Page 61 of The Dollmaker

“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?Nofollowed 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.”

---