Eight hours later I awoke feeling strangely refreshed and amazed I’d been able to sleep even a wink. The smell of freshly brewed coffee assailed me, so I jumped out of bed and checked the guest bedroom. Robin was already up and gone, but when I got to the kitchen, I saw that she’d taken ten or twelve stickies and drawn arrows pointing to the one in the middle that said Feed cats.
“Very funny,” I growled as I grabbed a cup of coffee. I savored it for a few minutes, then called Ian and confirmed our ten o’clock meeting at the Covington before wandering off to take a quick shower. Afterward, I blow-dryed my hair, then dressed in black jeans, black boots, and a black turtleneck sweater. I glanced in the mirror and felt depressed by all the black, so I added a cheerful green jacket for color. After a few quick swipes of mascara and some lip gloss, I microwaved a bowl of Vinnie’s Shanghai noodles and slurped them down, followed by two caramel chocolate kisses from the new bag I’d opened. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but the noodles were incredibly delicious and helped raise my mood a few more notches.
I was down in the garage, jogging to my car, when I remembered Pookie and Splinters.
“Oh, crap.” I smacked the innocent car door. I really wasn’t cut out to be a caretaker of other living creatures.
Riddled with guilt, I calculated exactly how late I could afford to be this morning. I supposed the cats could live out the day without food and water, but did I want to take that chance? What if Vinnie and Suzie came home early and found the food bowl empty and two emaciated kitties listlessly mewing for their lives? We would no longer be friends and they wouldn’t tell me where they got those Shanghai noodles. And lest I forget, those women owned chain saws.
And worse, Robin would have a field day with the news. That convinced me to take the high road.
Ten minutes later, with the cats fed and me feeling guilt free, I fired up the car. As I exited the parking garage, I glanced across the street, half expecting to see a black Bentley parked there. It was gone. Good. The man had no business following me around when there was a murderer running free in the City. Apparently, Derek Stone had come to the same conclusion at some point during the night. I hoped he suffered some mild frostbite before driving off to his cozy hotel room.
I headed west on Brannan to Ninth Street and over to Hayes in order to skirt the Civic Center mess, then turned right on Franklin. From there it was a straight shot up to Pacific Heights and the Covington.
I parked in the adjacent lot and followed the tree-lined walkway to the library, pulling my jacket a little tighter around me as I walked. It was a glorious February morning, the air crystal clear and brisk. From here at the top of Pacific Heights, I could see the amazing span of the Golden Gate Bridge stretching across the whitecapped bay to meet the rolling green hills of Marin County on the far side.
Once inside, I went straight to Ian’s office, where his secretary told me he was already downstairs. I detoured through a small side gallery and down to the basement studio area. I was a little creeped out to see that despite the yellow crime scene tape still strewn across the entrance to Abraham’s workroom, the door itself was open.
I peeked around the doorsill to find Derek Stone, kneeling on the concrete floor, studying the blood spill.
I must’ve made a noise because he saw me and jumped up, then ducked under the yellow tape and hustled me down the hall.
“I won’t pass out,” I insisted, almost stumbling from the bum’s rush he gave me.
“So you were whimpering on general principle?”
“I never whimper,” I said with a sniff.
From two rooms down, Ian popped his head out. “You made it.” He approached and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close for a quick hug; then he walked me to the new workroom. “You’re working in here.”
“Okay,” I said, and hated that my voice trembled. Seeing that dark red blob brought back all the horrors of the night before.
The new room was identical to Abraham’s in every way-except for that pesky bloodstain on the concrete floor.
I eyed Derek Stone over Ian’s shoulder as he followed us into the room. He stared right back at me. Today he was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black tailored trousers and a dark pine green cashmere jacket. Essentially, we were dressed alike, although his outfit probably cost several thousand dollars more than mine. Show-off. Not that I cared, but I guessed security paid more than your run-of-the-mill cop salary.
Ian turned to me. “I understand you two have already met.”
“I’ve had the distinct pleasure,” he said, his mouth twisting in a wry grin.