The Detective Read online

  Which blew things for him.

  He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, the heat there not escaping him. “Sure,” he said. “Later is good.”

  Hopefully, really good.

  * * *

  AFTER HER APPOINTMENT, a consultation with a doctor and his wife who lived in a Gold Coast high-rise, Lexi treated herself to Thai. Strong buying signals from the doctor’s wife deserved a celebration. If she landed that job, there were plenty of other residents in the building who undoubtedly, based on their location, could afford to hire her.

  Yes, sirree, that assistant was in striking range. After dinner, she’d go through the growing stack of résumés she’d received and see if there were more possible candidates. So far, she’d interviewed a handful of applicants and had narrowed it to two possibilities. One being an art and design student from Columbia College. Attending school so close to Lexi’s client base was a plus and hopefully, she could grow into being more than an assistant and take on clients of her own. Expansion. What a lovely word.

  Continuing on her good-luck streak, Lexi claimed a parking spot half a block from her Bucktown cottage. The short distance allowed for her to make only one trip from the car. If Brodey were here he’d tell her that with her hands full like that, she’d be a prime target for a mugger. Even with Bucktown considered a moderately safe neighborhood, she glanced around, checking behind her and across the street. Total darkness.

  Still, she’d made the effort.

  Originally named because Polish immigrants raised male goats—aka bucks—there, Bucktown had grown into a community loaded with musicians and artists. While house hunting, she was intrigued by the artsy vibe. She loved this neighborhood. Then she’d seen her cottage and vowed to have it. She’d bought the barely nine-hundred-square-foot cottage from a man whose father had passed. The son lived out West and, given the state of disrepair, couldn’t tend to the cottage. Lexi offered to take it off his hands—well below the asking price—and rehab it herself. With the spectacular price came a detached garage.

  Full of junk.

  At the time, it seemed like a steal. Now, almost two years later, she’d yet to find time to gut the garage and turn it into her dream office.

  Turning onto her walkway, she spotted the silhouette of someone—most definitely male—on her bench by the front door, and Brodey’s lecturing voice filled her head. She loosened her fingers on her briefcase and bag of Thai, preparing to fling them and run. A cold, relentless pounding in her chest stole her breath, kept it trapped in the center of her throat, paralyzing her.

  Run.

  “It’s me,” the man said. “Brodey.”

  Air came in a whoosh, flooding her oxygen-deprived brain, and she dropped her briefcase and dinner, bent at the waist and breathed. Heaven help her if she passed out.

  “Brodey! You scared the daylights out of me.”

  He stood, barely a shadow moving in the blackness. Typically, the Jansens had their porch lit, but not tonight. Of all nights for the light to be off. That little fact was sure to earn her another lecture from King Paranoid.

  “Sorry. But you know—”

  She picked up the briefcase. “Save it. I know I should have a light on. Usually the Jansens—my neighbors—have the block lit up.”

  “At the very least, a motion detector.”

  In the darkness, she grinned. The man took obsessive to new heights. But after this little episode, that motion detector might not be a bad idea.

  She set her briefcase and dinner on the small bench Brodey had just risen from. “It’s freezing out here. Let me dig out my key and we’ll go inside. And don’t nag me about how I should have had the key out. My hands were full and I forgot to grab it before I loaded up. I know I shouldn’t have had my hands full.”

  Good grief. Everything she did around this man was wrong.

  “It’s for your own good.”

  She sighed. “This protective streak is nice, but let’s not get carried away. How’d you know where I live?”

  He gave her a droll look.

  “Never mind. Dumb question to ask a homicide detective. Why are you here anyway?”

  “I...uh...wanted to apologize if I was hard on you earlier.”

  She unlocked the door, pushed it open and flipped on the light before waving him in. Apologize. Maybe she wasn’t always wrong. “When?”

  He grabbed her dinner and briefcase off the bench and carried it in for her. “When you told me about the neighbor who’s not a neighbor.”

  Ah. That. “Jenna told you to call, didn’t she?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He smiled, lightning fast and devastating. “Well, maybe she suggested it.”

  “What did she really say?”

  “She said I can be an overbearing ape and I probably owed you an apology.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. We don’t pull punches in my family.”

  “I guess not.” She took the bag and waved him in. “Dump that briefcase by the door and have a seat.”

  Doing as he was told, he set the briefcase down, shoved his hands into his pockets and studied the room. He did that a lot. Studied things. Must be the investigator in him.

  “This place is something,” he said. “Guessing you decorated it.”

  There was that word again. “Yes, I designed it.”

  Every inch of the mint walls, the camel-colored leather chairs and pops of red on the side tables had been her creation. She breathed in. “This place launched my career.”

  Brodey dropped onto the sofa and rested his head back. “Oh, man. I want this.”

  You should, big fella. Considering the twenty-thousand-dollar price tag, he’d better keep his feet off it.

  “Amazing, isn’t it? I didn’t even have to pay for it.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Nope. That was part of my career launch, too. I entered a contest in Home Design Magazine. I was in the Small Spaces category and took second place. I still think I got robbed, but whatever. Anyway, I talked Fireside Furniture into sponsoring me and they gave me the sofa. When I made it to the finals, they got great PR out of it and I had a flood of clients from all over the city calling me. It was the proverbial win-win. I love this place.”

  He cocked his head and met her gaze. “That’s...impressive.”

  “Not bad for a decorator, huh?”

  He held up his hands. “All right, I’ve got it. No more decorator cracks.”

  The kitchen was an extension of the living room, and she placed the Thai on the breakfast bar separating the two areas. “Thank you. The only thing left to do is the garage. As soon as I have time, I’ll get it cleaned out and make an office out of it.”

  Then I’ll have a life again.

  “There’s a garage?”

  “Out back by the alley. Have you eaten? I bought Thai.”

  “Not yet. You go ahead, though.”

  “I have plenty. I always buy extra for leftovers.” She batted her eyes. “I’ll share.”

  He pushed out of the sofa and moved to the kitchen, his eyes still on her and, well, unnerving her way more than she’d like. “Why are you staring at me?”

  He jerked one shoulder. “I like to look at you.” He pointed to the bag. “Can I help?”

  That was his answer? He liked to look at her? As if it was no big deal. As if they hadn’t shared that amazing kiss earlier, and now the staring, and what? She wasn’t supposed to jump him? Really? A man who looked liked this said something like that and she was supposed to act as if her hormones weren’t in a twist. She spun away from him, breaking the eye contact. Otherwise, she’d break something else when she pounced on him. “Park yourself and I’ll get dishes. I’m having water to drink. Would you like
something else?”

  “Water is good. Thanks.”

  She grabbed two water bottles from the fridge and a couple of glasses from the drying rack and poured. “How did you do with the wall?”

  “The slug? Not good. There’s nothing there. They replaced the drywall. I don’t know what I was looking for anyway.”

  “Is there something bugging you?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  She laughed. Men. Such funny creatures. “From what I know of the case, the original detectives thought it was an intruder who shot Mr. Williams.”

  “Yeah. They thought someone came in through the laundry room window because it was open.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “I don’t not believe it. By the way, the sketch you did for me is almost dead-on to the actual crime scene. You have amazing instincts. Which I guess is why you’re so good at what you do. The only thing we missed was the broken glass on the floor. That was in the detective’s notes, but you didn’t know that.”

  She smiled. “Instincts help, but I think for me it’s more about details. I see things people don’t usually see.”

  He eyed her, his gaze fixed and steady. Thinking. About what, who knew?

  “What is it?”

  “The glass on the floor.”

  “What about it? Food is ready.”

  She set the bowls down, but Brodey sat back in the high-backed stool and stared at the ceiling. “Crime-scene photos showed the open window the intruder came through. The outside entry door was to the left of the window.” He gestured sideways with his hands. “The broken glass on the floor.”

  “Okay. But shouldn’t Jenna be doing this? I mean, it is her case.”

  “Technically, yeah. But she called before and she’s knee-deep in this other case. The paying client. I told her I’d run with this. See what I came up with.”

  “You’re a good brother.”

  That got a smile out of him. All crooked and wicked and enough to chip away at the wall of stone around her heart. “I do try. Even when she drives me insane.”

  Lexi scooted around the counter and took the stool next to him. He could theorize all he wanted, but she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and needed fuel.

  “The broken glass,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  He reached for one of the glasses. “Stand up.”

  There goes dinner. Before moving, she shoved a forkful of noodles into her mouth—how incredibly elegant—and took the glass.

  “You be the victim,” he said. “I’ll be the bad guy. Don’t put that glass down yet.” He walked to the front door. “Let’s say this is the entry and I come in.” He stepped outside. A few seconds later, the door flew open and—whap—hit the wall with a bang, the noise loud enough to make Lexi flinch and send water sloshing.

  “Brodey!” She slammed the glass down and shook water off her hand. “A little warning would have helped.”

  How many times would he scare the daylights out of her tonight?

  “Exactly,” he said.

  Grabbing napkins from the counter, she patted her hand dry. “So you meant to give me a bath in my living room?”

  “Where’s the glass?”

  She rolled her eyes and wiped the floor. What a mess. “I put it down.”

  “That’s the point. You put the glass down. If Williams heard an intruder in the laundry room, late at night, would he be carrying a glass?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was in the kitchen getting water.”

  “Maybe. But he’d still put the glass down. Think about it. Can’t fight a guy with a glass in your hand. Unless he was gonna throw it at him. But let’s say he didn’t do that and he carried it into the laundry room with him.”

  “Okay.”

  “What does that indicate?”

  Something told her this would take a while. Might as well eat while he did his detective thing. She sat again, grabbed her dish and swung back to him. “I have no idea.”

  “How about he didn’t feel threatened? He wasn’t surprised by whoever was in there.”

  “What if he knew the person?”

  Brodey rolled one hand. “Right. And according to autopsy reports, the time of death was after eleven o’clock. Who would be coming to his house in the middle of the night? Think about it.”

  A lover. Or... Oh no.

  “Come on, Lex, I know you have it.”

  “Okay, but if a family member—”

  “Maybe his wife.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she waved a finger at him. “If a family member did it, why didn’t the original detectives figure that out?”

  Brodey returned to his seat, gave her a light, backhanded pat on her leg and dug into his food. Second time he’d done that patting thing. Affectionate man. Something to get used to, considering she’d never been overly affectionate in the physical sense. Growing up, her parents didn’t subscribe to touchy-feely and the pig of a cheating ex-fiancé—God, she refused to even say his name—wasn’t much into PDA. Unless, of course, it included his intern.

  And his desk.

  But now, sitting with Brodey, suddenly touchy-feely seemed...nice.

  “We detectives have theories,” he said. “Particularly the old-timers. Once they get a scent of something, tunnel vision can set in. They latch on to something and lose their open mind. I could see them liking the intruder-through-the-open-window theory and—bam—case solved.”

  Remind her never to get murdered, because the idea of detectives incorrectly latching on to a theory terrified her. Appetite destroyed, she tossed her fork into the bowl. “That’s not comforting.”

  He shrugged. “It happens. No one does it to hurt a case. Usually.”

  This just kept getting better and better. She swiveled sideways and faced him. “What now?”

  “That’s easy. Now I pay a visit to his wife and any close friends and see who came over to the house a lot.” He stood, dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I gotta go. Thanks for dinner.”

  “You barely touched it.”

  “I know. Duty calls. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

  Chapter Seven

  First thing Monday morning, Lexi stood in the hallway outside the Williamses’ master bedroom watching Nate rip up more dirty-snow carpet. This family loved beige. And not even a decent one at that.

  But thankfully, dirty-beige carpeting was the only thing she needed to think about this morning. Considering she’d tossed and turned two nights straight obsessing over Brodey’s kiss. She couldn’t even blame her restlessness on lust. Hardly so. Calling his kiss chaste would be an overstatement. The ease with which that kiss was delivered, that casual peck, as if he kissed her that way every night and should be used to it, had thrown her. Thrown her enough that she’d kept her distance from him the day before by using work as an excuse. Not a complete lie, but not altogether the truth, either.

  In her mind, men were lying pigs who couldn’t be trusted. Getting used to anything with a man, falling into a casual routine and becoming too complacent, had been the catalyst to her not sensing her beloved spent his lunches interfacing with his intern.

  “Whoops,” Nate said.

  Whoops what? Lexi hated whoops. Just as she stepped into the room, he pressed two fingers along the baseboard.

  “Loose baseboard. I’ll replace it.”

  With that, he tore off six inches of board and tossed it into the pile of scraps behind him.

  “Now, that’s weird,” Lexi said. “Why would only that small piece be loose?”

  She squatted to check the rest of the board between the closet and the bathroom. “Someone definitely cut this in half.”

  If the baseboard needed replacing, why not replace the enti
re section? Why just this small piece? In a house of this quality, she’d expect the owner to spring for the thirty dollars it would take to replace the entire board. Unless there was a reason. Couple that with someone being murdered in this house and her curiosity exploded. At this point, everything was questionable. She glanced at her winter-white slacks—need to risk it—and dropped to her stomach, laying her cheek against the carpet. If she soiled her clothes, she’d go home and change. Simple as that.

  She peeked into the opening. Too dark. “Got a flashlight?”

  Nate shined his penlight into the opening. Behind the cobwebs she spotted a small notebook similar to the little black books men used to joke about. Mystery solved. “There’s something in there.”

  “What?”

  “Looks like an address book.”

  She reached in, hesitated for half a second because somewhere down deep a flicker of warning hit her system. Don’t touch it. But with the amount of cobwebs, who knew how long it had been there. It was probably nothing.

  But she’d never know unless she looked. Shoving her hand farther in, she felt the gauzy slide of cobwebs close over her hand—ugh. Definitely washing up after this. She dragged the book from its hiding spot and brushed dust from the faux-leather cover.

  Only a few pages had handwritten entries. Not someone’s everyday calendar. Unless the person led a seriously boring life.

  But, hmm. She flipped to December, the month of the murder, and thumbed through each page. On December 16, someone—presumably Jonathan Williams—wrote CLEANER across the top of the page along with a Chicago phone number. Had she just found evidence? If so, her fingerprints were now all over it.

  Again the flutter of panic—the warning she’d ignored thirty seconds ago—came to life. What she probably—no probably about it—should have done was call Brodey.

  Too late for that.

  “What is it?” Nate asked.

  “An appointment book.”

  “Hidden in the wall?” He peeked over her shoulder. “I bet he didn’t want his wife to see it. Why else would it be in the wall?”