The Third Sin (17 page)

“She was wearing your coat, and her bag looked like one of yours,” Keith said. Sonya heard the questions he wasn't asking.

“I gave her my coat since the garage is so cold and she had on the barest minidress. I didn't realize her bag was like mine, but lots of women have similar bags.”

Belatedly, Sonya realized that Kirsten would have naturally taken her bag with her so she would have had her identification with her if the guard wanted to see it.

“Red, when I saw her lying there, with that red hair and your coat, I was convinced it was you.”

“Oh, no, Keith.”

He spoke softly. “I think the killer was after you.”

 

Chapter
21

F
RIDAY MIDNIGHT

Sonya's apartment

“Keith, please come home now. Get them to let you off duty now … right away,” Sonya pleaded, feeling her heart pound in her chest. “I can't be alone.” She knew he would hear the fear in her voice.

“I already asked, and they're arranging for one of the other guys to fill my spot tonight. I just need about five to sign off on my report, and then I'm heading home. I'll be there in a few minutes. Try to stay calm and wait for me, honey.”

“Hurry, Keith.” Sonya felt like shrieking into the phone. “I know this is my fault. I let Kirsten go to the garage. When she didn't come back, I thought she was just being irresponsible and I went home without checking on her.

“Now Kirsten is suffering because of me. Instead of me.”

“Honey, honey,” Keith said soothingly. “Don't blame yourself. You told me it's part of her job to get the tapes together. It was natural for her to do it. There's no way you could have known.”

Realizing that if she had gone to get the tape, she would now be wounded, perhaps dead, Sonya started to hyperventilate. She clenched her hand so that her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palm. The pain made her breathe easier. Guilt over Kirsten and fear for her own safety threatened to overwhelm her.

“Tell me she'll live,” she demanded shrilly.

“Honey, she was unconscious when we got to the garage,” Keith said. She could tell he was trying hard to be patient with her. “The paramedics said the bullet damaged some blood vessels, so she lost a lot of blood, but they thought she would be okay.”

Sonya realized Keith had said all this before but she was having trouble taking it in. “Have you got a report from the hospital?”

“She's in surgery.”

“I feel as if I've murdered her.”

She pictured him shaking his head as he replied, “You haven't murdered anyone. This is not your fault, and I love you. I'll be there before you know it. In the meantime, be sure your door is locked and don't open it for anyone other than me.”

As soon as he hung up, Sonya became frantic. Her apartment seemed unfamiliar and filled with frightening dark corners. Overwhelmed with a need to be surrounded by light, she rushed from room to room and lamp to lamp, turning everything on until the apartment was blazing.

She set a chair close to the front door and sat there, trying to control her fear, waiting for Keith. She tried not to think of the dark garage and what had happened there.

It seemed like an eternity before she heard a soft knock on the door and Keith's voice saying, “Honey … Red … it's me, Keith. You can open the door.” She leaped from her chair. Her cold hands fumbled with the locks but at last she managed to let Keith in.

He closed and locked the door behind him, then took her in his arms and kissed her. Still holding her close, he half-led and half-carried her to the sofa. He kept one arm around her as they sat, pressed close together. She looked up at him and said, “I just couldn't be alone.”

Keith replied by leaning down and gently kissing her. Sonya rested her head on his shoulder. The feel of his solid body gave her comfort. For the first time since he had called with the news about Kirsten, she felt safe.

“I'll pour you a glass of wine,” he said. “It'll relax you.”

She watched him cross the room, open a bottle of her favorite red, and pour it. Despite all her reservations about their relationship, she realized she was deeply committed to him.

“What you've got to do is to tell me exactly what happened,” he said as he sat down again and handed her the glass. “Take your time, and if you feel upset, you can stop until you feel better. But I need to know what happened tonight.” He took his notebook and pen out of a pocket.

“What happened?” She sipped the wine and shook her head, trying to focus her thoughts. Keith had a job to do. She didn't know if she could help, but she would try. For Kirsten's sake.

“You said you got a call saying there was a tape in the garage and to come and get it,” Keith prompted.

“Yes,” Sonya said, nodding. “I was going through a pile of tapes that Perry left on my desk. They weren't as well-organized as usual, so I wasn't surprised to hear that one was left in the van. It does happen from time to time.”

“Did you recognize the voice on the phone?”

“No, I assumed it was one of the guards. I rarely speak to them, so there is no way I would recognize it.” She stopped for a moment, trying to remember the exact conversation. “But now that I think about it, his voice was not very clear.”

“What did he say?”

She took another sip of wine and spoke slowly as she “heard” the man's voice again in her mind. “He said he was going off duty, that the company messengers had all left, and he didn't want the responsibility of leaving it in the guards' station all night.”

“Did you ask who had given him the tape?”

“No. I assumed Perry had found it when he was restocking the van and had left it for me. I was annoyed that he hadn't brought it to the office as he usually does. I didn't want to stop what I was doing to go get it.”

Sonya's voice shook and Keith put a comforting hand on her arm. She took a deep breath and continued, “I was concentrating on the interview with Bella Bruckheimer. I wanted to get a better idea where the story was going.”

“So you asked Kirsten to get the tape?”

“Yes, Keith, I did. And now I'll never forgive myself,” Sonya replied hoarsely.

“Go easy on yourself, Red. You had no way of knowing this wasn't a normal occurrence. There was nothing about the call to make you suspicious.” Sonya shook her head, not ready to let herself off the hook.

“Well, whoever he was, he's a professional. No one saw him come or go, so we have no description, unless Kirsten can give us one when she recovers. The guard heard nothing, so we are assuming the gun had a silencer, since normally shots would have echoed loudly in that mostly deserted concrete garage.”

“Why would anyone want to shoot me? The main thing I'm working on is the diamond story.” Sonya stopped, realizing what she had said. “The diamond story,” she repeated. “Is that a murder story, Keith?”

He nodded. “Yes, it's definitely a murder story. We got the first results of the autopsy on Wade Bruckheimer. He died from an overdose of sleeping pills in his ice cream.”

“In his ice cream?” she asked.

“That's what we think. Under his bed, we found a spoon and the top to one of those special cartons of custom-made ice cream he ate every night. And there was melted ice cream in the bird's water pan. The ice cream in the bird's dish and the residue in the spoon were tainted with sleeping pills. We're checking the container lid and the spoon for prints and the crime-scene team is reviewing everything else they gathered, looking for more evidence.”

“So, that's how it was done—ice cream laced with sleeping pills,” Sonya said.

“Yes. That's it.”

“But why would anyone want to kill me?” she asked.

“Something you did, or something you know—or just the story itself—is a threat to the murderer.”

“I can't imagine what or who that could be. I've only done two interviews—the one with Wade and one with Bella.”

“Who else have you talked to about the murder?”

Sonya thought for a moment. “No one except Kirsten and Donna.” She paused. “Obviously it's not Donna, and it doesn't make sense for it to be Kirsten—she wouldn't have gone down to the garage if she'd planned for me to be shot.”

“Any idea who might have wanted Wade Bruckheimer dead? Because it's likely that the same person went after you.”

“No idea. But I had a nagging idea, when I was looking at the tapes, that there was something in the apartment that might be a clue, something I wasn't seeing clearly. I have to go through all the tapes again.” Mentioning the tapes reminded her of Kirsten. She stood, saying, “Keith, I want to go to the hospital now.”

“Red, it's four in the morning. The hospital's not going to let you in; you're not family.” He got up as he spoke, then kissed her. “You need to rest. I'm here and I'm going to keep an eye on you, and after we've both gotten some sleep, we can go over there.”

“Yes, I guess you're right,” Sonya said reluctantly. “Should I call Donna?”

“One of the other detectives probably took care of that.” Keith stroked her hair for a moment; Sonya rested her head on his shoulder and put her arms around his waist. He whispered, “Now before we go to bed, can I get you something? Tea? Another glass of wine? Scotch?”

“More wine would be nice.”

He refilled her glass, then poured some for himself. Now that the shock was receding, the wine warmed her as she drank. For the first time since she had picked up the phone and heard Keith's voice, Sonya began to feel that she could cope. They walked into the bedroom together.

“This will cause a tremendous stir at the network,” she said. “All the executives will want to have their say; Kirsten's granddad was the founding father of the news department.”

“You're right,” he replied. “But the killer was after you, not Kirsten. He phoned you and he was expecting to see you. He made the same mistake I did, because of Kirsten's hair and the fact that she was wearing your coat. He knew what you looked like, and he saw what he was looking for.

“Hell, when I first saw her lying there,
I
thought she was you. I went through hell in that minute—I thought I had lost you.”

She put her wineglass on the bedside table and hugged him.

He shook his head. “Whoever did this must think he got you. He'll be very disappointed when he hears the news. You have to be careful from now on, until we catch him. You must never be alone.”

 

Chapter
22

S
ATURDAY, 8:00 A.M.

The den in Irina's apartment

It was absurd to cry over the diamond now that it had been returned. But, as Irina told herself many times, the Braganza was more than the most beautiful yellow diamond in the world. It was her life, bringing her comfort in the worst times. Now that Wade was dead, the Braganza was in Harold's hands. Irina smiled to herself. Harold was her loving son. Surely he would let her wear the stone whenever she wanted. Harold would never betray her.

She cradled the diamond in her hands, remembering how excited she had been at nineteen, when the charming, eligible bachelor Douglas Bruckheimer had first let her see it. They had been in the study, in his penthouse, and she had lifted it into the beams of late evening sunlight that had streamed through the window. The jewel's brilliance had illuminated the whole room. Such beauty was a miracle.

Irina had held it against her cheek, enjoying its cool hardness against her soft skin.

“Oh, Douglas, it's divine,” she had cried. “My mother came from a family of jewelers and she has told me stories about gemstones like this, but I never dreamed that one day I would hold one in my hand.”

He laughed at her, saying, “Maybe one day you'll wear it.” He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Stones like this are meant to be worn by beautiful women.” He proposed a few months later and for once in her life, Irina was deliriously happy.

As Mrs. Douglas Bruckheimer she quickly received social recognition and made the A-list of important parties. She always wore the Braganza, even after Douglas resumed his series of affairs with other women. Divorce would benefit neither of them. He would lose the allowance her father had given him as part of the marriage settlement, which covered their living expenses and more. She would lose her place in New York society and access to the Braganza, which she had regarded as her property from the first moment Douglas had handed it to her.

When Harold was born, she thought of taking the baby and running, but never had the courage to do it. Where would she have gone? She was not close enough to any of her New York friends to seek sanctuary with them, and she had no family to offer advice and support.

She'd stayed, and made her peace, such as it was, with Douglas's behavior. She'd made sure that her son appreciated her. For years, Irina Bruckheimer had been a name to reckon with—her appearance at a party, charity fund-raiser, or other event made the occasion something truly special. And she'd worn the Braganza with pride, knowing that she had earned it.

Blair's sharp voice startled Irina out of her reverie. “Irina, what are you doing? Put the diamond back in the safe.”

Irina jerked up and saw her daughter-in-law standing in the doorway. She looked exhausted and Irina knew she had spent the night at Kirsten's bedside. Blair's beige duffle coat was buttoned haphazardly and her untidy blond hair was escaping from the brightly patterned scarf that sagged half off her head. No matter how worried she was about Kirsten, Irina thought, Blair should have taken a moment to make sure she looked good before leaving the hospital, in case any paparazzi were around to see her.

“Harold didn't tell me that he'd found the diamond,” Irina said. “I was frantic with worry, and came to see, if by a miracle, it had reappeared in the safe. And by a miracle, it had.”