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  He flipped a light switch on the pillar nearest the door, spilling soft circles of illumination from pot lights around the 2,000-square-foot room. The open floor plan was designed to accommodate the big space. On two sides were a couple of doors leading to rooms, but in the middle was the equivalent of a man cave with a pair of handsome leather couches, chairs, a high-pile rug, and a sixty-inch TV nestled in a chrome entertainment center. A kitchen with a huge island and stools was next to the living area. A sliver of plum sunset hung on for dear life through the patio doors that led to a narrow concrete balcony.

  The entire seating area and the open door on the left wall were crisscrossed in police tape. Don walked to the open door, passing a small office area off the kitchen. Behind the yellow crime scene tape was the guest bathroom where the body of Peter Rogers had been found. White chalk outlined his shape on the floor. Don stepped just inside the door, using a handkerchief to switch on the light. Fingerprint powder clung to the mirrors, tile, faucets and fixtures. Small pieces of blue tape marked blood spatter. He would ask to see the photos.

  Turning to the main room again, Don walked the perimeter. The ceiling was so high the resident above this second-floor apartment probably wouldn’t hear an altercation or gunshots. Don looked down to the street and the parking lot. The windows were incredibly airtight, because Don could barely hear street sounds. Only if the patio doors were open, he thought, could residents hear their neighbors. He checked the bedroom. An impressive iron-platformed bed took up the center. Drywall closed off the closet from the main room. Baffle material, maybe cork, covered the ceiling, giving privacy to the bedroom and the adjacent bathroom.

  The blond dresser top was cluttered and untidy, maybe from Peter’s own carelessness, but maybe from the police search. A framed photograph, the only one Don saw in the entire loft, showed what must be the Fairchild nuclear family. The mother and father were healthily attractive in the way rich people could be. The father wore an ascot, and the mother was elegant in a floral dress with pearls. The two kids appeared to be in their early teens. Peter was in a dark suit with his tie loosened and a smirk on his face. His younger sister was pretty, thin, and already wearing the countenance of her mother.

  Back downstairs at the now-unoccupied front desk, Don waited so he could return the loft keys. After five minutes, he stepped around the desk, wrote a note to the absent guard and folded the keys inside. He noted the views of the security monitors—five in all—with rotating views of the upper hallways, the parking lot, the loading area in the back and two views of each floor’s vestibule.

  Don had seen similar security-camera control panels with a toggle to stop the rotation cycle and the ability to zoom in on any view. Of course the monitors don’t do much good when no one’s here to look at them, Don thought. He turned to sneer into the camera above the front entrance as he crossed the parking lot. In the car he called Charlie.

  “There’s not much to see here. The police already have the security cameras footage, so I’ll make an appointment with Wallace to look at that. I also want to see the crime scene photos.”

  “So it sounds like security is good at the building,” Charlie said.

  “I didn’t say that. If the guard I spoke to is an example of their personnel, the cameras are doing all the work. How’d the meeting with the new Mrs. Franklin Rogers go?”

  “She’s rich and snooty. She and Franklin live very well. We got some info about Peter. She called him the black sheep.”

  “Wow. Even I know you don’t use that phrase in front of an African-American person.”

  “I had to signal Judy to stand down. She wanted to go indignant on her.”

  “I heard the same assessment of the brother from the bartender. I’ll tell you all about it when we debrief tomorrow.”

  Chapter 3

  Hamm was happy and fed and walked Charlie from the front door to the kitchen. Mandy was comfortable in sweats and a T-shirt, and had already begun the dinner preparations. She sat at the breakfast counter peeling potatoes and sipping from a glass of white wine.

  “That wine looks good. Is there more?” Charlie asked, nuzzling Mandy’s neck.

  “Yep. I just opened it. Sauvignon blanc. It’s in the refrigerator.”

  Charlie put her jacket over the back of a chair and rolled up her sleeves. She uncorked the wine, poured a generous amount, took a couple of sips, and with her free hand gave Hamm a rub.

  “What are the potatoes for?”

  “Garlic mashed. I already sliced tomatoes and mozzarella, and I’m baking swordfish.”

  “Wow. Sounds great. How was your day?”

  “Nothing eventful. Patrol until lunchtime, then we were back to the station for a training on community policing. What did you learn about Franklin’s trouble?”

  “Quite a bit actually. DPD asked me to come in, so Don and I met with Captain Travers and a few of his detectives. They want to make sure we’re being cooperative in finding Franklin. Then Judy and I met with Pam Rogers at her fabulous mansion in Indian Village.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Privileged. White. Barbie-doll pretty.”

  “Jealous?”

  “No way. She reminds me of people I went to college with. She can’t really help being snobby. It’s the way some people become when they’ve grown up super-wealthy and spoiled by their parents.”

  “What was Judy’s opinion of her?”

  “She thought she was snooty, but also feels sorry for her.”

  Mandy cut a potato into fours, dropped it into a bowl of cold water, and then took a sip of wine. “But did you like her?”

  “Let’s just say if she wasn’t a client, we wouldn’t be sitting down having tea together.”

  Mandy took another sip of wine. “Well you have one thing in common—Franklin. You both married him, and now you both believe he’s innocent. Right?”

  Mandy’s tone had changed. Charlie stopped petting Hamm and leaned both elbows on the counter. “Are we about to have a talk?”

  “It’s just that we’ve not talked a lot about Franklin.”

  “Yes, we have. I’ve told you all about him.”

  “Not really. The last time you mentioned him was when he sent you the invitation to his wedding. What was that—almost two years ago?”

  “Right.”

  “Have you spoken to him since then?”

  “Nope. He sent me a text on my birthday last year. I texted back a ‘thank you.’”

  Charlie watched Mandy drain the potatoes in a colander, then carefully scoop them into a large pot with already boiling water. She remained at the stove to sprinkle garlic, pepper, and sea salt on the swordfish.

  “Jealous?” Charlie asked

  Mandy wasn’t amused. “That really wasn’t called for. I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

  Mandy looked away, and Charlie sipped wine. Hamm noticed the tension in the room and moved to the center of the kitchen and flopped on the floor so as not to take sides.

  “I’m sorry. I was being flippant,” Charlie finally said.

  “You seem really concerned about Franklin, and I get that. But you didn’t even hesitate when his new wife asked you to take the case. Why did she call you?”

  “I’m an investigator. She said she knew I’d care about proving Franklin innocent.”

  “You do still care about him, don’t you?”

  “I really can’t believe he killed anyone. He doesn’t have a bit of meanness in him.”

  “You didn’t answer the question. You still care about Franklin.”

  “I guess I do.”

  “I get it. Really.”

  Charlie took a deep breath. She’d hoped Mandy had put those fears behind her. Early in their relationship, after an attack on her life, Charlie had foolishly initiated a tryst with Franklin. Mandy, it seemed, still thought about it, and now she and Hamm waited for a response.

  “Honey, you know I’m in a different place now. I’ve chosen you. I loved Frank
lin, but I was never in love with him. Not like I am with you.”

  Mandy turned to the stove. She checked the consistency of the potatoes and put the swordfish into the oven. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. You want to change? Then you can set the table.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  # # #

  The swordfish was hot and flaky, and the buttered garlic mashed potatoes melted in the mouth. Mandy and Charlie, both good cooks, enjoyed sharing the food prep duties and eating their meals together. Hamm sat next to Mandy’s chair staring for handouts. Charlie prompted him to move away from the table with a look, his name said with a high inflection, and a command. It was part of their mano y doggo training protocol. Hamm looked at Charlie, finally dropped his head, and slinked into the living room.

  “Is it okay if I finish the tomatoes?” Charlie asked, topping off their wineglasses.

  “Sure, and I have one more question to ask about Franklin,” Mandy replied.

  “Ask as many questions as you like.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that time when you were attacked in Alabama,” Mandy said, searching for just the right way to ask her question. “We’d been dating for four months . . .”

  Charlie knew what was coming and put down her fork. Mandy looked at Charlie full of emotion, then broke eye contact.

  “When you got home, you didn’t call me; you called Franklin. Why?”

  “That was three years ago.”

  “I know. Answer the question.”

  Charlie took a long sip of wine. She pushed her plate away and gripped the table. Never good at talking about her feelings, Mandy was giving her practice. It was uncomfortable and unfamiliar territory.

  “You and I were new together. I wanted to maintain a certain, strong image, and the truth is I felt afraid, weak, and very, very angry. I didn’t want you to see me like that. When I called Franklin, it was a cry for help. An impulse. I needed comfort, and I knew he wouldn’t judge me. It was a really dumb thing to do,” Charlie added.

  They sat quietly for a moment, the silence bringing Hamm back into the room. He stared between them, hoping for scraps. Mandy stood and removed her plate and the bowl of potatoes from the table. Charlie, needing an ally, broke her own rule and offered Hamm a leftover piece of mozzarella. Then she gathered the rest of the bowls, glasses, and plates and carried them to the kitchen.

  Mandy was at the sink. Charlie leaned into her back and enfolded her waist.

  “That will never happen again,” Charlie whispered in her ear. “The only person I will ever want comfort from again is you. I promise.”

  Chapter 4

  It was Judy’s second visit in as many days to the Fairchild house in Indian Village. She had a 10 a.m. appointment to meet Pamela’s parents. The butler, Case, greeted her at the door, took her coat, and led her to the room she’d been in yesterday. Judy had dressed for the visit in a well-fitting blue skirt suit and navy-blue pumps. She’d had her hair cut into a neat bob and wore gold loop earrings. She usually dressed this way only for funerals and emergency parent-teacher conferences.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild will be with you momentarily,” Case said, moving unsteadily in the direction of the kitchen and leaving her alone in the room.

  Judy took the opportunity to explore. She walked to the front windows. Beyond the trimmed bushes and impeccable grass was her 2005 Chevy Impala parked at the curb. It stood out as a solid middle-class American car on a block of luxury imports.

  Turning, she examined the paintings. A couple were signed with names she’d heard before. Charlie had said the more modern pieces belonged to Franklin. Judy preferred those to the ones with thick gold-leaf frames, and oil-painted white faces sitting in portrait. The fireplace mantel held a few photographs. One, a picture of a handsome Franklin and a beautiful Pamela in their nuptial attire. They both smiled, staring at each other with held hands. There was also an outdoor photo of the wedding party. The groomsmen wore morning suits, and the bride’s cohort was elegant in off-the-shoulder, soft-pink, ankle-length gowns. The outfits of both sets of parents echoed the colors, but in more conservative styles. The last photo appeared to be an early family picture of the Fairchilds. Judy recognized Pamela as a teenager. The young man beside her, presumably Peter, stood with a cocky defiance of the camera.

  Judy heard a door open behind her and turned to see Pamela and the older version of the husband and wife in the photograph.

  “Hello. I was enjoying your family photographs.”

  Pamela glanced over Judy’s shoulder at the mantel, her face dimmed in sadness. She clearly wasn’t as collected as she’d been yesterday. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild looked at Judy with curiosity and murmured hellos. With a hand gesture Pamela directed Judy to the couch she’d sat on the day before.

  “Thank you for coming, Ms. Novak. May I introduce my parents, Stanford and Sharon Fairchild.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss and regret having to meet you under these circumstances,” Judy said before sitting.

  The Fairchilds flanked Pamela, sitting comfortably in high-back chairs. Despite experienced execution of makeup, discoloration rimmed Sharon’s puffy eyes. She was otherwise very put together. Her straight-spine, cross-ankle, hands-in-lap bearing was that of new-world aristocracy. Stanford’s stare took a measure of Judy. He was tall, gray-bearded, with sea-blue eyes and the casual confidence of someone used to being in charge.

  Judy silently repeated what her grandfather had always said to her: “No matter what company you’re in, no matter how rich or educated the others are, you’ll still know how to be the wisest person in the room.”

  “Ms. Novak,” Stanford began. “We understand you want to ask us some questions. They must be very important because as I’m sure you’re aware this is a horrible time for us.”

  “Yes sir. The questions are quite necessary. Otherwise I would not bother you and your family. We want to get to the bottom of your son’s untimely death. We’re working in tandem with the Detroit police, but as a private agency we can often take shortcuts they can’t.”

  Stanford’s single blink told Judy he understood and had taken a few shortcuts around the law himself. Sharon pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed tears away from her eyeliner.

  “First, I have a question for you,” Stanford said. “Does your investigation assume that Franklin is innocent of killing our son?”

  The question caught Judy off-guard. She parted her lips, then pursed them. She looked at Pamela who wriggled, distressed, in her chair. Judy cleared her throat and made a show of closing her notebook as if to say “if we’re not on the same page on this, we have a problem.”

  “Why yes. That is our clear conclusion. Based on our conversation with Pamela, we thought you were all in agreement.”

  Stanford crossed his leg, his soft wool slacks undulating in the motion. Judy decided his socks were more expensive than her suit. His clothing, mannerisms, and subtle arrogance reminded her of a foil the Mack team had parried with during the auto show case.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” Stanford said. “I know what I’ve heard from the chief of police, who called this morning. The evidence points to Franklin.”

  Now both Pamela and Sharon dabbed at wet eyes. Stanford uncrossed one leg and crossed the other. His tone shifted to neutral and what Judy believed was fake empathy.

  “Of course, we don’t want that to be true. We’ve come to know and like Franklin,” Stanford said, patting Pamela’s hand. “However, we hope any assumption you and Ms. Mack may hold won’t blind you to the hard evidence you find. In other words, Ms. Novak, I want to get to the truth. Just so we are clear.”

  Judy took in the remark, making mental adjustments to her list of questions. She reopened her notebook. “That’s very clear. For now, let’s assume—with all the caveats it implies—that Franklin is not your son’s murderer.”

  “I accept that assumption for now,” Stanford agreed.

  “My first question i
s, who are Peter’s current friends and acquaintances?” Judy asked.

  Pamela pulled herself together to answer. She described in more detail what she’d mentioned the day before. Peter had an endless stream of people coming in and out of his life. Friends, associates, and a few hangers-on. Pamela was able to come up with the names of a couple of women friends Peter had mentioned, but didn’t have their contact information.

  “There was this business associate Peter had been meeting with for a couple of months. Remember, Daddy? I told you about him. Some guy who owns a high-end bourbon distillery. One of those so-called vanity lines with a celebrity name attached to it.” Pamela concentrated, trying to remember. “He was Canadian, wasn’t he?”

  “I remember you mentioning it,” Stanford replied.

  “I thought you said you were going to check out the company?”

  “I may have assigned it to someone. I don’t recall. I’ll call the home office to see if they have a file.”

  Judy jotted a few notes.

  “What about his current employment? I understand Peter worked for you, Mr. Fairchild. What kind of work did he do?”

  Fairchild seemed irritated by the question. “He’s paid as a vice president in my R&D division.”

  “And that involves him meeting with a variety of people on behalf of your company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had he talked about any particular problems he was having? Any unhappy client, or a meeting that had gone bad?”

  “I don’t recall anything like that,” Stanford said, looking to Pamela for concurrence.

  “No. I hadn’t heard of any problems like that,” Pamela agreed.