Bad Blood (35 page)

Jimmy stood motionless. His right arm started a gesture,
abandoned
it, fell back by his side. “I . . .” he said, sounding choked; he didn’t finish.

I turned, climbed into the cab of Eve Colgate’s pickup. I put the key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life I leaned out the window, said, “He’s in room three-oh-nine, the new wing. Go see him.”

I backed the truck around, rolled slowly out of Antonelli’s lot. I drove with great care; I was very tired.

23

THE WIND WAS
picking up as I turned the truck up Eve’s chestnut-bordered drive. Hard dark clouds pushed through the sky from the north.

I pulled in front of the house, silenced the engine. The front door opened and Leo bounded onto the porch, left Eve framed in the doorway. She waited until I jumped from the cab, then came forward slowly, walked down the steps and around the back of the truck. She looked at the crate. With her eyes still on it, she asked me, “Are they all right?”

“I didn’t open it.”

Together we pulled the crate from the truck bed, carried it inside the house, Leo wriggling through the vestibule along with us. The house had a soft, sweet smell, vanilla and brown sugar.

We laid the crate on the dining table. I waited while Eve brought a screwdriver. She unscrewed the cover, dropped each screw in the wooden bowl on the cedar chest before going on to the next one. When she was finished she used the screwdriver to pry the cover loose. We each took an edge then, lifted the cover, leaned it on the wall.

The canvases were stacked facedown. Eve touched the top one, pulled her hand back as though it were hot to the touch. She stared a moment longer; then, suddenly,
she
hefted the painting out of the crate, stood it on the floor against the chair without looking directly at it. She repeated the action, her mouth set in a hard, determined line, like a diver forcing herself over and over into icy water to search for something lost.

Then all six paintings were out, spread around the room, and Eve was standing as still as I was, in the center of the storm.

Like other powerful storms, this one was violent, frightening, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Thin razor-sharp wires of color were stretched across canvas, pulled so taut they broke apart; or, released, they bunched together in choking knots. These were colors other painters never found, colors you recognized instantly from the dreams you could never remember.

But unlike the Eva Nouvels I’d seen before, these paintings were not dark. The colors twisted, tangled, pierced each other, bled; but the field they were on was luminous, and the color wires glowed against it like lightning against the sun.

I was without words, looking from canvas to canvas as the storm raged around me. From the canvases I looked to Eve. She stood silent, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Her crystal eyes swept each painting, moved to the next. Then she covered her mouth with one hand and began silently to cry.

I took two quick steps, gathered her into my arms. Her shoulders felt sharp and thin, made of glass. She pressed hard against me. I held her more tightly. At first she wept noiselessly; then came great wracking sobs that shook her
again
and again. I rocked her, smoothed her hair, whispered useless, meaningless words as the storm pounded and battered her.

Finally, like other storms, it ended. I held her as long as she wanted, after the sobbing stopped, until she softened, pulled away. She turned without looking at me, stepped out of the circle of canvases, walked to the bathroom under the stairs. The door closed and the water ran for a long, long time.

I felt a pressure against my leg. I looked down to see Leo sitting, looking up. He whined, lifted a paw anxiously. I crouched, scratched his ears. “It’s okay, boy,” I told him. “It’s okay.”

When Eve came out her eyes were pink-rimmed, her lined face pale. She hesitated outside the circle I still stood within, then stepped to my side. “Will you help me?” she asked.

We repacked the crate, each canvas facedown, and we tightened the cover. We carried the crate together out the back door, around into the storeroom, which had a new, heavy padlock and hasp. My eyebrows lifted at our destination; Eve saw that and shrugged. She gave me a small, tired smile. “It’s where they go,” she said.

We went back inside. Eve poured coffee, asked me to put some music on. “If you’d like,” she added. I found Haydn, string quartets. Eve sliced a pound cake, brought me a piece. It was warm, rich, with a brown sugar glaze. She sipped her coffee, and the music calmed the air.

After a while I said, “They’re beautiful, you know.”

She shook her head.

“You’ll probably never see it,” I said. “But they are.”

There was more music, more peace. She asked, “Bill, where were they?”

I looked into my coffee, watched the deep blackness release steam, which wandered out of the mug, lost itself in the open air. “They were at Tony’s, in the basement,” I said. At the look in her eyes, I added, “Tony didn’t know.”

She held my eyes with hers, searched my face. I couldn’t tell what she found, but finally she nodded, released me.

I left soon after. Leo ran excited circles around us on the driveway as Eve and I walked the short distance to where she’d put my car. It was very cold now, as day edged reluctantly into night. Thick clouds rode the wind. Eve asked, “Will you go back to the city soon?”

“Lydia will be able to leave the hospital in a day or two,” I said. “I’ll wait and take her home.”

She was silent again. The wind gusted icily; there seemed nothing more to say. I opened the car door. “When you come back,” she said suddenly, “will you come see me?”

“It might be a long time, Eve.”

She took my hand. In the depths of her eyes I thought I saw the jewels sparkle, but I couldn’t be sure. She said, “I’ll be here.”

I held her close again, this time briefly. Then we separated. I slipped into my car, started it up, began to move slowly down the drive, away from the house. My headlights caught the trunks of the chestnut trees; I heard Eve, behind me, calling Leo.

I drove back south through a fast-fading twilight. I passed Antonelli’s, lit now, cars on the gravel, the tin sign dancing in the gusting wind. Fallen leaves skidded ahead of me across the blacktop as the wind changed direction. My lights picked out what was in front of me; everything else was hidden.

By the time I reached the road down to my cabin, it had started to snow.

Coming soon from S.J. Rozan:

BLOOD TIES

Some crimes strike too close to home . . .

Private detective Bill Smith is hurtled headlong into the most provocative – and personal – case of his career when he receives a chilling late night telephone call from the NYPD. They’re holding his fifteen-year-old nephew Gary. But before he can find out what’s going on, Gary escapes Bill’s custody and disappears into the dark and unfamiliar streets . . .

With his partner, Lydia Chin, Bill tries to find the missing teen and uncover what it is that has led him so far from home. Their search takes them to Gary’s family in a small town in New Jersey, where they discover that one of Gary’s classmates was murdered. Bill and Lydia delve into the crime-only to find it eerily similar to a decades-old murder-suicide . . .

The situation is not helped by Bill’s long term estrangement from his sister. But now, with his nephew’s future at stake, Bill must unravel a long-buried crime and confront the darkness of his own past . . .

Praise for this series:

‘One of my favourite writers’ Dennis Lehane

‘Wonderful’ Robert Crais

‘Chilling’ Linda Fairstein

‘Terrific’
Washington Post

Acknowledgements

my agent, Steve Axelrod

my editor, Keith Kahla

what a pair

Emily Horowitz, who first told me I was writing a novel

the experts

David Dubal, Joe Karas, Pat Picciarelli, Carl Stein

and Harvey Stoddard

the critics

Betsy Harding, Royal Huber, Barbara Martin,

Jamie Scott (and her damn owls),

and, on this one, Becca Armstrong and Steve Landau

the family

Steve Blier, Hillary Brown, Max Rudin, Jim Russell,

and Amy Schatz

the muse

Richard Wilcox

the genius

Deb Peters

and

the goils

Nancy Ennis and Helen Hester

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781407079394

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First published as
Stone Quarry
in 1999 in the US by St. Martin’s Press

This edition published in 2012 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, A Random House Group Company

Copyright © 1999 by S.J. Rozan

S.J. Rozan has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

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ISBN 9780091936334

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