The Detective. Adrienne Giordano
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sky blue that matched her eyes. The gown draped softly at the neckline, displaying minimal cleavage. As usual, a perfect choice.
“I love what you’ve done in here,” Mrs. Hennings said. “Amazing job.”
Being a club board member, she had no doubt shown up early to make sure the unveiling of the new room would be nothing short of remarkable. “Thank you. I enjoyed it. Just a few last-minute details and we’ll be ready.”
“Everything is lovely. Even the damned ice sculptures Raymond couldn’t live without. Waste of money if you ask me, but some battles aren’t worth fighting.”
So true.
A loud bang from the corner of the room assaulted Lexi’s ears. Please let that be silverware. She shifted her gaze left and spotted the waiter who’d passed her earlier scooping utensils onto a tray. Thank you.
Mrs. Hennings touched Lexi’s arm. “By the bye, I think I have Gerald convinced his study needs an update. All that dark wood is depressing.”
Now, that would be a thrill. If Lexi landed the job and nailed it, the top 10 percent of Chicago’s executives would know it. And competition ran hot with this social set. Before long, they’d be lined up outside her office for a crack at outdoing Pamela and Gerald Hennings.
“I think,” Lexi said, “for him we could leave touches of the dark woods. Macassar ebony would be fabulous on the floor.”
“Ooh, yes. Do you have time this week? Maybe you could come by and work up some sketches?”
“Of course.” Lexi whipped her phone from her purse and scrolled to her calendar. “How about early next week? Tomorrow I’m starting a new project that might eat up the rest of my week.”
“I’ll make sure I’m available. What’s this new project? Can you share?”
Rich folks. Always wanting the inside scoop. “Actually, it’s quite fascinating. Remember the murdered broker?”
“The one from Cartright? How could I not? The entire neighborhood went into a panic.”
The residents of Cartright, the North Side’s closest thing to a gated community without the gates, employed private security to help patrol the six city blocks that made up their self-titled haven. That extra money spent on security kept the crime rate nearly nonexistent in those six city blocks.
Except for the offing of one crooked stockbroker.
“That’s the one,” Lexi said. “I’ve been hired to stage the house. The real-estate agent suggested it to the broker’s widow and she hired me.”
“I heard they couldn’t sell. The market is destroying her. That poor woman. He left her with a mountain of trouble. He paid top dollar and if she lowers the price again, she won’t make enough to clear his debts. Add to that any retribution owed to the clients he borrowed funds from without their knowledge.”
As expected, Pamela Hennings was up to speed on the latest gossip. Gossip that Lexi would not share. Being told this information about a client was one thing. Sharing it? Not happening. “I’m looking forward to the project. It’s an incredible house.”
Being an interior designer didn’t always give Lexi the chance to change someone’s life. Her work allowed people to see the beauty in color and texture and shape and made their homes more than just a place to live, but she didn’t often get the opportunity to alter an emotionally devastating situation. Now she had the chance. Getting this house sold would free the broker’s widow from debt and give her children a comfortable life.
And Lexi wanted to see that happen.
Plus, if she got the thing sold in forty-five days, she’d make a whopping 20 percent bonus. The bonus alone would pay for an assistant and give her a life back.
Nap, here I come.
Mrs. Hennings made a tsk-tsk noise. “They never did find the murderer, did they?”
“No. Which I think is part of the problem. I may do a little of my feng shui magic in there. Clear all the negativity out. When I’m finished, that house will be beautiful and bright and homey.”
“The debt, the children and now the police can’t find the murderer. And it’s been what, two years? No woman deserves to be left with that.”
Again, Lexi remained quiet. Don’t get sucked in. But, yes, it had been two years, and from what Lexi knew, the police were no closer to finding the man’s killer. Such a tragedy. “The case has gone cold.”
Sucked in. She smacked her lips together.
“You know,” Mrs. Hennings said, “my husband’s firm recently did some work with a pro bono cold case. I wonder if the investigator who worked on that wouldn’t mind taking a look at this. I’d love to see the man’s family given some relief. And, let’s face it, it would certainly be good PR for the firm.”
It certainly would.
Investigative help wouldn’t hurt the real-estate agent’s chances—or Lexi’s—of getting the house sold in forty-five days. “Do you think they’d be interested?”
“Oh, I’m sure it can be arranged.”
Gerald Hennings, aka the Dapper Defense Lawyer, pushed through the oversize ballroom doors, spotted the two women and unleashed a smile. Even in his sixties, he had charm to spare. Salt-and-pepper hair and the carved cheekbones of a man who’d once been devastatingly handsome—all combined with his intelligence—added up to someone who ruled a courtroom.
“Gerald,” Mrs. Hennings said, “perfect timing. The board meeting will be upstairs. Believe it or not, we’re the first ones here.”
The Dapper DL eyed his wife with a hint of mischief, smiling in a rueful way that probably slayed jurors. “Shocking.” Then he turned his charm loose on Lexi. “Alexis Vanderbilt, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Hennings. Thank you. And yourself?”
“I was quite well until fifteen seconds ago when my wife announced my timing was perfect. That means I’ll either be writing you a healthy check or she’s volunteered me for something. Either way, I’m sure it will be painful.”
* * *
BRODEY HAYWARD BLEW out a breath as he watched his sister saunter into the Hennings & Solomon reception area. Finally she’d stopped wearing her blouses unbuttoned to her belly button. He never needed to see that much of Jenna’s skin and said a silent thanks to whichever saint covered brothers in distress.
Jenna stopped in front of him and gave him a half hug so she didn’t bump his sling and the wrecked arm inside of it.
“Nice shirt,” he said.
She waved him off. “Don’t start.”
Hey, he couldn’t help it if he had opinions. “Just commenting is all.”
“How’s the elbow?”
“It works.”
“So, it’s killing you.”
He didn’t bother answering. What good would it do? Six weeks ago he’d blown out his elbow changing a damned tire. The guys at the precinct tore that one up. Hey, Hayward, helluva way to go out on disability. Hey, Hayward, you’d better make up a better story. Hey, Hayward, real detectives don’t get hurt changing a tire. Each day a slew of texts came in from his squad mates, and it didn’t look as if the taunting would end soon because the surgery on his elbow left him with a raging infection that earned him a second surgery and another six weeks of leave. Leave that was slowly, deliberately, driving him insane. Torture was the only way to describe the abundance of nothingness that filled his days. As a homicide detective, he could tolerate a lot of things.
Boredom was not one of them.
Hell,