But that grin. Licking his lips, the reverse strip tease with his hoodie. Standing there on the other side of the glass, staring at her like she was a display case of cupcakes…
“Hey, Liv? You left some papers here on the floor. Probably want to put them in your bag so you don’t forget them.”
“What?”
Eddie ambles out of the kitchen with a sheaf of papers. “Looks like some personal stuff.”
She knows she didn’t leave any paperwork here. She snatches it from him and leafs through. Park’s birth certificate. An old passport application. A pile of disclaimers and legal documents from Winterborn Life Sciences, in Chapel Hill.
The place where Park donated.
A stack of photographs falls to the floor. A dazzling smile, one Olivia recognizes.
Melanie Rich.
What the hell?
Eddie is looking at her quizzically.
“These belong to Park. What in the world?”
“I don’t know. It was spread all over the place by the butler’s pantry. But bad news. That stain ain’t gonna come out. We’re gonna have to find another option.”
“Damn it. I knew we should have gone with the honed Copacabana. That slab’s not still sitting in the back of the warehouse by chance, is it?”
“Nope. It’ll take six to eight weeks for another Staturario to come. I think if we flip this, and put in the sidepiece upside down, the owners might not be able to tell.”
“But the designer will know.”
“You know the rules, Liv. Will it bother the client—”
“Or the designer. All right. Thanks, Eddie.”
“You okay, Liv? You seem…jumpy.”
“All good. I need to think this through and come up with some options for the Joneses.”
He nods. “Lock that door behind me if you’re sticking around, you hear? I’ll be back in a while with the granite.”
She locks the dead bolt and waits for him to drive away. Okay, now she’s calling the police.
Moore.
She’ll call the woman. She liked her better than the man.
She puts the photos of the girl in her purse. She might need them later.
18
THE DETECTIVES
Joey takes the call from Park Bender while Osley is inside Starbucks getting them coffee.
“You’re going to want to come back to the house,” Bender says. “Someone broke into my office.”
“Are they still there?”
“No.”
“All right. Have you touched anything?”
“Other than spilling another cup of coffee, this one all over my desk? No.” The wry tone is only partially apologetic. The man sounds wrecked, and no wonder.
“Stay put, and don’t touch anything else.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bender replies smartly.
She hangs up on him, grabs the mic from the computer. “Dispatch, we need an evidence team to meet us at our last address. Possible B and E.”
“Copy that, Detective.”
Osley is jawing with a pretty girl sitting at the table by the window closest to the door, flashing that ridiculous grin, a booted foot up on the stool by the woman, showing off the latest in a long line of cowboy boots. He’s a collector, as he calls it. A shoe whore, she calls it, which makes him laugh. I got style, lady. You could use some. The eighties called. They want those shoulder pads back.
Osley has never met a stranger. He’s so outgoing, Joey often has to drag him away from interactions. This is no different. She pops the horn with her thumb, laughs a little inside at the shocked, then pissed look he gives her. She gives him a come here wave, and Osley takes his sweet time about it. When he finally hits the door with his shoulder, the girl is holding his card, a dazed expression on her face. Half in love or can’t wait for him to shut up, who knows.
Joey likes working with him, most of the time. He’s shrewd, and loyal. He’s had her back for three years now, and they work well together. So long as she’s had her caffeine. Of which, at this moment, despite the two cups she had at Bender’s place, she is severely deficient.
“Why, in the name of all that’s holy, did you just interrupt my soliloquy? She was about to ask me to dinner.”
“It looked like she was about to barf on your boots. Gimme that coffee. Bender called. We gotta go back. Someone broke into his office. I’ve got an evidence team meeting us.”
“You’re so damn efficient, Moore.”
“Give me my coffee, Will, or I swear—”
He hands it to her, already doctored exactly as she likes. “Dark and sweet, like me,” Osley cracks.
“Don’t be a douche. We need to go.”
“You’re exceptionally grumpy today, lady. What the hell is up your butt?”
She doesn’t answer, because she doesn’t know, just has that awful, itchy feeling that they’re missing something. Shakes her head and takes a deep swallow, then puts the car in gear.
Back in Forest Hills, Park Bender stands on the porch of his house, waiting for them to pull up. He is talking to a blonde in pristine yoga clothes who stands on his sidewalk leading to the front porch, a neighbor, most likely. When he sees their car, he nods, and the neighbor shoots a glance their way and scoots off, back across the street, where she sets up a wary watch from her own porch.
“Do you trust this guy?” Osley asks as Joey expertly parallels between the cars on the street.
Joey thinks about it. “Right now, I see no reason not to. As far as we know, he hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s a terrible circumstance. I’m sure he’s been in shock since we rolled up the first time.”
“You just think he’s pretty.”
She flashes him a smile. “Contrary to some people we know, I wait to make judgments until I’ve assembled all the facts.”
“Oh, you do think he’s pretty,” Osley crows, and she can’t help it, she laughs as she gets out of the car. Osley isn’t wrong. Park Bender is pretty. Sensitive mouth, square jaw, unruly hair, tall and trim. But pretty boys aren’t her thing. Never date a man who’s better looking than you, her mother always used to say. It’s not the advice she takes so much as the knowledge that most gorgeous men are wrapped up in themselves and their egos, whether obvious or not. They have something to prove. Not to mention he has a stunner for a wife, though she’s as skittish as a deer.
“Thank you for coming back,” Bender says. Polite. Non-evasive. He seems troubled; she senses the tension running through him, his lips thin, knuckles white around a steaming fresh cup of coffee. She thinks longingly back to the now empty cup in the car’s holder. Never enough. It’s never enough. But she’s wired now; more and she’ll shoot off to the moon.
“No problem. Why don’t you show us what’s happened?”
They tromp into the back yard through a wrought iron side gate—“keyed, always kept locked, the only one who can get through is the mower, and he’s done for the season”—into a fenced-in area the size of a small parking lot. Grass, still lush and green, bisected by a gravel path interspersed with wide slate slabs that leads to a charming cedar-and-stone cottage. The scent of burning leaves fills the air, one of the neighbors doing a burn.