The Detective Read online

  “Start talking, kid.”

  “You know my sister is an investigator for Hennings & Solomon.”

  “You better believe I know. She’s too damned good at her job and wrecks my cases.”

  Brodey smiled. “I hear you. She’s been volunteered by her boss to help Brenda Williams figure out what happened to her husband.”

  “Damn it.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. “She asked me to take a look at her evidence. Couldn’t make sense of a few things.”

  McCall made hard eye contact. “Junior, are you gonna upset me?”

  Probably, but Brodey blew that off, just kept right on talking. “I took a look at the crime scene.”

  He’d casually leave out that his father had gotten him copies of the reports without McCall’s knowledge. The thing with old-timers was to dazzle them, not give them a chance to pound on you before you got to the good stuff.

  “And?”

  “There’s a guy. Ed Long. You know him?”

  Slowly, McCall moved his head back and forth, his cheeks tinting red, but so far, no major tantrum. Brodey reached into his messenger bag for Lexi’s sketch and his file on Long. “This is him. He’s got a sheet. Mostly robberies. No murders.”

  “How does he tie back to Williams?”

  “Mrs. Williams wants to unload their house. She’s broke and needs the cash. She hired a decorator to stage the house, you know, make it look good so it’ll sell faster. The decorator was approached by this Ed Long outside the house, started asking her questions.”

  McCall screwed up his face. “And what? He introduced himself? Gave her his name?”

  “Hell no. That’s where it gets good.”

  Brodey spent the next ten minutes walking McCall through how he and Lexi learned Ed Long’s identity. When he finished, McCall picked up the sketch, compared it with the photo of Long from his rap sheet.

  “The link between Williams and this Long guy is the lawyer?”

  “I think so. The lawyer’s kid went to school with Williams’s kid.”

  “So what? How does that tie Long to Williams?”

  “I don’t know. But someone broke into Lexi Vanderbilt’s house last night and left one of the flyers with a note telling her to back off.”

  That got McCall’s attention. “Hell no.”

  “Hell yes. I was there with her.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Dummy him hadn’t anticipated that question, and he should have. Any good detective would. “I had follow-up questions about her conversation with Long, so I went over there. She found the note while I was there.” As recoveries went, that one wasn’t half-bad. “Obviously, I called it in. The crime-scene guys took the note to check it for prints.”

  “And you’re coming to me now because you’re on disability and might get jammed up.”

  “For the record, this was supposed to be a one-day thing. I’d give Jenna my opinion. That’s all. She’s my baby sister and she was stuck.”

  Working McCall’s soft spot as a family man, another inside tip from Dad, couldn’t hurt.

  The big man snorted. “Your father prepped you. So far, you’ve worked my nerves with the Lawrence crack and sucked up by mentioning your family. You’re a kid after my own heart.”

  Brodey waggled his eyebrows. “I’m trying.”

  “But you’re messing with my case.” He mashed his finger into the table. “I want Jenna’s evidence. Make that happen and I don’t jam you up with the brass.”

  For Brodey, that worked. He’d have a not-so-happy Jenna to deal with, but his sister would agree if it kept Lexi out of danger. When it came to people’s lives, the Haywards didn’t mess around.

  And, hey, if all else failed, guilt, in his family, was an intoxicating drug. If things went sideways, his involvement with the Williams case could wreck his career, and he’d damn sure use it to get his sister’s cooperation.

  “Fine,” Brodey said. “I can take you to Hennings & Solomon. That’s where her notes are. There’s one thing.”

  “What?”

  “We need to look at the Williamses’ and Ed Long’s bank statements. Ed Long is broke. He skipped out on his landlord last month. So, he’s either run out of money or never had any in the first place.”

  McCall sat back, rested his hands on his belly and eyeballed Brodey. The man had been doing this job long enough to follow the trail of Brodey’s thoughts. Whether he agreed with those thoughts would soon make itself evident.

  “You got a set of stones, kid. You bust in on my case and now you’re thinking the wife may have something to do with this—like we didn’t already work that angle? Well, genius, we did. We cleared her.”

  “I know you did.”

  “But you’re gonna break chops about it. Like I haven’t been doing this thirty-five years? Like I’m some baby detective who can’t find the john on his own?”

  Guys like McCall, any detective really, didn’t want to be second-guessed by younger, slicker detectives who went to college, who got their starts by studying criminal behavior in a classroom rather than on the street. Brodey met his gaze straight on. Showing any signs of intimidation would absolutely give McCall power. And Brodey didn’t give away power. “All due respect, I’m coming to you. Telling you what we’ve found. And yes, confirming a few things. This is a cold case. An unsolved murder. I don’t think kicking the tires a second time hurts. But that’s up to you. It’s your case skewing the city’s unsolved violent crime stats.”

  Brodey stood. He’d said his piece. If McCall wanted to ignore what he’d found, that was his problem. It would eat Brodey alive, tear at him like acid in his gut, but he’d walk away. He had to. Now that he’d admitted working the case, he’d have to back off or be subject to sanctions when McCall went to the higher-ups.

  But Brodey wouldn’t leave this alone. Not completely. His sister was a skilled investigator. He’d stay in the background, advising her until they busted Ed Long and possibly Brenda Williams. Lexi he’d have to keep close, make sure she stayed safe. After last night, a damned fine option.

  Right now, sitting in this interview room, despite a beefy, hardened detective—damn, he didn’t want to be this guy in thirty years—trying to aggravate him, Brodey’s life didn’t stink.

  “What’s the matter, Junior? You gonna take your ball and go home?”

  Thirty years.

  A stream of mental curses he’d love to unleash banged around in his head. Stay calm. Once again, he set his shoulders. “That’s the thing, McCall. It’s not my ball. It’s yours.”

  Bang. The detective flew out of his chair, his face hurtling beyond crimson and landing on blue.

  “What?” Brodey said. “You’re gonna take a swing at me? That’ll be easy to explain.”

  The big man halted, literally skidding to a stop as his reality took hold. He had an unsolved case, new leads provided by a detective who shouldn’t be anywhere near said case, and now he wanted to bust that detective up. Truth be told, the guy was big enough to pummel Brodey. He’d give him a go, make McCall work up a sweat and maybe get a few good licks in, but the bum elbow wouldn’t help and he’d wind up with a whupping.

  But McCall unclenched his fists, backed up three steps, and the redness in his face, all that surging blood, drained. Within seconds, his color reached the pasty white that came with a Chicago winter.

  Or years as a homicide detective.

  McCall leaned against the wall, crossed his arms and contemplated the floor. “You really boxed me in, didn’t you, Hayward?”

  Again, the hardened detective’s ego had him veering toward the negative. I don’t want to be this guy. If this was what thirty-five years on the job did to a man, Brodey would be taking Lexi’s advice and finding a hobby. Fast.

  “I don’t see it tha
t way, McCall. If Ed Long is a murderer, I helped you solve your case. Do you have the financial records?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then let’s start there. See if there’s a money trail.”

  * * *

  LEXI UNLOCKED THE front door on the Williamses’ home and strode inside. Behind her, Brodey’s father carried two sample books in each hand, saving her a second trip to her car. This would be life with an assistant. She couldn’t wait. A helper and a fellow creative to bounce ideas off of, to sketch with, to plan with. They’d work side by side building her—their—business together. In a few years, Lexi wanted to see her name among the top five designers in Chicago—maybe in the country. Why not? Talent, hard work and the right assistant would get her there.

  First, she needed to get this house done so the real-estate agent could sell it in time for her to get her bonus. Without the bonus, there’d still be an assistant—and an office—it just wouldn’t happen for another six months. In which time, she might collapse from lack of sleep, fall into a lifelong coma and never have sex with Brodey Hayward again. And that might be the biggest tragedy of it all.

  “Ew,” she said.

  Mr. Hayward swung the sample books onto the kitchen’s center island. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I was thinking.”

  About comas. And world-class sex with your son. A burst of heat shot into her breasts because—thank you, thank you—Brodey Hayward was an ace in bed. He’d managed to light up every inch of her body, something she’d never experienced before and wanted plenty more of.

  I need that assistant. Without the assistant, her Brodey time wouldn’t happen. Particularly when he went back to work. Assuming he wanted to continue spending time with her. Maybe one night was all he’d wanted and now they were done.

  Nah.

  Sure didn’t seem that way.

  And wasn’t this exactly what she didn’t want in her life? When she’d walked out of her ex-fiancé’s office, she vowed to never invest that much of herself in another person again. In the beginning with him, she thought she’d had it all. A rising superstar in the financial world, a caring, patient man who understood her and her business. Instead, she got a person who kept her up at night worrying over silly and not-so-silly things. A person she loved enough that it drove her to debilitating stomach issues when he’d betrayed her, a person so selfish that he’d left his damned office door unlocked while he had sex with his intern on his desk.

  Moron.

  Life this past year had been busy, and maybe a little lonely, but when she managed to sleep, she did it like a champ. Every night when she finally dropped into bed, whether from exhaustion or her solitary life where she didn’t concern herself with a mate, she passed right out.

  A voice—Mr. Hayward—pulled her from her stupor and she spun back to him, this man whose son had his emerald eyes and dark hair. The build was all wrong, though. Brodey was taller, leaner where his father had bulk. Oh, she needed to get Brodey out of her head and get some work done. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  He pointed to the laundry room. “Is this the room?”

  The murder room. “Yes. You know, your son is quite stubborn. He won’t let me rip up the floor.”

  Mr. Hayward grinned. “That’s my boy. Stubborn and conscientious.”

  “Which I think is wonderful. But I have work to do. If there’s still evidence in there, we need to collect it so I can get to work.”

  “You want me to talk to him?”

  Somehow she didn’t think Brodey would appreciate his father running interference between them. An alpha through and through, he’d want to deal with her directly. “No. I’ll talk to him. But thank you.”

  Leaving her standing at the center island, Mr. Hayward checked out the laundry room. He reached in, flipped on the light.

  “What’s this box?”

  A box? When she’d left yesterday, the room had been empty. Nate. Could be he dropped supplies off. She wandered to the doorway. In the middle of the room sat a cardboard box, roughly fifteen inches all around. The top flaps where interlaced but unsealed.

  Two things immediately registered. One, if these were supplies, the box was in awfully good shape for Nate’s standards, and two, the amount of tile they needed for this room wouldn’t fit inside a box that size.

  “Lexi?”

  “It’s not mine. It could be supplies from my contractor.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  She met his gaze and a nasty, sour taste poured into her mouth. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll open it. See what’s what.”

  “Wait. Should we call the police? What if it’s...”

  What? A bomb.

  Was she turning into Brodey now with worry and paranoia ruling her life? Still, after finding the flyer in her house last night, anything would be possible.

  As if she were some feebleminded civilian, Mr. Hayward tilted his head, his face a cross between pity and amusement. “And if it’s supplies from the contractor?”

  That would be her luck. The first time ever she suffered a bout of paranoia and it could be paintbrushes. “You’re right. I’m sorry. A little jumpy I guess. I blame this on your son. Before I met him, I wasn’t paranoid. He’s a maniac, you know.”

  Mr. Hayward smiled that same lightning-quick and incredibly charming smile Brodey liked to hit her with. “Maybe. But he’s also a cop. A damned good one. You want to wait outside while I check this box?”

  She sure did. But no, as with the note left in her home the night before, she refused to give in and run from her life. “No. I’ll stay.”

  Squatting next to the box, he checked it from different angles, not speaking a word. Listening maybe? She didn’t know. Did bomb timers even tick anymore? Weren’t they all digital? Again with the paranoia about ticking bombs.

  It paid off, though. By the time she refocused on Mr. Hayward, he had the flaps of the box open. For a few seconds he remained silent and Lexi studied the back of his head, where wisps of gray mixed with his dark hair. “What is it?”

  “A blanket.”

  Now, that was weird. Who would leave a blanket in the middle of the laundry room? And why? She wandered over and peered over Mr. Hayward’s shoulder. A flash of faded red caught her eye and she studied the two-inch trim. The patchwork. The flashes of pink here and there.

  She gasped, holding her breath until her chest ached, and Mr. Hayward spun back to her.

  “What is it?”

  “That quilt.”

  “You recognize it?”

  “It’s my grandmother’s. It should be on the shelf in the back of my closet.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “You got here at what time?”

  Brodey stood in the Williamses’ laundry room, hands on hips, mind absolutely disintegrating, while his dad explained to him and McCall how the quilt was discovered. Thirty minutes ago, he’d been in an interrogation room sorting through financials and now—boom—he had another problem.

  And it was a big one.

  “Around ten forty-five,” Dad said. “I opened the box at ten-fifty. I checked the time.”

  McCall moved to the door leading outside. Hands on his knees, he bent low to inspect the lock. Lexi scooted beside Brodey, arms folded, fingers digging into her blazer with enough force to practically protrude through the material. From his vantage point, her entire body appeared stiff. As much as she tried to soften her facial features, the sucked-in cheeks were a dead giveaway of the tension paralyzing her body.

  He set his hand on her shoulder only to have her flinch in return. “You okay?”

  “All I did was hang a few flyers and call that damned phone number. Why is this person harassing me? I mean, he broke into my house, stole my quilt and
brought it here for me to find? Why?”

  Whoever this was—and Brodey was pretty damned sure it was Ed Long—was in panic mode. For whatever reason, he’d fixed on Lexi as the one reigniting this case and aimed to terrify her enough to get her to back off.

  “Because he can,” Brodey said.

  “I didn’t even realize the quilt was gone.”

  “Lex, it was only last night.”

  “Still. I should have checked the closet. I checked everything else.”

  “Give yourself a break. I didn’t check the closet, either. And I’m a cop.”

  McCall finished inspecting the lock.

  “Anything?” Brodey asked.

  “Nah.”

  “So how’d they get in? All the windows locked?”

  His father nodded. “Checked ’em all.”

  “Which leaves the possibility that someone had a key.”

  Lexi’s mouth dropped open, her face stretching long. “Like Nate? Or Brenda? Stop it.”

  “Hey.” He waved one hand. “You want to walk around in your the-world-is-beautiful utopia, knock yourself out. But my guess is it would take a helluva lock picker to handle these locks. Maybe that’s the case, but I doubt it. If the locks weren’t picked and the windows are intact, someone got in here using a key.”

  “Brodey, you can be a jerk sometimes.”

  Great. Name-calling. “Why? Because I can’t drill it into your head that sometimes people you think are innocent aren’t? That people you trust shouldn’t be trusted? You, of all people, should know that.”

  The minute—no, the second—it came out of his mouth, he regretted it. And by the stunned look on her face, those big hazel eyes so wide, he knew the arrow had hit its mark. She’d confided in him, trusted him with the fact that her ex-fiancé had betrayed her, and Brodey had just used it against her. Yeah, he could be a jerk sometimes.

  “Like I said, Detective, you can be a jerk sometimes.”

  Completely aware that his father and McCall were dialed in and waiting for the next round, he held up his hands. No sense giving them a show. His father he didn’t mind. He told him everything anyway. McCall? He didn’t necessarily know him. Didn’t necessarily trust him, either. “I’m sorry. That was a cheap shot.”