Homeport

tell them.” She elbowed him aside and strode down the hall to the next room.
    He all but wrenched her arm out of its socket. “Try to be a little less of a target, Dr. Jones.”
    They worked their way down until he spotted a faint light pooling under the door leading to her office. “You changed for the party here. Did you leave your light on?”
    “No. And the door should be locked. It’s not quite closed.”
    “Take off your shoes.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Take off your shoes,” he repeated. “I want you to be able to run if you have to, not break an ankle in those heels.”
    Saying nothing, she leaned against him long enough to remove them. It should have been funny, she thought, the way he took one, holding it spike out like a weapon as they approached the door.
    But her hand was going damp in his, and she couldn’t find the humor.
    He eased to the side of the door, nudged it. It opened another two inches, then bumped into an obstruction. Once again, Miranda reached under his arm to turn on the overheads.
    “Oh my God.”
    She recognized the lower half of the filmy white gown, the soft glitter of silver shoes. Dropping to her knees, she pushed at the door with her shoulder until she could squeeze inside.
    Elise lay crumpled, facedown. Blood trickled from a wound at the back of her head and slipped over her pale cheek. “She’s alive,” Miranda said quickly, when she pressed her fingers to Elise’s throat and found a fluttery pulse. “She’s alive. Call an ambulance. Hurry.”
    “Here.” He shoved a handkerchief into her hand. “Press that against it. See if you can stop the bleeding.”
    “Just hurry.” She folded it into a pad, wanting the thickness, and applied pressure. Her gaze skimmed over, rested on the bronze Venus she kept in her office. A copy of the Donatello Ryan coveted.
    Another bronze, she thought dully. Another copy. Another victim.
    “Miranda, what—” Andrew pushed in the door, then jerked to a stop. “Jesus. Oh Jesus, Elise.” He was on his knees, fumbling at the wound, at her face. “Is she dead? Oh sweet God.”
    “No, she’s alive. Ryan’s calling for an ambulance. Give me your handkerchief. I don’t think it’s deep, but I need to stop the bleeding.”
    “She needs to be covered. Do you have a blanket, some towels?” Annie demanded. “You need to keep her warm in case she’s in shock.”
    “In my office. There’s a throw. Just through there.”
    Annie stepped quickly over Andrew.
    “I think we need to turn her over.” Miranda pressed the fresh cloth firmly. “To make sure there’s no other injury. Can you do it, Andrew?”
    “Yeah.” His mind had gone stone cold. He reached out carefully, supporting Elise’s neck as he rolled her. Her eyelids fluttered. “I think she’s coming around. I don’t see any blood except for the head wound.” He touched a finger gently to a bruise forming on her temple. “She must have hit her head there when she fell.”
    “Miranda.” Annie stepped back into the room. Her eyes were dark, her voice dull. “Ryan wants you. Andrew and I will take care of her.”

    “All right. Try to keep her calm if she comes around.” She got to her feet, stopping only when Annie squeezed her arm.
    “Brace yourself,” she murmured, then moved over to cover Elise with the throw. “She’ll be all right, Andrew. The ambulance is on its way.”
    Miranda stepped into her office. One ambulance wasn’t going to be enough, she thought dizzily. A couple of handkerchiefs weren’t going to mop up all this blood.
    It was pooling on her desk, dripping down to soak into her carpet. Splatters of it were on the window behind her desk like sticky red rain.
    On her desk, flung onto his back with red spreading over his frilled white shirt, was Richard Hawthorne.
     
    Security kept the press and the curious away from the third floor. By the time the homicide team arrived, the scene had been secured, and Elise was on her way to the hospital.
    Miranda gave her statement again and again, going back over every step. And lying. Lying, she thought dully, was becoming second nature.
    No, she had no idea why either Richard or Elise would have been in her office. No, she didn’t know why anyone would have killed him. When they finally told her she was free to leave, she walked downstairs on legs that felt as fragile as glass.
    Annie sat on the bottom step, hugging her elbows.
    “Won’t they let you leave, Annie?”
    “Yeah, they said they were