Where Dreams Begin (37 page)

“It’s a nice idea, but it wouldn’t stop the hurt,” Rafael answered. “Even when good things happen, like this mural, they’re always followed by something incredibly bad.”

“That’s no excuse to quit,” Catherine argued.

“What’s the use when there’s no point in anything? I’m not going to get a scholarship from Art Center. You know I’m not.”

Rafael had been so broken up by Nick’s death that all trace of his former arrogance had vanished. He was as frightened as the rest of them, Catherine realized, and she would get him the scholarship he deserved even if she had to put up the money herself.

“Keep working on your portfolio. The scholarship will come through,” she promised. “Now let’s talk to Toby about adding a memorial panel.”

Unable to focus on his work, Toby was sitting on the porch. He nodded as Catherine explained her idea for adding names. “Sure, I’ll put some permanent markers out, but I’ll anchor them on cords so that no one draws a mustache on one of the angels.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Catherine cried.

“Plenty of people,” Rafael offered with a rude snort. “For guys who’d shoot someone they don’t even know, drawing a mustache would be nothing.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Catherine conceded. She turned to find Detectives Salzman and Garcia approaching. They were both rather severely dressed in navy blue that day, and neither offered a friendly smile.

After a brief greeting, Garcia got right to their news. “We checked out the license number of the green convertible. It belongs to a retired sheriff’s deputy. On Wednesday night, he had it on display over at a Bob’s Big Boy restaurant for their classic car night. So he’s in the clear. The slugs we dug out of the house don’t match any we’ve gathered at any other crime scene, so for now, all we have is dead ends.”

Disappointed not to have supplied a crucial lead, Catherine chewed her lower lip. “Whoever shot Nick, must have driven by here before that night, and he’ll probably drive by again. Could we set up a camera to photograph traffic?”

Garcia turned to Salzman and rolled his eyes. “Sure, but drivers tend to use the same routes to work or to run errands and back. All we’d have is a lot of license plate numbers rather than viable suspects, and we sure as hell don’t have the time to check hundreds of alibis.”

Toby stood and stretched. “You know what kind of cars gangbangers drive. There’d be no reason to check up on little old ladies in Toyotas.”

“Everyone’s a detective,” Salzman murmured under her breath. “You’re here every day. Have you seen any cars, other than the green convertible, that seemed out of place?”

“No,” Toby admitted, “but it’s difficult to believe no one saw anything that night.”

“It had just gotten dark,” Garcia reminded him. “People were turning on their headlights and hurrying home. The patrons heading into the bar were already tasting their first drink. No one was on the lookout for a shooting.”

“I am now,” Toby responded. “I make sure all the kids leave at four, and after dark, I don’t come back out here in front myself. I’d like to rig lighting for the mural, but not until you catch the guys who shot it up.”

“That may be a long wait,” Catherine murmured under her breath.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brooks, we’re well aware of our conviction rate.” Garcia took several steps away to study the mural up close. “You’ve got a masterpiece here. I hope you know it.”

“It’s a masterpiece, all right,” Rafael complained bitterly, “but look what it got us.”

“You ought to have a big jug out here for donations,” Salzman suggested. “At least earn enough to buy yourselves hamburgers for lunch.”

“Starving artists don’t win much sympathy,” Toby countered, “but thanks anyway.”

“We strive to serve the community,” Salzman replied, and she and Garcia walked back across the street where they’d left their car.

“Where’s Luke this morning?” Toby asked. “Isn’t he coming in again to help us?”

Catherine shrugged off his question. “I have no idea what his plans are, but we need to keep working.”

Rafael headed for the porch to pick up paint. “I’m on it, Mrs. Brooks. Let’s wrap this damn thing.”

Toby swept Catherine with a perceptive glance and lowered his voice. “Something’s wrong here. You and Luke have a lovers’ quarrel?”

“Give it up, Toby, you’re the very last person I’d confide in.”

“Well, that’s flattering.” The artist laughed.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t need your prying today.” Nor any other day, Catherine thoughtfully didn’t add.

“There’s no need to pry when I see from your expression that something’s catastrophically wrong. Dave will be thrilled. He’s madly in love with you, you know.”

“Could we just paint the mural,” she exclaimed. Since the shooting, she’d been unable to sit with her back to the street and now began pacing the yard. She was relieved when Toby went to his studio, but when they began to clean up for the day, he reappeared carrying a package.

“I made something for you. Go on, open it now so I can see how you like it.”

Catherine tried to back away but bumped into a wall of kids eager to see what Toby held. “I can’t accept presents from you,” she insisted.

“Don’t think of it as a present. It’s just something to set out in your yard, and if your neighbors ask where you got it, you can send them to me.”

“You expect me to display your work in my yard?” Catherine asked incredulously.

“Yeah, go on, open it up.” Toby set it down on the ground and gestured invitingly.

Polly stood at her elbow. “Open it, Mrs. Brooks, we all want to see what it is.”

Catherine hated to give in, but with a chorus of kids chanting to encourage her, she had no choice. She knelt to untie the twine and then peeled away the brown wrapping paper. To her immense delight, what she found was one of Toby’s wonderful metal cats, but at only two feet in height, with three-inch nails for whiskers, it was just the right size for her yard.

She looked up at Toby and shook her head. “I love it, but this is much too valuable for you to give away.”

“Hell, no. It’s just leftover bits of wrought-iron, scrap metal and springs. Go on, take it, and you’ll help me clean out my studio.”

“Aren’t you going to kiss him?” Tina yelled.

Toby’s smile widened, but while Catherine rose to her feet, this time she refused to oblige. “I’ll take it, but only to showcase your work.”

“Fair enough. I’ll carry it to your car. Come on kids, it’s time to go.”

Catherine and Toby waited until the last teenager had straggled across the street before they walked around the house to where she’d begun parking her Volvo. “Thank you, I really do love cats, and this one has such a charming personality.”

Toby slid it into the back of her car, used the wrapping paper as a cushion, then straightened up. “I wish you thought that highly of me.”

“You’d be surprised,” she remarked wistfully. “But now that we have a minute, tell me something. Is there really a chance Art Center will offer Rafael a scholarship?”

Toby slammed the Volvo’s rear door shut and stepped back up on the curb. “I think so. Nowadays, lots of kids are into computer animation and dreaming up wild, interactive games. To have Rafael walk in with such exquisite drawings just blew them away.”

“Good. I’d like for him to have that opportunity. Could you check with Art Center? If for some reason they can’t swing a scholarship for him, then one can be arranged through a private donor.”

Toby stared at her as though she’d just sprouted a second head. “Are you talking about yourself? Have you really got that kind of money?”

“Let’s just say I enjoy donating to a good cause. Thank you again for the cat. Now, it’s been a rough week, and I need to get home.”

Toby closed the slight distance between them. “Why not stay here with me? I can promise you a memorable night.”

He was a damnably attractive man, but his seductive invitation didn’t even tempt her. “Don’t you ever give up?”

“Not when I see something I want, and I’ve wanted you from the day you and Luke wandered up on my porch. Why do you think I was so eager to have you paint the mural here?”

In Catherine’s mind, it was a short leap from choosing his house for the mural and needlessly putting kids at risk for a drive-by shooting. Unwilling to go there, she just shook her head.

“I’m going home before I say something I’ll regret.” She already had her keys in her hand and hurriedly walked around to the driver’s side of her car.

Toby remained on the curb and watched her drive away.

Without the sweet memories of Saturday night with Luke to soothe her longing, Sunday was impossibly lonely for Catherine. Too anxious to read or even iron in front of the television, she put her new metal cat out by her front porch and then worked in her yard until the flower beds were completely free of weeds.

Forced inside at sunset, she studied the duplicate sets of photographs she’d taken at Lost Angel and laid those of Luke aside. While there were a couple she planned to enlarge, she was in no danger of forgetting the man she adored. She’d never told him she loved him, but she wouldn’t give up hope that one day soon, those would be the exact words he longed to hear.

She recalled seeing only one framed portrait at Luke’s place, and rather than his beloved daughter, it had been the drawing Rafael had done of her. She hoped it still sat on his dresser as a constant reminder she hadn’t been the one to walk away.

With Dave and Pam handling the holiday cards from the contest artwork, once the mural was finished, she would have no excuse to return to Lost Angel. It pained her to think after that day, her path would never cross with Luke’s.

Next Saturday she would take the CBEST test and with any luck, she would pass and be able to teach, but now she was no longer eager for a job. Instead, she wanted to stay at home and concentrate on being a mother for a year or two. She couldn’t plan any further, but knowing every child deserved a happy life, she hoped the future would bring her and her baby something good.

Luke had stayed home on Saturday night and gotten drunk. When he awoke Sunday morning with a wicked hangover, he poured himself another stiff drink to ease himself into the day. He was too smart not to recognize his behavior as self-destructive, but he simply didn’t care.

Life had become so bleak that he no longer wished to live it. Then he would think of Catherine, as he did every few seconds, and he refused to torture her with the death of another lover. He’d been cold to the point of cruelty to break up with her, and yet she’d responded with a promise never to turn him away. The generosity of her undeserved offer haunted him.

He would have welcomed fierce anger, but that she still wanted him gouged a deep furrow in his soul. Awash in self-loathing, he poured out every bottle of liquor he had in his condo and forced himself to go out and run.

He felt sick clear through by the time he returned home and slept without waking until Monday morning. Then he had the challenge of cleaning himself up so he didn’t resemble death warmed over, but he left home afraid he’d failed. He would push himself through the day, and the next, but he knew he’d lost the ability to lead and would soon have to resign from Lost Angel.

That same morning, Detective Salzman crossed the street to summon Catherine to the Lost Angel office. “We have some news you ought to hear. I’d like you to come with me.”

Her authoritative tone convinced Catherine she had no choice, but she waved to Toby to let him know she was leaving, and that he’d be in charge. “Have you found out who killed Nick?” she asked.

“We’re working on it,” the taciturn detective replied.

Catherine was more eager to see Luke than hear about their investigation if they were no closer to arresting the killer than they had been on Saturday. She followed Salzman into the office where Pam, Luke, Dave and Detective Garcia were already gathered.

Catherine exchanged hellos with Pam and Dave, but she could only stare at Luke. He was noticeably thinner, which sharpened his handsome features, but it worried her to think he wasn’t well. When he refused to glance her way, she smiled at Garcia.

“Now that you’ve joined us, Mrs. Brooks, I hope we’ll have greater success at reaching the truth. A man named Ford Dolan was murdered near here Friday night.”

“Murdered?” Catherine gasped.

“Good, I see you knew him too. It looks like the work of the Lady in Red, but this time no one saw her. She kicked Ford’s body back into his apartment, so it wasn’t discovered until Sunday afternoon when a neighbor reported a peculiar odor coming from the apartment.”

Catherine shuddered. “How awful.”

“Apparently Ford had just arrived home carrying what was left of a six-pack of beer and some fried chicken,” Salzman added. “The receipt showed he’d paid for three pieces, but there were only two in the box. We think the Lady in Red had dinner on him.”

Pam nearly shrieked. “Are you saying she sliced up Ford and then walked off chewing his chicken?”

Garcia nodded. “Real cold bitch, isn’t she? But Ford’s girlfriend, Violet Simms, hasn’t been seen for several days, and we’ve learned she often came here. By some extraordinary coincidence, she fits the description of the Lady in Red.”

Luke’s response was a particularly inventive curse, but he quickly apologized. “Look, I took Violet to a battered women’s shelter last Monday morning. I’ve called to check on her every day, and she’s still there. She’s not your killer.”

“We’d still like to speak with her,” Salzman insisted.

Luke shook his head. “Shelters don’t advertise their location to protect their residents, and I’m not telling you where she is.”

Garcia did a quick survey of the room. “We know where the shelters are, and we’ll track Violet down eventually. Anyone care to point us in the right direction?”

Catherine shrugged helplessly. “I’ve no idea where she is.”

“Neither do I,” Pam added.

“I just mow the lawn here,” Dave insisted.

“We’ll find her,” Salzman assured them. “But if Violet isn’t the Lady in Red, then it’s someone who knew her and knew Ford abused her. That leads us right back here to Lost Angel. One of you must know a whole lot more than you’re telling. If you don’t speak up soon, you stand the risk of being named an accessory to murder.”