The Vampire Files - Art In The Blood Part 25

Escott sat next to the door and pretended to look straight out the windshield.

Between us was Alex Adrian, who was doing the same thing, only he wasn't pretending. The stuff inside his mind was keeping him too busy. His face was drained and white, even the lips. His hands with their bandaged wrists were curled protectively around one another, the right thumb and finger twisting his wedding band back and forth in slow, unconscious rhythm. Except for that and the motion of the car, he was perfectly still. He could have been a corpse, right down to the invisible wall behind his eyes.

I'd asked a lot of him, and before things were finished I'd have to ask more-the question was, how much could he stand. He was an unexploded bomb now and I didn't know the length of his fuse.

"Turn here," he said. I nearly jumped-you don't expect a corpse to talk. "It's the servant's drive, better access," he added, his voice soft and distant.

I turned into a narrow break in the curb line. Trees crowded overhead and we rolled slowly along the drive's smooth cement surface for a hundred yards.

"Stop now and get out."

It wasn't a command, only another unemotional direction to follow. I eased the car to a halt and got out, pressing the door shut instead of slamming it. Adrian slid over on the seat, worked the gears, and drove off with Escort. They would circle around to the front of the stone castle Reva shared with Brett and use the main door.

They'd called ahead and were expected company. I was not.

I followed in their wake. The driveway ran by a long slate-roofed garage with four wide doors and then curved away out of sight, masked by the bulk of the main house.

The garage had two stories, but no lights were showing in any of the upper windows, so no chauffeur had been wakened by the pa.s.sing of my Buick. The plain cement gave way to a span of decorative brick in a pattern, which I crossed to get to the house.

Except for a subdued night-light in the kitchen, the rest of the place was as dark as the garage, at least on this side. I found my way to the back garden and the line of French windows that marked the long hall where Bobbi had sung. The place was quiet enough now with all the people gone and looked larger than I remembered. The wind stirred unswept leaves around my ankles and I was just able to pick up the soft rush from the fountain at the far end of the grounds. It seemed like a century had pa.s.sed since the night of the party, when I'd dragged Evan sputtering from the water.

Pressing my ear to one of the doors, I only heard the slow tick of a clock somewhere inside. The quality of the sound m.u.f.fled, went silent a moment, and returned sharp and clear as I slipped into the house and became solid again.

Oriented, I fumed left and walked quietly through a series of rooms and halls, my ears c.o.c.ked and the rest of me ready to vanish at a second's notice. The bedrooms were all upstairs, though. I didn't expect to run into anyone else prowling around and did not.

Like Adrian, Leighton Brett placed his studio on the north side of the house to take advantage of the light. It was a much bigger room and filled with more stuff, but had the same air of organized chaos. A line of wet canvases mounted on different kinds of easels took up a lot of floor s.p.a.ce on one side. They covered many subjects: landscapes, some flowers with a jug, and the start of a bowl of fruit. The air was thick with the smell of linseed oil and the sickening bite of turpentine.

Operating on the principle of The Purloined Letter, I made for them and took a good look, comparing the colors of the canvases with the leftover smears on a palette I found. I was anything but an expert, but they seemed to match, which didn't prove much one way or another-Sandra had used the same colors. We'd probably have to wait and work it from the fingerprint angle later on, just to be sure.

I caught the low voices and approaching footsteps in plenty of time to vanish.

Something clicked after the door swung open, probably the light switch, and they walked into the studio.

"The kitchen really might be better for this," said Leighton Brett. "At least I could offer you coffee or something stronger. I don't keep any supplies here where I work."

"We want nothing," stated Adrian, his voice toneless as ever.

"Then why are you here at this hour?" The question held no exasperation, only reasonable curiosity.

I moved close enough to Escott to give him a shiver and let him know I was around, then floated off a pace. The door was shut, very firmly and quietly, and Escott said, "We must talk."

"All right. About what?"

He did not get a direct answer. They were probably staring at him, reluctant to start now that the moment had come.

"Alex, what is this about?"

"Sandra's murder." This time there was some expression to Adrian's voice, more than enough to put Brett on his guard.

"Jack." But Escott didn't really have to call me, I was already fading into the room.

Brett went comically slack-jawed at this. A whimpering sigh of fear rushed from him and his pupils dilated, turning his eyes to black pits. I clearly heard the jump and throb of his heart. He stumbled away from me, grabbing at the back of a fancy brocade sofa for balance. I kept still and did my best to hold his eyes. They kept dancing from me to Adrian, to Escott, and back as he tried to take it in. I didn't dare look away to see how they were doing, I was completely focused on Brett.

His surprise died abruptly as common sense took over. He'd seen something impossible, therefore he hadn't really seen it. My appearance had been some kind of trick. He was desperate to believe this, I could read it on his face like print on a page.

When he looked at me for some kind of tip-off or confirmation of the joke I had him cold, and he went blank and wide-eyed as a store-window dummy.

I kept my voice low and even and told him to sit down on the sofa. He did so. He wore scuffed loafers and some old paint-spotted pants. Neither of them went with the embroidered Chinese dragons crawling all over his green silk smoking jacket.

Maybe it had been a present from Reva for some birthday or other.

He was tractable now and it was safe for me to divide my concentration. Escott was on the other side of the studio examining the paintings on the easels. Adrian regarded me with caution, but he was not really afraid.

"This is what you did to Evan?"

"More or less."

"How are you able to do it? Why?"

Escott and I had speculated on everything from telepathy to simple hypnosis, which my influencing resembled, and had yet to find a clear answer for how. Why I could do it was directly linked to vampiric survival: it was easier to drain blood from a quiescent source, whether animal or human, than from one awake and fighting the process. I shrugged; now was not the time for a lecture on my changed condition.

Adrian let it go and sank into a chair opposite from Brett to stare at him.

I joined Escott by the paintings. "The colors looked alike to me."

"And they appear to be painted in Brett's style."

"You spot anything that could help?"

He was bent down behind one of the canvases and was comparing it to another he'd taken from a storage rack. "Indeed, yes, while not conclusive, it is certainly worth consideration. The wet painting's supporting frame is of a slightly different construction than the others in this room. It's homemade, while these came from a commercial supplier."

"Sandra and Evan made their own," said Adrian, not looking up from Brett's face.

"They couldn't afford to buy pre-stretched canvas."

Escott peered at the raw edges of canvas through his magnifier. "The weave pattern of the fabric is also slightly different, but I believe-yes, there are some fingerprints in the paint. That will give us the final confirmation at least of the circ.u.mstantial element. As for the rest..." He broke off and replaced the dry canvas on the rack and went to stand just behind Adrian. I sat on the sofa, close to, but not touching Brett.

"I want you to speak freely and answer some questions," I told him. "You will give us the complete truth. You will tell us everything we want to know." I licked my dry lips and nodded to Escott, who leaned forward.

"Brett, did you take some paintings from Sandra Robley?"

"Yes."

"Why did you take them?"

"They were mine."

That puzzled him. "They were your paintings?"Adrian spoke. "He means they were done in his style."

Escott noted that with a quirk of one eyebrow and continued. "Brett, did you kill Sandra?"

"Yes."

He spoke without hesitation, no emotion, no change in his empty face. I looked away from him and kept watch on Adrian. He was also leaning forward from his chair, a sullen fire burning deep in his eyes. Maybe it was hot enough to set off his fuse, maybe not. I was there to make sure the explosion wasn't too destructive.

"Why did you kill her?"

"She was... stealing from me." Now a long shudder sieved through the big man's body and he seemed to shrink a little.

"What do you mean, stealing?"

"My life, all my work, taking it, using it."

Adrian stood up suddenly and crossed to the wet paintings. He glared at them, half reaching for them, then dropped his hands and swung back on Brett.

" You killed for this, because she imitated your-"

"Stole my vision and method, my ideas, and sold them for pennies," Brett whispered.

He stepped toward Brett and I tensed for the rush, but it did not come. It was less self-control than sheer disbelief that kept him from doing anything. He came closer, slowly, and stood over Brett. "Look up at me."

Brett looked up as ordered, with defiance creeping into his expression. My hold on him had slipped, but it didn't matter, he saw only Adrian. Escott and I were just part of the furniture.

"Try to understand, Alex, I worked hard to get here. It doesn't come easy for me, and then when I found out someone was imitating my style, capitalizing on it, using it, degrading it-"

"Stealing what you could have made on it?"

"Not just that-"

"No, it's worse for you, isn't it?" Adrian grabbed two fistfuls of Brett's silk jacket and hauled him to his feet, dragging him close to Sandra's paintings. "You wouldn't have killed her for just the money."

Brett didn't resist and only stared. Adrian released him, took out a landscape from the racks, and held it next to the one on the easel. Side by side you could see the difference. Brett's painting looked like the work of an imitator, Sandra's was the more expert piece.

"The money wasn't that important to you but your precious vanity couldn't take it. Anyone, even one with a crippled soul and no talent can see it. She copied your style because it's popular with the public, it sells, but she was better at it." He turned back to Brett. "She produced the kind of quality you could never hope to master, you knew it, you couldn't stand the thought of it."

Brett slapped the back of his hand at Sandra's canvas, missing it by a fraction.

"She was embarra.s.sed at first-and then she laughed, tried to make a joke out of the whole thing. She asked if I minded very much, that maybe I should be flattered..."

The muscles in his heavy face knotted into something unrecognizable and I knew what Sandra had seen the second before he struck her down. Adrian saw it, too, and sensibly kept his distance.

"Flattered." He looked to be working into something I couldn't stop, unless I stopped it now.

"Brett."

The interruption distracted him just enough. He looked at me and most of the tension left him, but none of the bile. "You helped, you know. You told me about those other paintings and where they were being sold from. I got Sandra's name from them-"

Adrian cut through the smoke. "Don't shift the blame, Leighton, he never told you to kill her."

He didn't like hearing that and shook his head as though the words physically hurt him. "I didn't mean to, I really didn't- you have to believe that..."

Adrian said nothing and turned away. He stopped before the studio door. "The only things I or anyone else can believe are your actions."

"Alex, I am sorry. I lost my temper."

"I'm sure the jury will be more than sympathetic," he murmured.

Brett didn't hear. "It got away from me. I truly am sorry, it was like before, I just couldn't help myself."

Adrian's spine stiffened. "What did you say?"

"I... am... sorry."

I got Brett's attention. "We know you're sorry, now tell us what about."

His tone flattened from pleading to bald fact stating. "I'm sorry about Sandra...

and Celia."Adrian turned, his face all caved in, and h.e.l.l in his eyes. "Celia?"

My influence had put the c.h.i.n.k in the dam. Brett's conscience, what he had of it, did the rest, and the dam broke at last.

"She said she wanted to go back to you. I told her you wouldn't change. You're like nails, Alex, all sharp points and iron outside, and nothing inside but more iron.

What woman could love that? I tried to tell her."

Adrian made a glottal sound and swayed, but stayed on his feet.

"You knew what she'd done, I told her she'd already lost you, that it was too late anyway. She was mine by then-she wouldn't listen to me. She wouldn't admit it to herself and she was wrong, and I hated her for... then later, when I saw how you took it, how much you did love her, I was sorry, more than you'll ever know."

"You killed her?" His lips barely moved.

Brett's eyes stabbed around the floor for an answer. "She'd written me a note breaking it off, said she couldn't go on any longer. I told her it wasn't good enough and that I had to see her. I really tried, but she was in an awful state, and we'd both had a lot to drink. She just would not listen.

"I couldn't stand it, I was so d.a.m.ned angry with her-I just couldn't help myself.

It was quick, she was pa.s.sed out drunk when I took her home. I left her in the car along with the note. She suffered no pain..."He trailed off and finally shut his mouth.

Adrian backed right up to the door, b.u.mped against it, and scrabbled for the k.n.o.b with stiff fingers. It twisted and he got the door open and went out, leaving it to swing free; a gaping hole leading into darkness.

got in front of Brett and froze him to submission and gave him some very precise orders. Escort had taken a step toward the hall, but paused when I said his name.

"Stay here with Brett, I'll go."

He nodded and looked at his charge with more contempt than pity. It was still fresh on his mind that Brett had hired him to keep tabs on the progress of the murder investigation, and being used like that galled his professional pride. He moved toward Brett and put him to work.

Adrian hadn't gone very far. He was in some kind of sitting room down the hall.

In pa.s.sing, I just glimpsed his silhouette against the gray windows.