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professional, judging from the way the background has been blurred to emphasize a pretty thirtysomething redhead with laughing green eyes and an impish smile.
    The second is a picture of an older couple taken on what looks like the front porch of a comfortable suburban home. I hold the picture up to Zack. “Her parents?”
    “Probably. And this one.” He points to the third picture. It’s an informal shot of Haskell and Patterson. They have their arms around each other’s waists and are grinning into the camera. In the foreground is a birthday cake, ablaze with dozens of candles. “Seems to lend credence to what Haskell told us about the two of them being friends.”
    I cross the room to peek into the bathroom. Towels are hung neatly, cosmetics lined up in orderly fashion next to a toothbrush holder.
    “What woman goes on a trip without her makeup or a toothbrush?” Zack asks. He’s rejoined me and is looking over my shoulder into the bathroom.
    From the way she looked this morning, certainly not his ex, I want to say. Instead I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.
    There’s one room left and we check it out together.
    Amy’s office is the only room that reflects more personality than orderliness. This is the room where she undoubtedly spends the bulk of her time. In it are two computers, a laptop and a desktop. Her desk is covered with unopened mail and stacks of magazines. The nearby floor-to-ceiling bookshelves contain everything from Nora Roberts to Nietzsche.
    “A woman of eclectic tastes,” Zack says.
    There are double doors at the back of the room that I assume is a closet. When I pull the doors open, however, I reassess my opinion that her office is where she spends her time.
    This is the heart of Amy Patterson’s home.
    It’s her studio.
    Zack pushes past me. “Look at this,” he says with obvious appreciation. “North light, high ceiling, expansive windows. It’s the perfect setup.”
    “For what?”
    “For a studio.” Zack stops in front of a large canvas spread in the middle of the floor. “The northern exposure means the space is bright, but the light is even. Not shining directly onto the canvas or in the artist’s eyes.”
    “So you know a
little
about art, huh?”
    “This must be the last project she worked on.” He squats down for a closer look.
    I join him. All I see is an explosion of red in a pattern that resembles poppies, intertwined with blotches of bright blue, orange, and dribbles of yellow.
    “It’s beautiful,” Zack says. “Primitive and alive. Soulful.”
    “Yeah. Just what I was thinking.” I stand back and let Zack continue his rapt study of the canvas. I move around the room looking for anything that might give us a clue as to what became of Amy. I stop in front of a credenza covered in plastic and topped with cans, bottles, and tubes of paint. There are brushes soaking in jars of some kind of oil. Others are standing upright in an old ceramic vase. A couple have been left to dry on the top of the workspace.
    I pick one up. The bristles are stiff with red paint. The other one on the credenza is caked with orange.
    Zack has come up behind me. He takes the brush from my hand. “Remember when I asked what kind of woman would go on a trip without her makeup and toothbrush?”
    “Yeah.”
    He turns the brush slowly in his hand. “Well, what kind of artist walks out of her studio and leaves an expensive brush to dry without cleaning it first?”
    “I’m guessing the answer’s the same.”
    He returns to the painting. The canvas is stretched out on the floor, a taut plastic tarp underneath, anchored on the four corners with tacks. There’s a heavy blotch of bright red paint that bleeds from the corners of the canvas onto the tarp as if in her exuberance, Amy overshot her target. It’s at these places that Zack focuses his attention. I remember what Haskell said about those short, intense brushstrokes. What Zack said about Amy being controlled and deliberate.
    He