But first, there was something he needed to do. The urge was too overpowering.
He climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, went through to the walk-in closet on the left, the one that led to the slightly smaller of the two bathrooms in the suite. He stood before the elegant, conservative suits-he estimated there were fifty, maybe seventy-five-and crisply starched shirts that hung on wooden hangers as firmly as if they were being borne on perfectly formed shoulders. He opened one drawer, then another, and then a third, each one filled with the softest, smoothest cashmere sweaters. He selected a powder-blue cardigan, tenderly removed it from its bag, and wrapped it around him. He loved this sweater and it fit him as if it had been handmade for the contours of his body; plus the color went divinely with his dark blue eyes. He moved to stand in front of the full-length mirror and couldn't help admiring his looks and his sophistication, reveling in his luck and the unlimited upside that was surely waiting for him in the future.
The noise behind him startled him, and he turned suddenly. Even as he turned, he was aware of how gentle the cashmere was against his flesh. What he saw, standing in the doorway, however, made him forget about the pleasure he was feeling. He was suddenly uncertain about the upside in his future. He touched the hem of the sweater-he couldn't help himself, tugging at it for a moment of security.
"I thought…" he began but didn't know how to continue, because he wasn't sure exactly what it was he thought. He was startled at the sight that greeted him, standing in the bedroom doorway, and a little panicky, too. And then he realized what he wanted to say, or at least what he should say, so he tried to finish his thought. He got out the words "You weren't supposed to-" and that was all he got out before he saw the rise of an arm, and he felt a terrible sting in his left shoulder. His right hand moved to the pain, as if covering it with his palm would somehow help, but then there was more pain in the right side of his chest, this one even worse. Everything slowed down then; the world seemed to turn hazy and dim. And then he realized he wasn't standing anymore, he was on his knees, tumbling onto the thick Persian carpet that covered the bedroom floor. He heard another pop, and another, then he really couldn't hear much more. He tried to speak, tried to ask what was happening, and why, but his tongue didn't work, and his mouth made sounds that even he could tell were not real syllables, that expressed no thought. Through the haze, he saw something rise and fall, felt a horrible jolt in one leg, then the other, then his hip and his arm, and then the worst pain of all in his head, and then he felt nothing.
His very last thought was that he'd put on the wrong sweater. He had wanted the powder blue. But somehow he'd selected the red. Wine red, he thought. Then realized no, he was wrong.
Bloodred.
3
Justin held the phone to his ear as Mike Haversham talked. The young cop told him about the call that had just come in and exactly what the hysterical caller had said. Justin listened quietly, trying to keep his expression stoic and flat. As he listened, Abby jumped onto the bed, one graceful leap, gently put her hands on his shoulders, softly kissed his neck, teasing as well as tempting him. His robe was loosely tied around her and her bare leg was directly in his line of vision. He stared at the only piece of jewelry she usually wore, a diamond ankle bracelet that sparkled against her lightly tanned skin.
When Mike had finished with everything he had to say, Justin just said, "Call Gary, tell him to get there ASAP. I'll leave here in two minutes and meet him. You wait at the station."
He hung up, shifted his body so he could face Abby.
"Is everything okay?" she asked. She gave him an evil little grin, an invitation to forget about whatever it was he'd just heard and hop back into bed with her.
"No," he said. "Things aren't okay."
"What's the matter?" She edged the robe off her right shoulder. And then, vamping, "What could be so bad on your birthday?"
Justin put his right hand up to his face and rubbed the middle of his forehead. He exhaled a long breath, took both her hands in his, and said, "A body was just found. There's been a murder."
She looked at him, still smiling the sexy, inviting smile, waiting for the punch line. When she saw no punch line was coming, the smile faded.
He nodded, because he saw the question she was asking with her eyes.
"It's Evan," Justin Westwood said. "It's your husband."
The silence lasted until he realized he couldn't let it go on any longer.
"Get dressed," Justin said gently. "I've gotta go to the house. And you should come with me."
She didn't say anything. Didn't cry. Didn't make a sound. She simply shook her head in tight little motions, as if what she'd just been told couldn't be true. Then she slid off the bed, not slowly but listlessly, all energy drained from her body, and she began to pull on her clothes.
Justin watched Abby for a second, then he found the pair of jeans he'd tossed onto the floor and the black short-sleeved polo shirt that had been discarded near them. He waited for her to finish dressing and watched as she grabbed what was left of her martini, downed it in one quick gulp, and then walked down toward the living room.
So much for contentment, Justin Westwood thought.
So much for happiness.
Then he blew out the candle on his birthday cake and followed her downstairs.
The Harmon house was only a ten- or twelve-minute drive from Justin's. Sitting in his beat-up '89 BMW, he let the first two or three minutes pass in silence. Then he said, as delicately as he could manage, "I should ask you some questions before we get there."
She turned to him, her eyes still dull, and she nodded.
"Where were you before you came over?"
"To your house?"
Justin nodded. He realized that Abby's silence wasn't just due to the shock. He heard the tremor in her voice, understood she was fighting back tears. Knew she was, even more than that, struggling not to reveal any weakness.
"I was looking for your birthday cake," she said.
"Where did you get it?"
"What does that have to do with anything? How stupid is-"
"Abby, please."
"Why do you care-"
"Answer the question," he said. "Please. Just answer the question."
"At that giant supermarket in Bridgehampton. In the mall. King Kullen."
"What time was that?"
"I don't know. What time did I get to your place?"
"Tell me approximately what time you think you were there."
"Jay, what difference does it fucking make what time- Oh my god." She shifted in the bucket seat of the convertible so she could face him. The anger biting through her words was both palpable and remarkably restrained. It was the restraint that surprised him, not the hurt or the bitterness. "Do you think I killed my husband?"
"No." He didn't hesitate or stumble over his response.
"Then what the hell are you doing?"
"They're questions that have to be asked. Someone's going to ask them-I thought it would be better for you if it was me and I asked them now." When she didn't respond, he said, "Look… Abby… I'll know more when I see the crime scene. Evan's death is going to have repercussions. He's rich. And I assume you'll have been left a lot of money."