Change of Heart

by Jenna Bennett

  “Ah.” I couldn’t see him, but I could hear the grin in his voice. “You gonna play puzzles, darlin’?”

  “I’m going to try,” I said. “It’ll give me something to do while I wait for Grimaldi to get here.” Or not. It was possible she wouldn’t be interested in the information I had. “You still think I should call her, right?”

  He hesitated. “Don’t you?”

  “I think... probably, yes. It seems like too much of a coincidence. If he’d been here for the meeting and everything had seemed like normal this morning, maybe I wouldn’t think so, but the fact that he’s gone...”

  “Let me know how it goes,” Rafe said.

  I promised I would. “I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” Rafe said, and hung up.

  Chapter Seven

  Tamara Grimaldi answered on the first ring. “Ms. Martin.”

  “Detective.”

  “Your boyfriend gone again?”

  “No,” I said, with dignity, “he’s at Mrs. Jenkins’s house, painting.”

  “So what can I do for you?”

  I meant to tell her about Tim, I swear I did. Instead, the words that fell out of my mouth were very different. “It’s my niece’s birthday this weekend.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you already know that?”

  “I may have heard something about it,” Grimaldi said.

  “Did Dix invite you to come down?”

  “In my job, it’s hard to make plans.” It wasn’t a straight answer, but it sounded like he might have. “Is there a problem?”

  “Just the usual. My mother hates my boyfriend. My boyfriend doesn’t want to upset my mother. And either way, I fail someone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. I’ll figure it out.” I mentally shook myself. “I actually called to talk to you about something else. The Armstrong case.”

  “I told you—”

  “You did. This is different.” However, I was rethinking my plan of telling her about Tim’s bloody hands and sinister disappearance while I was sitting here, just across the lobby from Brittany’s desk. Brittany is vacant, but that might be pushing it. “Are you in your office?”

  “No,” Grimaldi said, without elaborating.

  “Could we meet somewhere?”

  She sighed. “Why don’t I just come to you? Where are you?”

  I told her I was in my office, and she said she’d be here in a half hour. We both hung up, and I opened the envelope and shook the shreds of Tim’s calendar pages across my desk and went to work.

  By the time the detective walked in, I had managed to piece together approximately half of Friday’s calendar page. I was starting to get a feel for what the guy looked like: fair skinned and seriously built, with long, blond hair falling over his extra-broad shoulders. Some form of Norse god, at a guess, or at least that general type. It made it easier to sift through the various strips of male skin: I could eliminate the ones that were darker-skinned and the ones with darker hair.

  When the door opened, I looked up and into the lobby, and as soon as I recognized the detective’s dark curls and businesslike overcoat, I raised my voice. “Over here.”

  She stopped in the doorway and arched her brows. “Puzzles?”

  “Something like that.” I left the mess on the desk and got to my feet. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”

  “Sure,” Grimaldi said. “Coffee shop?”

  “Conference room.” Once she heard what I had to say, she’d probably want to take a look at Tim’s office, and it was just as well if it were within easy reach.

  Brittany eyed us curiously as we headed across the lobby, but she didn’t say anything. I ushered the detective into the conference room and made sure the door was closed behind us. She watched with her eyebrows elevated as I gave the room a once-over to make sure no one was hiding in the corners. “What’s this about, Ms. Martin?”

  “Tim Briggs,” I said and sat down.

  Detective Tamara Grimaldi is a few years older than me, and looks like a cop. Her name is Italian, and so is she, I imagine. She has black hair, brown eyes, straight brows, and an olive complexion. She’s not unattractive; in fact, she’d probably be quite the looker with some makeup, and dressed in something other than her usual severe business suit and low heels.

  She took a seat across the table from me. “Your colleague?”

  “My broker,” I said. “Since Walker left.”

  “What about him?”

  “Remember when I told you that the name Brian Armstrong didn’t ring a bell? Well, yesterday afternoon...”

  I told her about the open house that didn’t happen, how Tim hadn’t called me, how I had found him in the bathroom on Saturday morning rinsing blood from his hands, and how I’d stopped by his house yesterday afternoon to look for him but he hadn’t been there.

  “He’s not answering his phone. His voice mailbox is full. He didn’t show up to the sales meeting this morning, and no one’s heard from him.”

  About halfway through my retelling, Grimaldi had pulled out a notebook and started taking notes. “So you think he had something to do with Brian Armstrong’s death.”

  “I have no idea what I think,” I said. “But he was here at the office, a mile or two from Shelby Park, the morning the body was found. He doesn’t live on this side of town. He had blood on his hands and there was a bloody handprint on the trunk of his car. If Brian was taken to the park by car, chances are someone kept him in the trunk, since having him sit upright in the passenger seat might mean that someone would recognize him, or at least notice that he wasn’t breathing.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “So Tim was the Armstrongs’ real estate agent.”

  “So it seems. I haven’t looked at the contract, but his sign is in their yard.”

  “The contract would be in his office?”

  “I assume it is,” I said, kicking myself for not looking for it. “If it isn’t, it’s either at Tim’s house or in his car. Brittany should have a copy, though.”

  Grimaldi made a note on her pad. “When you saw him on Saturday morning, did anything strike you in particular? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Other than the blood, you mean?” I thought back. “He was dressed very casually. More so than I’ve ever seen. Jeans and a sweatshirt.”

  “A lot of people wear jeans and sweatshirts on weekends,” Grimaldi said.

  I shook my head. “Not Tim. He wears designer jeans and Ralph Lauren Polo shirts to participate in the annual Habitat for Humanity home build.”

  “So you think he was deliberately dressed in old clothes because of the blood.”

  “He told me he was going to a new construction site. Those can be dirty. But I’ve seen him take clients to new construction homes before, and he’s never looked that casual. And there was no Saturday morning appointment written on his calendar. So yes, I think there’s a chance it was because of the blood. Because he didn’t want to get blood on his nice clothes.”

  “Did you ask him about the blood?”

  “He said he had a nosebleed,” I said, “but I saw no signs of one. Not on his face and not on his clothes. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have had one. But...”

  She nodded.

  “And he did seem a bit startled when I walked in. But that could have been just because it was early and he didn’t expect anyone else to be here.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t expect anyone else to be here,” Grimaldi said dryly. “And then he asked you to fill in for him at an open house yesterday afternoon. Was that unusual?”

  I shook my head. “I sit open houses for him all the time. He has a lot of listings; I don’t have any. But he usually gives me more notice than that. If I hadn’t accidentally walked in on him, I don’t know if he would have asked at all. He hadn’t said anything about it before.”

  “And you’d seen him recently?”

  I’d seen him practically every day the previous week, includ
ing Friday afternoon just before the office closed. I told her so and added, “He never said a word about it. He was probably planning to do it himself. But if he’d killed Brian, he’d want to distance himself from anything to do with the Armstrongs, don’t you think?”

  “Quite possibly,” Grimaldi said, making notes. “So you didn’t see him again for the rest of the day on Saturday.”

  I hadn’t. I’d gone home, read my romance novel, and waited for Rafe.

  “Speaking of your boyfriend, did you figure out what he did this weekend?”

  “Helped Wendell Craig transport a witness,” I said.

  “For the TBI?”

  So I assumed. He hadn’t actually said so, but surely that was implied.

  “I thought Mr. Collier was done with the TBI.”

  “So did I.” And I don’t mind admitting the fact that he might not be made me nervous. “You know, it would be OK if you called him Rafe. He calls you Tammy.”

  “I know he does,” Grimaldi said, her voice grim. She looked back down at her pad. “So you didn’t speak to Mr. Briggs again on Saturday, or on Sunday morning. Tell me again what happened when you went to the Armstrongs’ house yesterday afternoon.”

  I told her again, using different words this time. I’ve been on the receiving end of the detective’s interviews before, so I know she always asks the same question a couple a times, in a couple different ways.

  “And then you went to Mr. Briggs’ home.”

  “After I tried to call him, yes. He wasn’t there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I knocked on the door,” I said. “He didn’t answer. And his car was gone.”

  “And this morning he didn’t show up for the office meeting.”

  “I asked if anyone had heard from him, and they said no. No one’s seen him or spoken to him since Friday.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Anything else you can think of?”

  I thought about it. “Nothing comes to mind. What are you going to do?”

  “Verify some of this with your receptionist,” Grimaldi said. “Take a look at the Armstrong contract and make sure of the connection. Then head over to his house and see if anyone’s home.”

  I opened my mouth, but before I’d managed to say anything, she sighed. “I can’t stop you from driving over there, can I?”

  I closed my mouth again. No, she couldn’t. Obviously she wasn’t about to offer me a ride—likely that would be unprofessional, since we didn’t, after all, work together—but she couldn’t keep me from, accidentally-like, being outside Tim’s house at the same time she was there.

  “I’ll call Rafe,” I said.

  “Give him my regards,” the detective retorted. “Introduce me to your receptionist, if you don’t mind. And for now, let’s keep the information about Mr. Briggs between us. The fact that a client of the company has been murdered is reason enough for me to want to look at the file.”

  Indeed.

  So I took her back to the lobby and did as directed. Brittany immediately got a deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes, that didn’t fade even when Detective Grimaldi told her she just wanted a look at the Armstrong file.

  She didn’t demur, though, just fished it out of the file drawer and handed it over.

  “Thank you.” Grimaldi picked it from her shaking hand. “Come with me, Ms. Martin.” She strode back toward the conference room. I scurried after, with a grimace at Brittany over my shoulder.

  “What was that about?” I asked when we were once again safely ensconced behind the closed door.

  Grimaldi glanced up at me. “What?”

  “You scared her.”

  She glanced at the door, and through it to Brittany. “Guilty conscience?”

  “You think she’s involved in this?”

  She shrugged. “More likely, she and her boyfriend indulge in some recreational weed in their time off, and she’s afraid I know about it.”

  “You know her boyfriend?” His name was Devon and he was a musician, of the lank haired, tattooed and pierced variety. I wouldn’t be surprised at all to learn he engaged in recreational marijuana.

  “No,” Grimaldi said, “but I know the type.” She pushed the file in my direction. “Have a look at this and tell me if anything strikes you.”

  I sat down, obediently, and pulled the file toward me. Three minutes later I pushed it back. “Everything looks normal.”

  “Nothing illegal? Nothing like that...” she hesitated, “net deal we came across in Mrs. Puckett’s file back in August?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing like that. Everything looks just the way it should. It’s a straight-forward listing agreement. No red flags at all.”

  “Good to know. At least we don’t have to worry about that.” She closed the manila folder and got to her feet. “While you take this back to Brittany, I think I’ll stop by the powder room.”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said, lifting the manila folder.

  “Mr. Briggs’s office is located in the back as well, if I recall?” She’d been here before, first when Brenda died, and then after Clarice did.

  “Last door on the right. He took over Walker’s office in August. The bathroom is on the left before you get there. Let me know if you need a plastic baggie or anything. We have some in the kitchen. I may even be able to rustle up a Q-tip, if you need one.” For swabbing the drain.

  “Thank you,” Grimaldi said, “but I brought my own. I’ll stop by on my way out.”

  “I’ll be in my office.”

  The detective nodded. I opened the door, and we went our separate ways, me with another out-loud pointer toward the bathroom, so Brittany wouldn’t wonder what the detective was doing in the back of the office for so long. Grimaldi headed that way, and I gave Brittany the folder back.

  “Is everything all right?” she whispered.

  “Of course. She just wanted to see the file because Mr. Armstrong died.”

  Brittany nodded, tucking it away in a drawer. “When is she leaving?”

  “She went to the bathroom,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll go when she’s finished.”

  Brittany glanced down the hallway.

  “Is there some reason you don’t want her around?”

  Brittany shook her head but looked worried, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip.

  “Have you heard anything from Tim?”

  “No,” Brittany said.

  “Would you tell me if you had?”

  “Of course.” She looked offended.

  “I’ll be in my office,” I said, and went there. And returned to pushing shreds of paper around.

  Grimaldi came back into the lobby after ten minutes or so. If Brittany wondered what she’d been doing for all that time, she didn’t ask.

  Grimaldi leaned a shoulder on my doorjamb for a second and watch me sift through shreds. “I’m going to head out.”

  “Still to the same place?” It was just as well to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind and was still planning to hit Tim’s house. And better if Brittany didn’t realize it.

  She nodded.

  “I haven’t called Rafe,” I said.

  “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll see you later.”

  She turned and headed out. I scrambled to shove all my paper shreds into the envelope and pull on my coat before I followed.

  By the time I got outside, she was already in her car with the engine running. I hustled across the parking lot to the Volvo and slid behind the wheel. Then I cranked the key over with one hand while I dialed Rafe with the other. “Want to take a break?” I asked when he answered.

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “Depends on what you have in mind, darlin’.”

  “Not what you’re thinking.” I explained that I had called Grimaldi and that she was on her way to Tim’s house as we spoke.

  “I’ll pass,” Rafe said, his voice echoing. “I’m in the middle of painting.”

  “You’d rather paint than spend time with Grimaldi and me?”


  “If there was any chance the two of you would get naked and mud wrestle,” Rafe said, “I’d consider it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yes, darlin’. I like Tammy, but not that way.”

  Good to know. “Hopefully we won’t find Tim dead on the floor of his house.”

  “If you do, Tammy’ll take care of you.”

  “I’d rather have you take care of me.”

  “I’d rather take care of you too,” Rafe said, “but you don’t need me for this.”

  Probably not. And much as I wanted him, I also wanted him to finish painting the house so I could sell it. I was looking forward to my very own first listing. “I’ll see you at home later, then?”

  “Yes, darlin’,” Rafe said, “you will.”

  Good. I put the car in gear and slid out of the parking lot into traffic.

  Chapter Eight

  The detective was already parked in Tim’s driveway when I pulled up to the curb. I got out of the car and slammed the door behind me, and she did the same. “Nice place,” she told me when I reached her.

  I nodded. “Very. If you like the old, anyway.”

  She glanced at me. “Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I grew up in an 1839 antebellum mansion.”

  “But you live in a new condo.”

  “Apartment,” I said. “I don’t own it. Not enough income after the divorce to get a mortgage. If I could afford it, I would buy a house. An old house.”

  “Yet Mr. Collier is working to put the house on Potsdam Street on the market.” What she didn’t say, but which was certainly true, was that if I wanted old and historic, Mrs. Jenkins’s house fit the bill to a T. An 1880s Italianate Victorian with gingerbread trim on the porch, a round tower on one corner, and a ballroom that takes up the entire third floor.

  “He doesn’t think it’s safe for me to live there,” I said. “And you know if Rafe doesn’t think it’s safe, it’s got to be pretty bad.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “That area doesn’t have the lowest crime rates in town, certainly.”

  “I do like old houses, though. That’s why I went into real estate in the first place.” After dropping out of law school, getting married, getting divorced, and spending a couple of years selling makeup at the mall to make ends meet. “Where do you live?”