connected to the fire and events in
Helen, Captain Cunningham excused herself.

Autumn could see her through the
glass panes of the office wall where she stood at a desk beside a cubicle on
the other side of the large outer room. Using the desk phone, she was calling
someone while they waited.

The captain carried on a lengthy conversation,
then hung up and came back to regard them thoughtfully. “The homicide detective
in charge of the case is out of the office, but I left your telephone number
and address. He’ll be in touch soon.” Her eyes shifted to Rennie. “You said
your name was Degardovera? Would that be Francisco Degardovera by any chance?”

Beside Autumn, Rennie stiffened. “No.
Francisco’s my brother.”

“I see.”

Poor Rennie. He looks like
someone put a poker to him.
“Do you know Fran, Captain Cunningham?”

“No.” The captain didn’t look at
Autumn. “But I understand he knew Ms. Sartowe.”

“My whole family knew Sarita,” Rennie
said coolly. “She and I went to the same high school. I dated her back then.”

“But your brother was intimately
involved with Sarita Sartowe this past year. Did you know that, Mr.
Degardovera?”

Fran?
Autumn managed not to gasp.

“It’s Dr. Degardovera. Computer science,
not medical. And I did know it.” Rennie’s hand on her arm was relaxed, but she
could feel his tension. “Francisco and Sarita got together while he was in
California staying with me. It didn’t work out for either of them. His life is
here in Atlanta, and her career is—was—across the country. They agreed there
was no future for them.”