Cursed Read Online Free

slipped my cell back into my handbag.
    “I know a little about a lot of things,” he answers.
    “Did you really like Amy’s paintings?”
    “You didn’t?”
    By now we’re making good time. Zack has navigated his way out of La Jolla, and Interstate 5 is wide open.
    “Give me Giorgione’s
Sleeping Venus
or Heda’s
Breakfast.
” I sigh. “That’s art.”
    He laughs. “You realize most people our age don’t even know who the Old Masters are?”
    Our age?
I stifle a snort.
    “Age has nothing to do with preference.” It’s what I say, but actually, it does. I was living in Europe during the fourteenth through eighteenth centuries. While the art was magnificent, living conditions were decidedly not.
    Ten minutes later we’ve pulled off the highway and I sit quietly with my thoughts as Zack winds through the maze of one-way streets downtown. We’re not so lucky in finding a parking spot this time. It takes several turns around the block before we spy a driver pulling out of a metered space. Fortunately, we manage to snag it before anyone else.
    I look up at the building while Zack feeds quarters into the meter. “Nice digs.”
    It’s an upscale condo complex, lots of glass, very modern in design. We let ourselves in through a locked entry with one of the keys on the ring Haskell gave us. There’s a concierge desk, unoccupied at the moment, so we walk straight to the elevators. Amy lives on one of the top floors, requiring use of another key to gain access.
    “Secure building,” I note.
    “Maybe not secure enough.”
    The elevator opens and we realize there are only two residences on the floor. Amy’s is to the left. Zack unlocks the door. We pause for a moment to don gloves, then step inside.
    My first impression is that Amy
must
make a good living with her art. The layout of her apartment is open, airy, with windows overlooking the city and the bay beyond. I take mental inventory. There’s a small kitchen and a dining area just to the left of the entryway. There are no dishes in the sink, nothing on the table or on the counters. I open one after another of the cupboards. A few cups and glasses. A set of dishes. No food. Not even crackers or a box of cereal. The refrigerator contains bottled water.
    Zack is looking over my shoulder. “She must order in a lot.”
    Like me,
I think.
    I look for and find a trash can under the sink. It’s empty with a fresh liner.
    “Someone tidied up.”
    “Haskell?” Zack asks. “She said she hadn’t touched anything.”
    I move on to the living room. Amy’s furniture is plain, functional. A couch and a love seat arranged to take advantage of the views. No television or other electronics. I wander over to the windows. There are no curtains or screens. The bay sparkles in the distance and I watch a plane dip into position to land at the airport just visible to the right. The streets below are dotted with houses and other apartment buildings. The city lights must be spectacular at night.
    Zack joins me, follows my line of sight across the street.
    “You thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask him.
    Zack nods. “There is one building across the way that looks into this apartment. Maybe someone saw something the day Amy disappeared.”
    There’s a remote lying on a small table near the windows. It seems out of place since there’s no television or stereo in the room. I pick it up, press a button. The window brightens, as if a shield had been lifted.
    “So much for interviewing the neighbors,” Zack says. “I’ve heard of these windows. Highly energy-efficient. And impossible to see in from the outside. Appears Amy really did value her privacy.”
    I step toward a closed set of doors. They open onto a bedroom. There’s a queen-sized bed, dresser, walk-in closet. The top of the dresser is bare except for three pictures in silver frames. I recognize Amy in one of them—the one the police copied for her missing person’s report. It’s an outdoor shot, probably