"Annie, I don't think we need Otto to tell us who hit him."
She shivered, not even the brandy stopping the sudden cool feel of the night air. She set her glass down on the table. Although she hadn't eaten dinner, she wasn't hungry. The vet had made her down a couple of candy bars.
"You think it was Denardo," she said.
It wasn't a question. Garvin had told as much to the police. They'd taken their statements, checked out her apartment, dusted for prints, talked to the upstairs neighbors, who hadn't seen or heard anything, and suggested they would speak to Sarah Linwood first thing in the morning. They weren't resistant to the idea that the break-in was related to the five-year-old Linwood murders, just cautious about signing on. In their view, someone could simply be after a fivethousand-dollar painting whose purchase was highly publicized. Garvin had pointed out the thieves could get a more reliable five grand stealing silver, but the police had an answer for that too. Would-be thieves might not know the painting was worthless, or it could have a certain cachet because of its association with the Linwoods and scandal. They weren't claiming a theory, only that without hard evidence, theoretically anything was possible.
Annie swung up to her feet, feeling just a little dizzy. "If I'm to pick up Otto in the morning before work, I should get to bed. Where's the guest room?"
She could feel Garvin's eyes on her. "Downstairs."
The master bedroom, she'd noted on her first visit, was on the main floor down from the living room, the upper floor of the hillside house. At least downstairs she'd be away from temptation.
"There are two." He leaned against the doorway into the dining room, one long leg bent as he continued to watch her. "Take your pick. The beds in both should be made up."
"Thanks."
"I can walk down with you—"
"No." She gave him what had to be an unconvincing smile. "I can manage."
Just the tiniest glint of humor came into his eyes, tugged at the corners of his mouth. "As you wish."
She went past him into the dining room and out across the thick carpet to the entry, where she'd dropped the grocery bag she'd thrown a few things into before leaving her apartment. Even with moving west, she hadn't yet replaced her luggage; instead, she'd relied on boxes and trash bags. Hugging the bag to her chest, she started for the stairs. She was aware of the silence, the darkness, the space around her. No cottage on the bay was this; no little semilegal San Francisco apartment. Garvin had followed her out into the living room, his eyes on her. Or maybe they weren't, she thought. Maybe she was getting ahead of herself, thinking he wanted to go down to the guest room with her. Amazing what a glass of brandy and a bad day could do to a woman's mind.
But her attempt at humor fell flat, and she looked around at him. "I appreciate your help, Garvin." She said his name easily now, liked the feel of it. "Thank you for carrying Otto."
"You're welcome."
"It's a nasty business, carrying a wounded rottweiler."
He shrugged. "So long as I came away with all body parts, I'm a happy man."
"Well, it was above and beyond the call of duty."
"No, it wasn't."
Her breath caught, and she nodded. "Well, thank you."
He smiled. "Good night, Annie."
She chose the bedroom directly beneath the living room. It had its own door out to a lower deck, and it was big and airy and spotless—but also impersonal. It had a connect-the-dots feel with its queen-size bed cover made up in natural cotton, the handmade cherry dresser and night table, the brown pottery lamps, as if Garvin hadn't put—couldn't put—himself into his surroundings. A large framed photograph of a sailboat at sunrise hung above an unused stone fireplace. She could have been in a hotel room instead of someone's house. Yet Annie welcomed the sterile comfort of the room. She didn't need reminders of where she was and who was on the floor above her.
The adjoining bathroom was done in white with a pedestal sink and a simple bathtub. A wooden rack held a stack of fluffy white towels. Imagining herself wrapped in one, she filled the tub with water as hot as she could possibly stand and dumped in bath crystals from a jar sitting on the edge of the tub. She inhaled their fragrance. Zoe would be able to pinpoint the various scents, but Annie just breathed them in, already relaxing.
She peeled off her dog-smelling clothes and left them in a heap on the floor, to be burned in the morning, she thought. She washed her face with soap and water, feeling her fatigue in her burning, puffy eyes, her throbbing head, the stiffness throughout her body.
Had Vic Denardo broken into her apartment and left Otto for dead?
If not Denardo, who?
Through sheer force of will, she pushed the images and the questions to the back of her mind. Like her heap of clothes, they were something to deal with in the morning.