6

      ADAM COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time a kiss had knocked his socks off like that. That woman was something, he decided, as he thought about the previous day. He’d have her in his bed sooner rather than later. He was already enjoying the anticipation.

      His partner, Joey Sorento, wasn’t sharing Adam’s good mood. In fact, Joey seemed to grow more pessimistic with each passing day. He had a dream of moving back to his family’s ancient vineyard on Sicily where Sorentos had been making some of the best extra-virgin olive oil in the world for centuries. But he needed money to buy the place from his aging grandparents. He watched the stock markets the way fishermen watch the weather. Based on observation, Adam didn’t think his partner was much of a stock picker.

      Despite being a Sicilian, Joey didn’t have the vaguest connection to the Mob. Didn’t matter. He was known around the precinct as Joey the Virgin. Most everyone called him Virge.

      They’d been sent out to investigate a suspicious death in a leafy neighborhood in one of the more expensive suburbs of Hunter.

      “Who called it in?” Adam asked as they drove.

      “Neighbor. She went in to water plants. The guy was supposed to be in Hawaii for the winter but when she went in this morning, she found him dead.”

      Pretty much any time someone died at home, their death was deemed suspicious, except in cases of terminal illness. Most of these calls turned out to be natural deaths—heart attacks, strokes, choking. Or suicides. When they arrived at 271 Greenleaf Road, everything seemed calm. They entered through a gate, walked up a brick path and before they’d reached the front door, a woman appeared behind them. “I’m Vera Swann. From next door,” she said. She was in her sixties. A prosperous-looking woman. She seemed a little shaken. “I thought Norman was in Hawaii. I went in to water his plants, like I always do when he’s away.” She put her hand to her heart. “And I found him. I’m sure he’s dead. I used to be a nurse. I called 911. You beat the ambulance.”

      “Can you let us in?” Virge asked.

      “Yes, of course.”

      The house was modern in design but smelled musty and sort of damp. As if it had been shut up for a while. Vera Swann led them into a den/TV room and there was Norman, still in his bathrobe. A newspaper was open on his lap and his head was tilted forward.

      Adam approached, checking the area as he did so. Nothing suspicious. He checked the guy’s pulse. The skin was already cold and waxen. He nodded. “Dead.”

      “Looks like a jammer,” Virge said.

      “Yep. Or a stroke.”

      “Coroner will figure it out, I guess.”

      Because they were there, they followed protocol and did a quick walk-through of the house. Adam checked out the upstairs, and Virge took the basement.

      While he was wandering through empty bedrooms wondering where he and Virge should stop for coffee, he heard a yell. Virge didn’t get excited by much, so the yell sent him pounding down the stairs, through the main floor and down to the basement.

      “Well, well, lookie here,” he said as Virge walked among rows and rows of constructed wooden planters sporting thousands of leafy green plants. “We’ve got ourselves a grow op.”

      * * *

      SERENA REALLY LIKED it when her speaking engagements were in Seattle. Oh, she’d travel wherever the work took her, but it was so nice to drive to the conference center or a big hotel, give a workshop or luncheon address or whatever was asked of her and head home to her own bed. The Pacific Northwest Executives Association was today’s client and they’d booked her for most of the day. They’d hired her to present a breakfast address called “Reaching for Success” and later a workshop on inspiring optimal performance from employees.