Delion said, “The Black Beret isn’t a guy. She’s a woman—Kirsten Bolger, to be exact.”
Talk about a conversation stopper. Even the air stilled. Roy Carpenter looked like someone had shot him. His breathing hitched, and he began shaking his head back and forth. “But these two women murdered right here in San Francisco, they were found right away. Not like Arnette; she’s been gone three and a half years.” He turned perfectly white. “Do you mean she didn’t want Arnette found, and so she took Arnette someplace and buried her?”
“We believe so,” Coop said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carpenter.”
“But why did she want to torment me? I didn’t even know her.”
She called you because she’s an unbelievably cruel bitch. Lucy said aloud, “That’s an excellent question.” She sat forward. “Tell me, sir, was your wife by any chance an artist?”
“Why, yes, she was, but—” Roy Carpenter blinked. “She called it her hobby; she always laughed when I told her her paintings were good enough to sell. There, over the fireplace, that’s one of Arnette’s landscapes. Next to it is a portrait she did of her mother. They’re acrylic; that was her favorite medium. I’ve got several dozen of her paintings. I change them out every couple of months. She was very good, don’t you think?”
They rose to look at the paintings. Coop said, “Yes, she’s very good, Mr. Carpenter, very good indeed.” Coop supposed he’d call them neo-Impressionist, with their soft muted colors, the shapes slightly blurred, the trees a bit out of focus, but the colors were beautiful and deep. Her mother was a lovely woman, he thought, her face both haunting and beautiful. He saw hints of pain around her mouth and her eyes, a pain that seemed familiar and to have been with her for a very long time. It took talent to capture that.
Mr. Carpenter was staring at Lucy. “Why did you ask me if Arnette was an artist?”
“I think it might be our tie-in, Mr. Carpenter. Did Kirsten Bolger mention Arnette’s art? Did she say she painted as well?”
“No, not that I remember. Wait, when she said good-bye to me, she said she was off to Post Street to visit the art galleries. I remember I was standing there on the sidewalk, not knowing what to say, and she patted my face and kissed my cheek. I was so surprised I didn’t move. Then she gave me a little wave, pulled her black wig over her head, and sauntered off, whistling. I remember thinking she was crazy. I guess she is.”
“Close enough,” Lucy said.
CHAPTER 19
Washington, D.C.
Sunday afternoon
Savich gave Sean and Marty each a cup of cocoa, told them a third time not to spill it. He said to Sherlock, “That was Delion I was talking to in the kitchen. Kirsten’s trail has gone cold. He said the Porsche Lansford gave her is long gone, no transfer of title, nothing, so she probably sold it for cash. She emptied out her bank accounts the week before the first murder in Chicago. Lots of cash, so it isn’t difficult for her to survive. As for any credit cards, she must have also thrown them away. He can’t find anyone in San Francisco who’s seen her since then.”
Sherlock said, “At least having her identity blared on every TV in the country can’t send Kirsten Bolger any deeper underground.”
“Let’s hope not. There really isn’t an option anymore, now that the Drudge Report posted that leak. No way to keep Ted Bundy out of it, either, too juicy. So now every talking head gets to rock and roll with this crazy killer. I need to get dressed if I’m going to make it to the news conference. Director Mueller wants me front and center when he releases her name to the media.”
Sherlock felt a niggling fear at having Kirsten Bolger focus her mad attention on Dillon. “You want backup?”
Savich watched Sean very nearly tip his cocoa cup. “No, you don’t have to come. Sean, don’t wave your cocoa around while you chase Astro.”
His cell sang out Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli singing “Time to Say Good-bye,” Sherlock’s favorite song of all time. Savich didn’t answer right away, because Sherlock and the two children seemed to be listening to it.
“Savich.”
When he cut off his cell a few minutes later, he said, “That was Lucy. Mr. Maitland asked both her and Coop to be at the news conference.”
“Go make yourself look tough and professional; I’ll watch the cocoa.” But Sherlock simply couldn’t help worrying. That was part of her job description.
The press conference was attended by every media hound inside the Beltway. Savich looked out over the media room, chaotic and noisy, with scores of reporters and TV people setting up their cameras.