The Detective

by Adrienne Giordano

  Brodey gawked. A decorator? This should be good.

  Jenna held her hand up before he could crack wise. “The decorator was hired by a real-estate agency to stage the house of the murder victim. The house has been on the market for two years and they’re about to drop the price. Before they did that, the victim’s estranged wife—they were separated, but not yet divorced—wanted to try redecorating it. I suppose when a house is worth close to two million hiring a decorator isn’t an issue.”

  Brodey let out a low whistle. “I’ll say. Why am I here?”

  “The decorator told Mrs. Hennings about the house, and here we are.”

  “What do you get out of it?”

  “My boss’s undying gratitude for keeping him out of trouble with his wife.”

  Brodey laughed. One thing about Jenna, she knew how to stay on a man’s good side. He pointed to the board. “Whatcha got?”

  “You may remember this case. He was a stockbroker living the good life until the market crashed. For years he’d basically been running a Ponzi scheme with his clients’ money. His marriage fell apart and he was drowning in debt. The FBI eventually caught up to him and he was under investigation.”

  “He was murdered before the Feds charged him, right? Is that the guy?”

  “Yes. On the day his body was found, he didn’t show up for a meeting with his biggest client. That was unusual so his firm called his wife. Apparently he hadn’t updated his emergency contact at the office so her cell phone was the only number they had.”

  “Ah, damn. Don’t tell me the ex found him.”

  Jenna nodded. “In the laundry room.”

  Poor woman. Brodey still hadn’t gotten used to viewing murder victims’ bodies, inhaling that nasty metallic odor of blood and trying to remain unaffected. Forget about a loved one. That? No way.

  Refusing to give in to his thoughts, Brodey stood, arms folded, studying the board. “I think I remember this. Looked like a robbery gone bad, right?”

  “Yes. In the two years since the murder, the widow has spent most of the insurance money settling their debts, but she’s not in the clear yet. It’s a mess. With the divorce pending, the finances hadn’t been worked out. The house was paid off, but she can’t unload it and needs the cash.”

  “Enter our illustrious decorator.”

  Jenna gave him a snarky grin. “You’re so smart.”

  Whatever, wisenheimer. “The house is empty?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  He waved at the board. “No photos. I don’t know what you want me to do without seeing the crime scene.”

  His sister should have known he’d need photos or some kind of visual. Or maybe that was just the way his mind worked. Needing to see how the crime occurred, run the scenarios, figure the timing and options. All of it helped him work a case.

  “I wasn’t sure how involved you wanted to be.”

  Outside of being bored out of his skull, he didn’t want to be involved. He’d made detective only a year ago and wasn’t about to aggravate his boss by poking around in another guy’s case. This case wasn’t even his jurisdiction. This belonged to the North Side guys, while he worked Area Central.

  “Yeah, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m dealing with. Take me to the house. I’ll walk through it and then study what you have here. Then I’ll tell you what I think, and I’m out.”

  Tops, he was looking at two days of research. Two days of not being bored. Two days of getting closer to the end of his disability leave.

  All he had to do was pony up an opinion and send his little sister on her way.

  Piece of cake.

  Chapter Two

  Lexi stood in the expansive living room of the Williamses’ brownstone studying carpet that made her think of dirty snow. Such an abomination. What were they thinking putting that disgusting carpet in this house? Given the budget constraints, she’d have to keep it simple, but she could, without a doubt, restore the house to its classic elegance. Flooring she’d splurge on because the situation begged for hardwood. Everywhere else she’d do subtle but warm paint colors and effective accents with doorknobs, handrails and fixtures.

  “Every inch of this carpet has to come up,” she said to Nate, the contractor she’d chosen for this job. “I’m betting there’s hardwood underneath.”

  And, if it could be salvaged, it would help her budget.

  Nate made notes on his clipboard as they wandered through the house. She liked Nate. They’d worked together on several projects, and although he was closing in on fifty, he had the mind of a thirty-year-old. When he did a renovation, he saw youth and exuberance, and his attention to detail and superior craftsmanship made him her go-to guy on important projects.

  She moved through the kitchen—again with the dirty snow? This time it was on the walls. She had nothing against light beige. Neutrals with the right texture and undertones—wisps of green, yellow or orange—gave a room dimension. Depth. This beige?

  Awful.

  “We’ll be repainting in here.”

  “Just tell me what colors.”

  “Let’s do that soft gray we did in the Wileys’ kitchen. We’ll add color splashes to brighten it up. It’ll be fabulous with the natural light.”

  “Got it.”

  The laundry room off the kitchen came next, and she hesitated at the doorway. Did Nate know a man had been murdered in here? The real-estate agent had assured Lexi the scene had been sanitized, but what made her nervous, made that little twitch in her cheek fire, was what had seeped beneath the tile. When they tore up that floor, would they find dried blood?

  Lexi reached in and groped along the wall for the light switch. Where are you? Got it. The room, roughly ten by ten, lit up, its glossy white walls glowing. A built-in closet with shelves and coat hooks and storage bins lined one wall. The opposite wall housed the washer and dryer.

  How odd that the only room not needing updating was the one room she’d been directed to completely redesign.

  Then again, a dead body tended to destroy positive energy. She glanced at the floor, imagined Jonathan Williams sprawled across the slate-look porcelain and closed her eyes, hoping to clear that nasty image. A dead body definitely killed creativity. Ditch the body. She opened her eyes again. “I’d like to know what’s under the tile. It’s a shame they want this redone. With all the traffic that comes through here, porcelain is perfect.” She waggled her fingers. “Give me your hammer. Please.”

  The tile had to come up anyway and, well, she didn’t want to stress about what had seeped under there. She’d find out now. Face it head-on, as she did any other issue.

  Nate pulled the hammer from his tool belt and handed it over. She squatted, ready to administer that first whack, when the front door chime sounded. Someone coming in.

  “You expecting someone?” Nate asked.

  “No. Hello?” she hollered.

  No response. A few seconds later a man appeared—and what a man he was with all that lush dark hair. He wore a sling on his right arm, flat-front khakis and a white button-down shirt under a leather jacket. The arm in the sling was tucked under the jacket, his sleeve hanging loose. His lace-up oxfords were just the right touch. Not too formal, not too casual. His dark emerald eyes zoomed in on the hammer and his jaw—really nice, strong jaw—locked. Modern-day Indiana Jones here.

  He stepped forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Grabbing the hammer with his free hand, he gave it back to Nate. “You can’t do that.”

  “I most certainly can. Who’re you?”

  “Who’re you? Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re the decorator.”

  Oh, and the way he said it. All sarcastic and snippy as if she was some dope. Some airhead incapable of forming a
sentence. She breathed in, counted to three and stood tall. “I’m the interior designer. Alexis Vanderbilt. Hired by the owner of this home to do my magic. That includes tearing up this tile. Something I’d rather not do, but when a client makes a request, I generally respond.”

  “Brodey?” A woman called from the front of the house.

  Brodey. Had Brenda Williams mentioned a Brodey? Lexi ticked names off in her mind. No Brodey.

  “Back here,” Brodey Whoever said. “I just met the decorator.”

  “Well, technically, we haven’t met. All you’ve done is come in here and make unreasonable demands.”

  That made Brodey Whoever smile, and it wasn’t just one of those run-of-the-mill, see-it-every-day smiles. This smile developed slowly, like a growing—and sometimes devastating—wave. Hello, smile.

  “You’re right,” he said. “My apologies. I’m Brodey Hayward. I’d shake your hand, but...”

  He gestured to his sling just as a stunning brunette stepped behind him. When the brunette spotted Nate and Lexi, her head jerked back. “Oh, hello.”

  Now might be as good a time as any for Lexi to take up meditation. “Excuse me, but who are you people?”

  The brunette angled around Brodey and stuck her hand out. “I’m Jenna Hayward from Hennings & Solomon. I’m a private investigator assisting on Mr. Williams’s case. I believe you’re aware we’d be helping. This is my brother Brodey. He’s a—”

  “I’m helping,” Brodey interrupted, clearly not wanting his sister to explain.

  How very interesting. Mental note: do an internet search on Brodey Hayward.

  The investigators. Got it. Lexi shook Jenna’s hand. “Right. I’m sorry. Mrs. Williams hadn’t mentioned you were coming by today. We should be done in the next hour or so. Feel free to ignore us. Now, if you’ll step back, I need to see what’s under this tile.” She flopped her hand out to Nate. “Hammer, please?”

  “I don’t think so,” Brodey said.

  “Pardon?”

  “An unsolved murder occurred in this room. Could be potential evidence under there.” He jerked his thumb to the kitchen. “How about working around this area until I can look at it?”

  Again, Lexi breathed deep. Channeled her inner calm. “Mr. Hayward—”

  “Brodey is fine.”

  “Brodey. Great. Thank you. Now, I’m sure the Chicago Police Department has been through here.” She waggled her hands. “They have all their crime-scene people and whatnot. After all, this house has been empty for two years.”

  Two years without an offer because potential buyers were spooked about the murder in a supposed high-security community.

  Imitating her gesture, Brodey waggled his hand. “If it’s been empty all that time, another hour won’t hurt.” He stepped aside. “If you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.”

  The inner warrior in Lexi didn’t just yell, she roared. Frustration railed, turning her vision a starker white than the glossy walls. She didn’t care what kind of an investigator Brodey Hayward was. Treating them like rodents would not do. Relax. This is not a problem until you make it one. Lexi swung to Nate. “Would you give us a minute, please?”

  He nodded. “Sure thing.”

  Jenna, the beautiful brunette, stepped aside, smiling at Nate as he gave her more—much more—than a brief once-over. She smiled, but averted her eyes, letting Nate know in expert fashion he should forget about her and keep on moving. Nice move on her part. But right now, Lexi needed to strike a deal. Figure out how long they needed to be here and when she could start tearing the place apart. Compromise. That was what she’d do.

  “Brodey, I’m trying to get this house redesigned and sold in forty-five days. Do you have any idea what an undertaking that is?”

  He smiled at her, a slow, cocky grin that would surely lead to a sarcastic remark. “I’m sure you’re being well compensated.”

  Bingo. Everyone liked to rip on the decorator. How she hated that word. As if her bachelor’s in interior design coupled with her master’s in business didn’t qualify her for the Intelligent Club. “Okay, well, just so you know, it’s a huge undertaking. But I’ll get it done. I’m a woman with the promised land in sight and I want the promised land. Tell me how long you need to be in here and I’ll see if I can make that happen.”

  “So, all you care about is selling this house? Doesn’t matter that a guy bled out in here?”

  Of course it mattered. That was the point. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. This place has been a financial drain on Mrs. Williams. And, simply put, I like her and she deserves a break. If we get the house sold, she can put her children’s lives back together. If that’s even possible.”

  Behind Brodey, his sister was all big blue eyes taking in not just every word, but every vowel, and Lexi didn’t like an audience. She sighed, grasped the sleeve of Brodey’s jacket and drew him into the kitchen away from Jenna.

  Once in the far corner, Lexi let go of him and folded her arms. “We’ve definitely gotten off to a bad start here. I want to help you. I do. And it’s not about my compensation.”

  Not entirely.

  Brodey, quite handsome in his khaki pants and button-down shirt, studied her. Typically, she didn’t go for noncorporate guys. And it had nothing to do with her being a snob. Not one bit. Her world revolved around the ultrawealthy, and with that came an acceptance of spending ridiculous amounts of cash on items most people couldn’t afford to spend ridiculous amounts of cash on. Regular Joes tended to scoff at twenty-thousand-dollar sofas. For up-and-coming executives, it was the norm.

  And they didn’t think her frivolous for it.

  But something about Brodey Hayward’s dark green eyes made her think of fresh air, lazy days and picnics by the lake. Something she hadn’t allowed herself in a long—very long—time. Her business had taken priority in her life. Yes, she dated, had even thought she’d fallen in love once. At least until she found her up-and-coming executive across his desk exploring his intern’s anatomy. Such a cliché.

  Brodey cocked his head and grinned. “You were saying?”

  She held up one finger. “Right. Yes. I was saying that each day this house sits on the market, Mrs. Williams is one step closer to financial ruin. I can help change that, but it won’t happen overnight. I need to tear up floors and repaint. I need to dismantle part of the house.”

  “And destroy possible evidence.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Which is not my intention. Are you always this way?”

  “What way?”

  “Contrary.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a cop.”

  Lexi dipped her head forward. “You’re a cop? I thought you were a private investigator?”

  “No. Jenna is the PI. I’m a homicide detective. Chicago PD.”

  “Oh.”

  “But, I’m not on this case in an official capacity. I’m giving my sister an opinion. That’s all. I’m here to look at the scene and then I’m gone.”

  “You could have said that. I mean, we went through this whole thing and you’re here for a quick visit?”

  “There might still be evidence somewhere. Particularly in that laundry room.”

  She’d say one thing about Brodey Hayward—the man had a spine. And the way he stood there, shoulders back, so confident and, well, commanding, even in a sling, she didn’t think for one second he’d let her take a hammer to that tile.

  This might take a while. Lexi turned back and peered at the laundry room doorway, where Jenna put her thumbs to work on her phone. “Well, maybe I could work around that room. For now. How much time do you need?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Now you’re just being annoying.”

  Brodey laughed. “Maybe. But it’s partially true. Give me an hour and we’ll see what’s what. Is th
at a deal?”

  “One hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Three

  An hour turned into two and Brodey wasn’t done. He squatted in the laundry room, ran his free hand over a chipped edge of grout. Without the actual case file outlining the details of the crime scene, he couldn’t form any solid opinions.

  He was flying blind. In the dark. Although, if he was flying blind, it would already be dark.

  And, hell no, he would not get sucked into this. He’d give an opinion. That was it. Unfortunately, giving an opinion required a basic understanding of the case.

  “I need the case file,” he said to Jenna.

  His sister stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame. “I don’t have that.”

  “I still need it.”

  Maybe he could cash in on a couple of favors. Or his father could. Being a retired detective, the old man had more contacts in the department. And it would keep Brodey off the radar.

  Alexis strode into the kitchen, her sky-high heels clicking on the tile. “How’s it going?”

  Even on those heels, he looked down at her. Judging by his six-foot-one size, he’d put her at around five-four. Five-five if he wanted to be generous.

  Alexis Vanderbilt.

  Vanderbilt.

  Her name stank of money. Seriously, how many women walked around in five-inch heels, a pair of tight-fitting black pants that made a man’s mind go wild and a blazer over—get this—a leather halter-top-looking thing. Who did that?

  Nobody Brodey knew. That was for sure.

  But he kinda liked it. From a purely male point of view.

  “It’s not going,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need to talk to your client.”

  Jenna stepped farther into the room to make way for Alexis. “I could have Mr. Hennings contact her.”

  Alexis dragged her phone from her jacket pocket. “I’ll call her.”

  Maybe the sexy decorator wasn’t so bad after all. Brodey grinned. “Thank you.”