The Libra Affair (42 page)

If only she was on his side, she could use that intense mental focus to help him find out what went wrong with the Densmore and prove to everyone's satisfaction he wasn't at fault. Clearly, if he wanted to prove his innocence, he'd have to do his own investigation. He owed it to the dead and to himself to find out.

Gabrielle interrupted his thoughts. “I'd like to ask you some questions.”

“I really don't have time.” He was afraid what she'd ask, what he might admit accidentally, and what she'd read into anything he said.

She pounced anyway. “Do you have something to hide?”

Yes, he wanted to shout, a mental illness. But he couldn't do that because bipolar disorder had a negative stigma attached to it. It was feared and scorned and misunderstood. And since he'd been at Crittenden, he couldn't afford for anyone to find out, because if they did, they'd blame the Densmore's collapse on it. Just like this woman would.

Instead, he said, “I don't see how I can help you with your investigation.”

“Who better than the architect? What can it hurt to walk through the wreckage with me?”

That was a loaded question. Walking through it the first time had caused horrific nightmares and his spiral into a depression that got him committed to Crittenden. He'd been released only a few hours ago and had no intention of going back. He should avoid a repeat performance by steering clear of the interior.

Then why the hell was he here? If he was going to take on the task of clearing his name, he had to go inside. By now, the chalk outlines were probably gone. He hoped the bloodstains had been cleaned up.

“Yeah, let's go inside.” He hoped she couldn't hear the trepidation in his voice caused by his belly quivering with nerves.

Gabrielle stopped at the entrance and unlocked the padlock which held the doors chained shut. Christian hadn't even noticed the chain. He couldn't have gotten inside if he'd wanted to.

The interior was dim with so many windows boarded up. It smelled of dust and disuse … and death. Lights high up in the ceiling and along the brick walls came on, lighting his personal nightmare. Steel girders still hung exposed from the third floor structure, looking like at any moment they'd tear loose and catapult into the remaining unbroken panes of glass. One girder lay across the lobby floor like a huge forgotten piece of erector set. Part of the glass ceiling had been replaced by plywood.

This building had been his vision from the moment he first heard Charles Densmore speak about creating a tribute to his late wife. Christian had slaved over draft after draft trying to create a masterpiece of air and light, and he'd thought he had. Somehow his dream had turned into a nightmare. What was left was dreary ruin, the death of his dream.

“Mr. Ziko?”

Christian had a feeling Gabrielle had called his name more than once, but he hadn't heard her. “What?”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” It was a lie, but at least his voice was steady when he said it.

“What do you see?”

“The same thing you do — devastating destruction. This place was beautiful when it was completed.” He remembered entering the Densmore for the grand opening. The guests had been awed by the seemingly unsupported third floor overhang. It had been a glittering spectacle that night. Now it more closely resembled a derelict from the ghettos of Detroit.

“Sometimes beauty masks something darker,” she said.

“No. I designed it in Mrs. Densmore's memory. She wouldn't have wanted this.” A sweep of his hand indicated the current state.

“You're human. You made a mistake.”

He looked into her inquisitive blue eyes. She wanted answers, but was there judgment under the intelligent probe? He didn't know. “I thought a man was innocent until proven guilty.”

She stiffened and he felt guilty because he'd lashed out.

“So you're alleging you're innocent?”

“It doesn't matter what I say if you've already made up your mind.” But it did matter, a lot more than it should have.

“Believe it or not, I'm looking for the truth. However, I do know what the prevailing opinion is.”

If only he could sway this one person … but “if onlys” were for dreamers. If only he could go back in time and be on-site during construction, he'd prevent this whole calamity. He looked away from her intriguing face to the wreckage, from one torment to another.

This was his responsibility. He'd designed the Densmore. On paper, he was intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of the building. He was the best hope of finding out why it failed. And if he found he was at fault … well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

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