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  At eleven-thirty that night, Candra let herself into her apartment. She usually loved parties, but she hadn’t been able to enjoy the one tonight, even though it had been attended by a lot of her favorite people. She couldn’t stop thinking about the coming day. Tomorrow, she would sign the papers on the divorce settlement, and she couldn’t help thinking that the best part of her life was over. She would likely never see Richard again. Perhaps someday she would meet another man who could compare with him, but she didn’t really think so.

  He had won. If there was a winner, there had to be a loser, and she was it. She had played him all wrong, because her mistake was in trying to play him at all. If she had simply given him his freedom with the least fuss possible, and tried to salvage some dignity for herself, he would likely have been more generous. Richard couldn’t be coerced; it was that simple.

  She felt ineffably weary. Even though she had no doubt Carson would come through with the money, at the moment she couldn’t summon up much enthusiasm for the future.

  She had left lamps on in the living room and foyer because she didn’t like walking into a dark apartment. Once she hadn’t worried about anything like that, because Richard had been with her. Sometimes, when she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone, she would have Kai spend the night, but tonight she would rather be alone than be with him. He seemed to enjoy seeing Richard get the best of her. She would fire him, she thought. His looks were undoubtedly an asset to the gallery, but there were a lot of good-looking young men in New York who were looking for an in to the art world, and a side door was as good as a front one.

  She dropped her tiny antique beaded purse on the hall table and set the locks. Her heels tapped on the faux marble tiles as she crossed the foyer and stepped onto the plush oatmeal-colored Berber pile of the living room carpet. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and whirled, panic momentarily robbing her of her voice. Pressing her hand to her chest as if she could calm her racing heart, she said, “How in hell did you get into the building?”

  “I have a key. Convenient, isn’t it?”

  “A key! I don’t believe you. How would you get a key to my apartment?”

  “You know the old saying, it isn’t what you know, it’s who you know.”

  “I don’t care who you know; no one has a key to this apartment but me.”

  “Obviously, my dear, you’re wrong.”

  The smugness rasped on Candra’s nerves. She let her gaze drift downward, and put a hint of contempt in her tone. “Are you going to a costume party, or have you mistaken the date for Halloween?”

  “I’m not the one who’s made a mistake. You are.”

  There didn’t seem to be any point in pretending ignorance. Candra was too tired and too angry to try, anyway. “This is because of the money. Look, it isn’t personal. I need money, a lot of it, and this is the only way I can think of to get it. It’s a one-time thing.”

  Her assurance seemed to pass unheard. “Did you really think I’d let you wreck what I’ve worked so hard for?”

  “You knew what you were getting into, so don’t play the victim.”

  “What I know is that if there’s a victim, I won’t be it.” The words were soft, almost serene. The approach was not.

  Suddenly alarmed, Candra backed up. “Get away from me! Get out of my apartment.”

  “You aren’t giving the orders now, darling.” A gloved hand lifted, and in it was a long-bladed kitchen knife.

  Candra made an instant decision, feinting to her left as if she would make a break for the door. Immediately she cut back right and dived for the telephone. It wasn’t a cordless; she had gone for style over convenience and chosen an ornate European desk model. She had time to punch in the 9 before the blade slashed downward, catching her on the arm. She screamed and threw herself backward, catching her right heel on the leg of the telephone table and sprawling on her back. She rolled, still screaming, and managed to gain her feet before the knife plunged into her back. An agony that was both icy and burning-hot speared through her, almost making her faint.

  Desperately, her vision dimming, Candra threw herself forward, away from that searing blade. “No no no,” she heard herself babbling. She lurched to the side, trying to throw herself over the back of the sofa to gain some time, but she was clumsy from shock. Her elegant high heel caught on the carpet and her ankle turned with a sickening wrench that almost overrode the pain in her back. The shoe twisted off, and she fell on her hands and knees. Another tongue of cold fire pierced her, below her right shoulder blade. And again, farther down in her side.

  The pain convulsed her, drew her body tight with agony. She couldn’t even scream. Her mouth gaped open in a silent battle for air, but her lungs refused to cooperate. Somehow she rolled again, gained her hands and knees, and crawled. The effort was superhuman, and yet she knew it wasn’t enough. She knew.

  She toppled over onto the thick carpet and feebly kicked out. Through a dark haze she saw the blade flashing down again, and she managed to raise her left arm. She felt the shock of the blow, but no pain. Then there was another thud, this time in her chest; her ribs gave under the force of the impact. Another blow, into the soft flesh of her belly.

  She gasped, flopping on the carpet like a landed fish. Time slowed to a feeble crawl, or perhaps it only seemed as if a long time passed. The terrible pain ebbed, to be replaced by a growing lassitude. Something must have happened to all the lamps; all she could see was a faint glimmer of light coming through the darkness. She needed to move . . . The knife . . . but the knife wasn’t there anymore. She could just lie there, in the dark, feeling an odd coldness spread through her body, feeling her heartbeat slow. . . slow. . . slow. . . stop.

  Her assailant watched the moment of death. The disgusting release of bladder and bowels was somehow pleasing; the bitch deserved to be found in her own embarrassing waste.

  The scene had already been set. The apartment had been thoroughly searched, but no interesting packet had turned up, damn it. That was a problem, a big one. It was a good thing they had been smart enough to take precautions.

  Thank God for the phone call warning that Candra had left the party early and was on her way home, otherwise the outcome could have been very different. What money Candra kept in the apartment, as well as her jewelry, had been gathered. The refrigerator door was open, which would suggest a burglar had been in the kitchen when Candra surprised him. That would also explain the use of one of the knives from the expensive set Candra kept next to the cutting board: a weapon of opportunity.

  The gloved fingers opened, let the knife drop to the floor beside the body. The knife belonged here; it couldn’t be tied to anyone but the victim.

  A screwdriver was taken from a hip pocket. A few minutes at the door with the tool made the lock look as if it had been carefully jimmied. No real damage done, not enough for a woman coming home to a dimly lit hallway to notice, but the police certainly would. An unforced entry would mean she either opened the door herself, which would imply she knew the person, or that a key had been used. A forced entry would indicate a stranger.

  The money and the jewelry—mostly jewelry, very little cash—were in a small black bag. That bag would be put in a very, very safe place—just in case it were ever needed.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Sweeney left her bed a little after three A.M. She made the trip through the dark apartment without stumbling or hesitating. Her expression was calmly distant; she scarcely blinked. Her heartbeat was slow and regular.

  When she reached the unfinished painting, still propped on the easel, she stood before it for a long time with her head slightly tilted, as if listening to some unseen voice.

  Her movements were slow, dreamy, as she mixed a rich brown pigment and then darkened it with black. When the shade was that of dark, lustrous mink, she began to paint, her precise brushstrokes re-creating a fan of dark hair, spread in disarray across an oatmeal carpet.

  The face was