The Detective

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Terrific. Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  And, hey, Grandma just checked out Brodey’s rear. Backsides were popular with these two. Boundaries, people. Boundaries.

  Lexi shook her head as they stepped into the cramped office of Henry Blade, Esq. Surprisingly young, maybe mid-thirties, considering the man’s office hadn’t been renovated in twenty years, Henry stood to greet them. “Detective, nice to meet you. I’m Henry.”

  The two men shook hands and Henry turned to Lexi, hitting her with his own winning smile. His couldn’t compete with Brodey’s, but he was no slouch, either. “Hello,” he said.

  Lexi extended her hand. “Hello. I’m Alexis Vanderbilt.”

  “Are you a detective, also?”

  “No.” She couldn’t help herself. “I’m an interior designer.”

  One your office needs.

  “Oh,” he said.

  If he wondered why a homicide detective and an interior designer were in his office, he didn’t show it. In his line of work, he probably met all kinds. She certainly did.

  “Have a seat. What can I help you folks with?”

  Lexi glanced at the two guest chairs, found the upholstered cushions infinitely cleaner than the ones in the waiting room and sat.

  Brodey did the same, his big shoulders filling the chair, his gaze focused with such intense confidence that it would terrify mere mortals. God, this man. So hot in a truly annoying way that left Lexi ready to slap him and snuggle up all at the same time.

  “We’re looking for one of your clients,” he said.

  “I see. Obviously, I can’t share any information about cases with you.”

  “I realize that. We’re not interested in your cases. All we want is to locate Ed Long.”

  “Ed Long?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Henry propped one elbow on the armrest. “Hell, I haven’t seen him in two years.”

  Two years. She was no detective, but with Jonathan Williams being dead for that long, the timing fit.

  “Is he in trouble again?”

  Brodey shrugged. “Not sure yet. He approached Ms. Vanderbilt at one of her job sites and there’ve been some thefts in the area.”

  A lie. But there could have been thefts. Who knew? Henry glanced at her, but didn’t ask why a witness would be tagging along on this little jaunt. Whatever his concerns, he went back to Brodey. “And you think Ed did it?”

  “I didn’t say that. We’d like to talk to him about why he was in the area.”

  “What area was this?”

  “Cartright,” Brodey said.

  A few seconds passed with Henry eyeballing Brodey and Brodey eyeballing right back.

  Eventually, Henry lost the battle. “I, uh, once knew someone who lived in Cartright. Our kids went to preschool together.”

  “Let me guess. Jonathan Williams?”

  Henry lurched back, his poker face disintegrating. “How’d you know that?”

  Now, this was fascinating.

  “Ms. Vanderbilt is doing work on Mr. Williams’s home. His widow is trying to sell it.”

  Henry finally looked over at her. “And Ed was there?”

  She pulled the sketch from her briefcase and set it on the desk. “A man pretending to be a neighbor stopped me in front of the house and asked questions. I drew this sketch of him.”

  “You recognize him?” Brodey asked.

  After studying the sketch for a few seconds, Henry put his poker face back together. “Looks like him. He claimed he was a neighbor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Back in lawyer mode, Henry sat back again. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Not only would I be sanctioned by the bar, as I said, I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “I understand.” Brodey pushed out of his chair and extended his hand. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Of course.”

  That was it? All the way over here for that? Lexi opened her mouth, but Brodey had already stridden to the door and opened it. So confusing, this detective work. And she’d blown off clients for this. Sighing, she followed him to the outer office, where the love slave looked up from her paperwork and smiled. “You have a great day, now.”

  “Thanks,” Brodey said. “You, too.”

  When they hit the sidewalk, Brodey latched on to Lexi’s elbow, hanging on to her so she didn’t slide across the ice. “They should salt this,” he said. “Someone could get hurt.”

  On that, they agreed. “Why’d you give up so fast?”

  “Give up? I’m just getting started. He’s a lawyer clamming up. But he told us he knew Williams. That’s damned intriguing.” He unlocked the Jeep SUV and pulled her door open. “With him knowing Williams and Ed Long, we now have a connection. All we have to do is figure out where and when Ed made that connection.”

  “Okay. How do we do that?”

  “We see if he ever visited the Williamses’ home.”

  “Which means asking Brenda.”

  “Yep.”

  Please. He couldn’t honestly believe Brenda Williams, a woman who loved her children more than life, would be involved in their father’s murder? “You’re not thinking she’s a suspect?”

  “I’m not thinking anything. Just chasing down a lead.”

  * * *

  BRODEY PARKED HIMSELF on Brenda Williams’s sofa and scooted to the edge of the cushion, his back straighter than a solid-steel pipe, his face completely neutral. Alert, attentive and nonthreatening. He’d assumed this position many times when speaking with a witness. Or in really rotten situations, a devastated family member. In this case, he wasn’t sure what the hell Brenda was.

  Having a solid alibi, she’d been cleared early on, but how hard had the detectives looked at her on a conspiracy charge? With the mess her husband left—the lying, the millions he stole, the humiliation—it all added up to motive. Motive to collect life insurance by having her husband whacked.

  Bam.

  Beside him, Lexi leaned into the arm of the sofa. She’d been quiet since they’d left the lawyer’s office, and it might have been the longest three hours of his life waiting for Brenda to get home. He hadn’t wanted to leave Lexi alone and tagged along on her appointments to make sure she at least made it to and from her meetings without incident.

  Chatter came from the kitchen, where the kids argued over a notebook. A minute later, the racket died down and Brenda entered the room, closing the French doors behind her. “Sorry. I wanted to get the kids squared away. It’s always crazy around here right when they get home.”

  She dropped into the cushy chair across from Brodey, glanced at him and then to a miserable Lexi, who’d lost her game face somewhere. Either that or she stunk at masking her feelings.

  “Is everything all right?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I wanted to show you a sketch. See if you recognize the man.”

  “Of course.”

  He slid the sketch from the folder he’d set on the coffee table and handed it to Brenda. “Take your time.”

  Before looking down, she met Brodey’s gaze and held it. “Is he a suspect?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Who is he?”

  Unwilling to speculate on what Ed Long’s involvement in her husband’s death might have been, Brodey gestured to the photo. “Do you recognize him?”

  The not-so-subtle hint that he wouldn’t pony up intel worked and Brenda peered down at the photo. She tilted her head one way, then the other, her expression blank. Total gamer. Lexi could take a lesson from Brenda Williams on hiding her feelings.

  She slid the paper away. “I don’t think so. At least he’s not someone I interacted with.”

  “Could he be a friend of your husband’s?”
>
  “Maybe. I didn’t know all of Jonathan’s associates.”

  “Mrs. Williams, I know you’re trying to keep the children out of this. I get it. Believe me.”

  “But?”

  Smart lady. “But after you and your husband split up, the children spent time alone with him at his house. They may have seen people coming and going.”

  “You want me to ask the children to look at the sketch.”

  Statement. Not a question. “Yes, ma’am. I apologize, but they may have seen him.”

  And if they saw him in the house, Brodey’s theory on Williams possibly knowing his attacker—assuming Ed Long was that attacker—might be more than a theory. Which would cancel out his other theory that Brenda hired an assassin.

  She sat back, her torso rolling forward as her body closed in on itself. Sometimes this job sucked the life right out of him. Sometimes? He’d just asked a mother, a woman he half suspected of murder, to possibly expose her children to emotional trauma and he had no problem justifying it. He glanced at Lexi, who twisted her lips in a noncommittal “sorry, dude, can’t help you” look. Terrific.

  But then she sat forward, resting her elbows on her knees, loosely clasping her hands together. “I’m not a mother. I cannot imagine what this feels like for you, and I’m sorry he has to ask this, but I’ve spent time with Brodey. He’s not reckless and he wouldn’t put your children through this if he didn’t have to. If there was another way, he’d do it. I’m sure of that.”

  Nice. Finally in sync on something. And the bonus was she’d given him a compliment.

  Brenda flicked a glance at him, then went back to Lexi. “Thank you for that.”

  “Of course.”

  She stood. “I’ll bring them in together. They’ll each take a turn looking at the sketch and then I’ll have them leave again.”

  “If you want,” Lexi said, “we can tell them I drew the sketch. It might be more interesting to them if they know that.”

  That stopped Brenda. “You drew it?”

  “Yes. I saw him outside the house yesterday.”

  Cripes. What was she doing? Until they knew, without question, Ed Long’s role here, there’d be no sharing of information. If Brenda knew him, she’d call and warn him the second they left. Brodey reached over, squeezed Lexi’s arm to shut her the hell up. “Let’s bring the kids in.”

  Sharp woman that she was, Brenda shot a look between them, knowing full well she didn’t have the whole story.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Brodey spun to Lexi, stretching closer so he wouldn’t be overheard. Her long hair tickled his nose, made him want to bury his face in her neck, and what an inappropriate thought that was right now. “The less she knows the better. If she’d recognized him, that’d be one thing. She didn’t. All we know is this guy was in the neighborhood. He could be casing homes and have nothing to do with this murder.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Let’s play it close to the vest until we figure out what his involvement is.”

  Children following behind, Brenda came through the doors again. She set her hand on the boy’s head. “This is Sam. This is Patrice and our little squirt there is Meghan.”

  “Mama, I’m not a squirt.”

  “I know, baby. I just like calling you that. It makes me smile.”

  “Hey, guys.” Brodey stayed in his spot on the sofa, eye level with the kids. No sense freaking them out by hovering. “So, here’s what we’re gonna do. Miss Lexi here is a pretty good artist.” He motioned them to the coffee table. “In fact, she drew this picture.”

  “Cool!” Sam said.

  “It is cool. How about you guys take a look at the picture and see if you recognize the person. Would that be okay?”

  Sam shrugged. Meghan, all missing front teeth and pigtails, bobbed her head hard enough that the thing should have flown off. Patrice wandered closer, totally noncommittal, and Brodey’s brain snapped.

  What the snap meant, he’d find out soon enough, but generally that intensely visceral reaction meant someone knew something and in this bunch, eight-year-old Patrice might be the one.

  Sam and Meghan flanked her while Brenda stood back, her shoulders dipped, body once again folding in. She glanced up, made solid eye contact and slowly pushed her shoulders back. For a woman in her thirties, she’d had her share of life’s brutality. All Brodey needed to know was if she’d taken it upon herself to battle that brutality by killing her husband.

  “I don’t know him,” Patrice said.

  So much for instincts.

  Meghan swung her head back and forth. “Me, neither.”

  Sam stayed silent. Interesting.

  “Sam?” his mom said.

  The kid shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  Not. Sure. Brodey forced his body still. If he moved, the kid could get spooked. Even the smallest change of energy affected kids.

  “That’s okay,” Brodey said, his voice somewhere between comforting and authoritative. “Do you think you’ve seen him?”

  The kid’s eyes bounced between Brodey and the sketch, but he backed up a step. “No.”

  From not being sure to no. This day was bringing all kinds of screwy surprises. As a cop, liars came in steady supply, including scared kids. What he had here might be both. The kid could be mentally reliving his father’s murder in their home. No kid deserved to live with that mess.

  Sam spun to his mom. “Can I go now?”

  “Sam?” Brodey said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Are you sure you don’t know him?”

  “You know what,” Brenda said, “they have homework to finish.”

  The kids left, their mother following them out, and the pressure behind Brodey’s eyes exploded.

  Brenda Williams, for whatever reason, suddenly didn’t want her children asked any more questions.

  * * *

  BRODEY HELD LEXI’S briefcase while she unlocked her funky red front door. Only a decorator—scratch that, interior designer—painted the front door of a nine-hundred-square-foot bungalow glossy red. The place was begging to get knocked off. The bad outside lighting only added to the “rob me!” message.

  “You know,” he said, “the place could use better lightning. Especially if you do these late nights regularly.”

  “Seven-thirty is late?”

  “It’s dark, isn’t it?”

  She flipped the lock and pushed open the door. “You’re funny, Brodey.”

  “I’m a cop who’s seen women get mugged—or worse—because they didn’t take their surroundings seriously.”

  “I do take them seriously.” Inside, she hit a switch and flooded the cottage with light. “But it’s winter and there’s only so much daylight. I can’t avoid coming home after dark. Particularly when a cute homicide detective runs me all over town and my work doesn’t get done. As it is, I had to cancel my last two appointments.”

  “Sorry about that. And I’m not cute. Men don’t like to be called cute. Puppies are cute.”

  She dumped her briefcase by the door. “Fine. You’re not cute. Tomorrow, though, I have to get moving on the Williams house. Are you going to let me tear up that laundry room?”

  “You can’t work around it?”

  “Brodey!”

  He put his hands up. “Just for a day or two.”

  “You’ve been over that place a million times. What will happen in a day or two that will make a difference?”

  Hell if he knew. He had been over it from top to bottom, and everything he’d thought might tell him something—the slug in the wall, the broken glass, the open window—turned out to be nothing. No wonder the case was colder than Lake Michigan. Not one damned piece of workable evidence. And Lexi was on a dead
line she intended to make.

  “You can’t tear it up. Yet.”

  She folded her arms, tapping her fingers against her biceps. “Forty-five days, Brodey. That’s how long I have. And that’s not to finish the renovation. That’s for the house to sell. And the real-estate agent is calling me three times a day.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. My voice mail was full today. Full. All clients wondering why I’m not responding. And this real-estate agent handles some megalistings. If I blow the deadline, I lose my chance at an assistant and, worse, my reputation. So, yes, handsome man, I need to rip that floor up.”

  Damn, she was beautiful. No distractions here. “Call me stupid, but I love when you get pushy like this. Makes me willing to give you just about anything.”

  “Great. Tomorrow the floor comes up.”

  “Except that.”

  Lexi burst out laughing. “I’m telling you straightaway, it will take a minor miracle to keep me from ripping up that floor.”

  She moved into the kitchen, grabbed two bottled waters from the fridge and set them on the counter separating the rooms. “Are you hungry? Earlier you promised me dinner and we haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  Definitely, he could eat. Then again, he could always eat. “I’d love to buy you dinner.”

  “We can order something. All I have is chicken salad that might poison us. The Italian restaurant down the street delivers.”

  Her phone buzzed, rumbling against the countertop, where she’d set it. “Does that thing ever stop?”

  “Only when I shut it off.” She dug a menu out of the drawer and handed it to him. “Take a look. We’ll order and then figure out what’s next in your investigation.”

  He twisted his lips, perused the menu for all of two seconds. “Chicken parm. Spaghetti on the side.”

  “Good choice.”

  While she ordered, he scanned the stark-white counter, where a pitcher with splotches of color sat in one corner. Opposite that was a three-foot-high black vase with some kind of long-stemmed greenery poking out of it. Other than that, the counters were clear, no jumble of utensils, no appliances, no spice rack, nada. Everything in this kitchen had its place. Orderly.