The Dollmake (The Forgotten Files 2)

Sharp waited until she reached her husband’s side. “It was tattooed. The ink was designed to look like a doll’s face.”

Mrs. Emery raised a trembling manicured hand to her lips. “I can’t believe this.”

“We’re trying to find out if the tattooing might have been a choice she made,” Vargas said. “We found antidepressant prescriptions in her apartment.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest,” Mrs. Emery said.

“We’re just trying to fill in the gaps of the last three weeks so we can bring you closure,” Vargas offered.

“She didn’t disfigure herself,” Mrs. Emery said. “She was a smart, bright young woman who was mentally balanced.”

“How do you know she would not have tattooed her face?” Sharp asked gently.

“Diane was vain,” Mrs. Emery said, her eyes watering with fresh tears. “She would never damage her face. She likes—liked—to look her best. You make her sound sick.”

Mrs. Emery’s cool demeanor cracked, and she sobbed. She reached for a tissue in her pocket and pressed it under her eyes to catch the spilling tears.

“We’re not trying to put your daughter in a bad light,” Sharp said. “I’m trying to create a picture of the woman she was.” These same questions had been leveled at Sharp’s stepfather, mother, and even him after Kara died. He remembered feeling offended and angry by the assumptions his sister had been a drug addict. “I can only catch this killer if I fully understand Diane.”

A breath shuddered through Mr. Emery as if the anger had drained the last of his reserves. No doubt today had been a living hell since Vargas had made the death announcement. “I know you’re trying to help, Agent Sharp. This just isn’t easy.”

“I know that, sir.” He asked more questions. Did she have a history of drug use? Did she exhibit any erratic behavior? No followed all the questions.

When Sharp and Vargas left the house, he pictured Diane as a rising star in her career. She had taken excellent care of herself, and if she had any vice, it was that she had been vain. She painted in her spare time. Her work hadn’t been Rembrandt, but her parents saved her art pieces because they’d loved her. She was definitely not the kind of woman to disfigure her face.

“So who in her life hated her so much that he wanted to permanently mess up her face?” Vargas asked.

“Why do you assume it was done in hate?”

“He fucked up her face,” Vargas hissed. “It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”

“This work was done with great care and precision. An angry person would not have gone to this length. Remember, there were no signs of infection, and she had been eating. This guy cared very much about Diane.”

Vargas dug in her pocket and pulled out a packet of unopened cigarettes. “You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I were,” Sharp said.

“We need to talk to the boyfriend,” she said, tapping the packet against her thigh.

“I went by his place earlier. There’s no sign of him.”

“This killer isn’t a stranger. Women, more often than not, are killed by someone they know or perhaps by someone who loved them at one time.”

“Tessa said Stanford Madison knew Diane in college. She said they dated.”

“Oh, really,” Vargas muttered as she opened the pack and put a cigarette to her lips.

Sharp pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit the tip of her cigarette. “He has the artistic chops, and she did break up with him.”

She inhaled, shaking her head. “Could it be that simple?”

“I don’t know. But I want to pay him another visit tonight.”

“Count me in.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Friday, October 7, 9:00 p.m.

Sharp and Vargas parked their cars on Hanover Avenue. A full moon glistened over a sidewalk flanked by tall trees clinging hopelessly to their orange and red leaves.

This time there were lights on in the art studio. Sharp and Vargas walked up to the front door. He tried it and discovered it was unlocked. They entered a room filled with the portraits of women painted with exquisite detail. The only furniture was a simple white desk.

“Hello,” Sharp said. “Anyone here?”

From a back staircase came the sound of footsteps, and a muscled man stepped out from around the partition. He was wearing a gray V-neck sweater, jeans, and black boots. “We don’t officially open for a couple more days.”

Sharp pulled his badge and identified Vargas and himself. “We’re looking for Stanford Madison.”

The man twisted a ring on his index finger. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

Sharp sensed the man’s unease. “We came to ask you a couple of questions about Diane Richardson.”

Madison lifted a brow and folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what she’s been telling you, but I can guarantee it’s not true.”

“What would she be telling us?” Sharp asked.

Madison sighed. “We dated, and the breakup didn’t go well. She sat for several portraits for me, and she wanted them back after she left. They were nudes and some of the best work I’d ever done. I said no. She said she’d sue.”

“She didn’t mention the paintings to us,” Vargas said, testing for a reaction.

“What’s she saying about me?”

Sharp shook his head, picking up on Vargas’s lead. “She was upset.”

Madison held his hands up in surrender. “You know how women can be. Emotional. Difficult.”

Vargas raised a brow. “Really?”

Madison looked at her, his gaze imploring. “She and I had a relationship, and it was intense and amazing. She was a muse to me. I created some of my best work when we were together.”

“How’s the work been going since she left?” Sharp asked.

“I’m holding my own.”

“But it’s a struggle,” Sharp offered. “Not eating. Not sleeping. Generally in a foul mood.”

“Sure. You understand.”

“I surely do,” Sharp said honestly.

“When people saw the work I’d done with her, I started to get more commissions, so I didn’t have as much time for her. She didn’t like being ignored, and she became demanding. She got clingy. Then I was told she was stepping out on me.”

“Who was the other guy?” Sharp asked.

“Another artist, I heard. At that point I didn’t care, so I broke it off.”

“Someone told us she broke it off with you,” Vargas said.

Madison laughed as his gaze settled on Sharp. “She’s a woman. You know how it goes. They don’t want anyone to know they’ve been left. What’s this all about?”

Vargas rested her hand on her hip, her index finger tapping her gun holster. “When did you break up?”

Madison’s smile faded. “About four months ago. Why do you care?”

“Bear with us. When’s the last time you saw her?” Sharp asked.

“Six weeks, give or take.” His fingernails were cut short and neat, though there was a hint of paint still embedded in the cuticle of his right thumb.

“Was she into drugs?” Vargas asked.

“No. She’s always saying her body is a temple. The occasional white wine, but that was it.”

“What do you know about tattooing?” Sharp asked.

“I have several, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And Diane?”

“Two, as I remember. She had a filigree at the base of her spine and a heart on the inside of her right ankle.”

“No tattoos on her face?” Sharp asked.

“No. What’s all this about?”

Sharp watched him very carefully. “Diane’s body was found in a park a couple of days ago.”

His eyes widened, and he leaned in a fraction. “That makes no sense. I just saw her.”

“Six weeks ago, right?” Vargas asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where was that?”

&nbs

p; “Here. Like I said, she came by to try and get the paintings I’d done of her.” He shook his head. “Are you sure you found Diane? None of this makes sense.”

“We’re sure.” The guy had paled. He looked upset, but skilled liars always played their part well. “Did you sell or give her any of the paintings?”

Madison ran a trembling hand through his hair. He drew in a breath. “No. Several were going to be the centerpiece of my show next week.”

“May we see the paintings?”

“Why?”

“Curious,” Sharp said.

Madison shook his head as he fisted his right hand. He appeared to be struggling to hold on to control. “I don’t understand how seeing my paintings will help you find out who killed Diane.”