Vargas pulled up in a plain white vehicle and took a sip from a to-go cup. He watched as she rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn before she got out of her car.
The pace during the first forty-eight hours of a homicide investigation was often nonstop and brutal. With two cases on his plate now, he’d be lucky if he got more than two or three hours of sleep a night in the coming days.
“Not the kind of place a cop will ever own,” she said.
“Who needs a fancy address when the job is so glamorous?”
“Right.” Vargas’s gaze settled on the dark bow on the front door. Her frown deepened. “Who has time to do arts and crafts at a time like this? I just talked to her a few hours ago. When my mother died, it was all I could do to push a vacuum before the minister came by the house.”
“I don’t know.” His mother had all but shut down after Kara’s death. The family doctor prescribed tranquilizers to get her through the worst of it. Unfortunately, the drugs created a habit that chased her to the grave a year later.
Approaching the door with Vargas, he rang the bell. Footsteps sounded inside and the double doors opened to an older man. He was midsize, distinguished, with neatly groomed hair brushed back to accentuate a tanned face. Deep lines creased the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.
Sharp held up his badge. “I’m Agent Dakota Sharp and this is Agent Julia Vargas. We’ve come to talk to you about your daughter.”
The old man cleared his throat. “I’m Stephen Emery. I’m Diane’s father.”
“Thank you for seeing us,” Vargas said. “May we come inside?”
Mr. Emery stepped back, his outstretched hand beckoning them inside. “Please come inside.”
Emery led them into a sunroom, where an older version of Diane’s DMV photo sat in a chair by the window. Dressed in black, she’d pulled her white hair back into a neat ponytail. Her makeup was expertly applied, and she was wearing a fruity perfume.
“This is my wife, Cassandra.”
Cassandra Emery stood and met Vargas’s gaze. “Thank you for returning. I know it must be an inconvenience.”
“Again, let me say how sorry we are for your loss,” Vargas said.
Mrs. Emery nodded. “Thank you.”
The four sat around a large glass table outfitted with a huge display of irises in a crystal vase. Sharp set his notebook on the table and opened it.
“When was the last time you saw Diane?” he asked.
“It had been a month,” Mrs. Emery said. “We were traveling. She’s in sales for her job, so she travels quite a bit as well. When your children get older, they have their own lives to lead.”
“Did anyone call you from her office and let you know she was missing?” Vargas asked.
“No one called,” Mrs. Emery said. Her lips flattened into a hard line. “And I didn’t call them because Diane didn’t need her mother chasing after her at work. I wish now I had hovered over her more.”
“I spoke to my daughter’s boss this morning and asked why he hadn’t contacted us earlier,” Mr. Emery interjected. “He said Diane quit her job three weeks ago.”
“Did Diane give you any indication she wanted to leave her job?”
“No,” he said. “She loved it. And it’s not her style to quit with a text message and not offer a proper notice. She was a professional and would have at least had the courtesy to face her boss in person.”
“Was there anyone in her life she had a romantic relationship with?”
“No,” Mrs. Emery said. “She divorced four years ago, and then last year she started dating a painter, but she broke it off.”
“Where is her ex-husband?”
“Nathan is stationed in California,” Mrs. Emery said.
“Was the divorce mutual?” Sharp asked.
“No,” Mr. Emery said. “Nathan left Diane. She was very upset, and I think that’s why she ended up with the painter.”
“Do you have Nathan Richardson’s contact information?” Sharp asked.
“I have a phone number,” Mr. Emery said. “You might have trouble reaching him. He’s in the navy, and his ship is out to sea for a couple more months.”
Emery found the number and gave it to Sharp. It would be easy enough to verify the ex-husband’s alibi if he was stationed on a ship.
“Diane’s husband divorces her, she rebounds with a painter, who she leaves. Do you know why?” Vargas asked.
“Stanford’s a lovely man but does not have a strong work ethic,” Mrs. Emery said. “He’s the kind of man a woman dates until someone better comes along.”
“His name is Stanford Madison?” Sharp asked.
“Yes. He teaches classes in the city and is prepping for an exhibit on Hanover Avenue,” Mr. Emery added. “I have a few of his paintings in the study if you’d like to see them.”
Whoever had done the work on Diane’s face had been a skilled artist. “I’d love to see them.”
“Do you think he did it?” Mr. Emery demanded.
“I don’t know who’s responsible yet,” Sharp offered. “We’re still piecing together the evidence. Did Diane meet Stanford in college?”
“They did know each other then. How did you know?”
“Came up in another interview.”
Mrs. Emery led them into a study where three small oil paintings hung. There were paintings of Diane done in such vivid detail, Sharp found himself leaning in to capture all the nuances.
“He gave those to us last Christmas,” Mrs. Emery said. “We were thrilled, of course. They’re so beautiful.” A phone rang, and Mrs. Emery turned to check the display. “That’s my sister. I need to take this—please excuse me.”
“Of course,” Vargas said.
When his wife left the room, Richardson kept his gaze on the pictures. “I asked to see my daughter, but so far the medical examiner isn’t granting us access.”
“There are certain details the police are trying to keep under wraps right now,” Sharp said.
“I’m not asking for sensitive case information. I just want to see Diane. To know that this is all real and not some kind of mistake.”
Sharp pulled in a breath, knowing difficult details were best told directly. “Did Diane ever talk to you about tattooing?”
“I know she has two. She told her mother, who then told me. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but she’s a grown woman.”
“Did she express interest in having work done on her face?” Vargas asked.
The question sparked surprise, which gave way to anguish. “No! Why would she cover her face? She’s beautiful.”
“What happened to her face?” Mrs. Emery asked from the doorway.
Sharp waited until she reached her husband’s side. “It was tattooed. The ink was designed to look like a doll’s face.”
Mrs. Emery raised a trembling manicured hand to her lips. “I can’t believe this.”
“We’re trying to find out if the tattooing might have been a choice she made,” Vargas said. “We found antidepressant prescriptions in her apartment.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest,” Mrs. Emery said.