BILL DILLINGHAM LOOKED TERRIBLY FRAGILE, and Kendra’s eyes widened with shock when he opened the front door of his small house in a subdivision in south San Diego. He was at least fifteen pounds thinner than he’d been the last time she’d worked with him, his faded blue eyes lacked the spark of former days. What was most troubling was the lack of vitality in his face.
“What are you looking at?” he asked sourly. “I never invited you here, Kendra. I know what I see in the mirror. I don’t have to see it reflected on your face. Why don’t you go away?”
She quickly recovered. “Because I need you to do this sketch for me. It’s very important that it be done right since your witness is questionable.”
“I don’t need to work with witnesses who are going to give me headaches before I even begin. Go away.”
“No. May I come in? I haven’t seen you for a couple years, but you’re just as rude as you’ve always been.” She smiled. “I’ve never seen your home.” She was peering over his shoulder. “I see an interesting painting of a little girl in a sun bonnet on that far wall. Is it yours? I’ve only seen your sketches.”
“Because that’s how I make my money,” he said dryly. “And are you trying to flatter your way into my house?”
“Yes. Though I would like to see that painting. If you don’t let me in, then I’ll stay out here on your doorstep.” She met his eyes. “Because when I knew I had to have this sketch done, I knew it had to be you, Bill.”
He was silent. “I’m not the same artist I was two years ago, Kendra.” He held up his hand, and she saw a slight quiver. “I had a bad case of pneumonia, and I didn’t bounce back. It seems unfair that when you age, every little illness seems to take its toll. Or maybe it’s the depression afterward. Anyway, I don’t do sketches anymore.”
She could see that depression was still a living presence in every line of his face. “But you could, Bill. I’ve seen you work.” She looked at the painting of the child. “That’s quite wonderful and I’m sure you enjoyed doing it. But it didn’t give you the same creative excitement as doing those sketches, did it?”
“I’m retired, Kendra.”
“Bullshit. I need this, Bill. It’s important to me. It might save a good man from being killed.” She took a step closer. “I know you. If you’re retired, then that’s probably what’s wrong with you. You need a reason to get up in the morning. Well, I’ll give it to you. It will only be a start, and you’ll have to take it from there. But you’ll do this sketch, and it will be good because you can’t be anything else.” She took another step. “Now, may I come in?”
He stood looking at her for a long moment. “I guess I’d better let you, or you’ll run me down like a bulldozer.” He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. “But it’s not going to do you any good. You’ll see when I start to sketch.”
“Yes, I will.” She looked around the living room and saw three really fine paintings besides the one of the child in the foyer. “Wonderful. By all means, keep on doing them when you don’t have anything else to do. But you’re a true genius about translating words and vague thoughts into real faces, Bill. No one else can do it like you can.”
“I’m glad you’re going to permit me to continue my choice of art endeavor,” he said sarcastically. “Who is this questionable witness?”
“Me.” She smiled. “Eight years ago, Bill. But I remember him as if it were yesterday.”
He made a rude sound. “Tell me another one.”
“I can’t. I can only tell you the truth. I can’t even promise that it’s going to help to have his face. But it’s a chance, and I’ve got to take it.”
His gaze was searching her face. “It means something to you.”
“Yes, it means a good deal to me.”
“Personal.”
“Very personal.”
He went to the bookshelf and took down his sketchbook. “You see?” he said roughly. “Look at my hand. It’s shaking. What do you think that you’re doing to me?”
“I hope I’m waking you up. What do you think?”
He didn’t move, looking down at the sketchbook. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” He jerked his head to a chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit your ass down and start talking to me.” He flipped open the sketchbook. “How old was he?”
“About forty-five then. Eight years ago.”
“Face shape?
“Sort of triangular. Pointed chin.
His pencil was slow, a little shaky.
“Eyebrows?”
“Thick. A little bushy.”
Stronger, faster strokes.
“Shape of the eyes?
“Round. Deep-set.”
The pencil flew over the page.
Demands.
Answers.
The pencil.
Always the pencil.
Drawing. Going back. Changing.
Drawing again.
“Lips?”
“Full bottom lip. Upper lip, thinner.”
“Jaw?”
“Thin. A little flat toward the ear.”
“Like this?”
“Maybe thinner.”
“Like this?”
“Yes.”