Sally’s bedroom, at the rear of the neat little bungalow, was decorated entirely in earth tones. Three walls were painted beige; the fourth was covered with burlap wallpaper. The carpet was chocolate brown. The bedspread and the matching drapes were a coffee and cream abstract pattern, restful swirls of natural shades that soothed the eye. The highly polished mahogany furniture gleamed where it was touched by the soft, shaded, amber glow that came from one of the two copperplated bedside lamps that stood on the nightstands.
She lay on the bed, on her back, legs together, arms at her sides, hands fisted. She was still wearing her white uniform; it was pulled down demurely to her knees. Her long chestnut-brown hair was spread out like a fan around her head. She was quite pretty.
Bruno sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “Where is Katherine?”
She blinked. Tears slid out of the corners of her eyes. She was weeping, but silently, afraid to shriek and wail and groan, afraid that the slightest sound would cause him to stab her.
He repeated the question: “Where is Katherine?”
“I told you, I don’t know anyone named Katherine,” she said. Her speech was halting, tremulous; each word required a separate struggle. Her sensual lower lip quivered as she spoke.
“You know who I mean,” he said sharply. “Don’t play games with me. She calls herself Hilary Thomas now.”
“Please. Please … let me go.”
He held the knife up to her right eye, the point directed at the widening pupil. “Where is Hilary Thomas?”
“Oh, Jesus,” she said shakily. “Look, mister, there’s some sort of mix-up. A mistake. You’re making a big mistake.”
“You want to lose your eye?”
Sweat popped out along her hairline.
“You want to be half blind?” he asked.
“I don’t know where she is,” Sally said miserably.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying, I swear I’m not.”
He stared at her for a few seconds.
By now there was sweat on her upper lip, too, tiny dots of moisture.
He took the knife away from her eye.
She was visibly relieved.
He surprised her. He slapped her face with his other hand, hit her so hard that her teeth clacked together and her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Bitch.”
There were a lot of tears now. She made soft, mewling sounds and shrank back from him.
“You must know where she is,” he said. “She hired you.”
“We work for her regularly. She just called in and asked for a special clean-up. She didn’t say where she was.”
“Was she at the house when you got there?”
“No.”
“Was anyone at the house when you got there?”
“No.”
“Then how’d you get in?”
“Huh?”
“Who gave you the key?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah,” she said, brightening a bit as she saw a way out. “Her agent. A literary agent. We had to stop at his office first to get the key.”
“Where’s that?”
“Beverly Hills. You should go talk to her agent if you want to know where she is. That’s who you should see. He’ll know where you can find her.”
“What’s his name?”
She hesitated. “A funny name. I saw it written down … but I’m not sure I remember it exactly….”
He held the knife up to her eye again.
“Topelis,” she said.
“Spell it for me.”
She did. “I don’t know where Miss Thomas is. But that Mr. Topelis will know. He’ll know for sure.”
He took the knife away from her eye.
She had been rigid. She sagged a bit.
He stared down at her. Something stirred in the back of his mind, a memory, then an awful realization.
“Your hair,” he said. “You’ve got dark hair. And your eyes. They’re so dark.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked worriedly, suddenly sensing that she was not safe yet.
“You’ve got the same hair and eyes, the same complexion that she had,” Frye said.
“I don’t understand, I don’t know what’s happening here. You’re scaring me.”
“Did you think you could trick me?” He was grinning at her, pleased with himself for not being fooled by her clever ruse.
He knew. He knew.
“You figured I’d go off to see this Topelis,” Bruno said, and then you would have a chance to slip away.”