The Detective. Adrienne Giordano
I meant, and you know it. This place has been a financial drain on Mrs. Williams. And, simply put, I like her and she deserves a break. If we get the house sold, she can put her children’s lives back together. If that’s even possible.”
Behind Brodey, his sister was all big blue eyes taking in not just every word, but every vowel, and Lexi didn’t like an audience. She sighed, grasped the sleeve of Brodey’s jacket and drew him into the kitchen away from Jenna.
Once in the far corner, Lexi let go of him and folded her arms. “We’ve definitely gotten off to a bad start here. I want to help you. I do. And it’s not about my compensation.”
Not entirely.
Brodey, quite handsome in his khaki pants and button-down shirt, studied her. Typically, she didn’t go for noncorporate guys. And it had nothing to do with her being a snob. Not one bit. Her world revolved around the ultrawealthy, and with that came an acceptance of spending ridiculous amounts of cash on items most people couldn’t afford to spend ridiculous amounts of cash on. Regular Joes tended to scoff at twenty-thousand-dollar sofas. For up-and-coming executives, it was the norm.
And they didn’t think her frivolous for it.
But something about Brodey Hayward’s dark green eyes made her think of fresh air, lazy days and picnics by the lake. Something she hadn’t allowed herself in a long—very long—time. Her business had taken priority in her life. Yes, she dated, had even thought she’d fallen in love once. At least until she found her up-and-coming executive across his desk exploring his intern’s anatomy. Such a cliché.
Brodey cocked his head and grinned. “You were saying?”
She held up one finger. “Right. Yes. I was saying that each day this house sits on the market, Mrs. Williams is one step closer to financial ruin. I can help change that, but it won’t happen overnight. I need to tear up floors and repaint. I need to dismantle part of the house.”
“And destroy possible evidence.”
She gritted her teeth. “Which is not my intention. Are you always this way?”
“What way?”
“Contrary.”
He shrugged. “I’m a cop.”
Lexi dipped her head forward. “You’re a cop? I thought you were a private investigator?”
“No. Jenna is the PI. I’m a homicide detective. Chicago PD.”
“Oh.”
“But, I’m not on this case in an official capacity. I’m giving my sister an opinion. That’s all. I’m here to look at the scene and then I’m gone.”
“You could have said that. I mean, we went through this whole thing and you’re here for a quick visit?”
“There might still be evidence somewhere. Particularly in that laundry room.”
She’d say one thing about Brodey Hayward—the man had a spine. And the way he stood there, shoulders back, so confident and, well, commanding, even in a sling, she didn’t think for one second he’d let her take a hammer to that tile.
This might take a while. Lexi turned back and peered at the laundry room doorway, where Jenna put her thumbs to work on her phone. “Well, maybe I could work around that room. For now. How much time do you need?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Now you’re just being annoying.”
Brodey laughed. “Maybe. But it’s partially true. Give me an hour and we’ll see what’s what. Is that a deal?”
“One hour?”
“Yes.”
“Deal.”
An hour turned into two and Brodey wasn’t done. He squatted in the laundry room, ran his free hand over a chipped edge of grout. Without the actual case file outlining the details of the crime scene, he couldn’t form any solid opinions.
He was flying blind. In the dark. Although, if he was flying blind, it would already be dark.
And, hell no, he would not get sucked into this. He’d give an opinion. That was it. Unfortunately, giving an opinion required a basic understanding of the case.
“I need the case file,” he said to Jenna.
His sister stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame. “I don’t have that.”
“I still need it.”
Maybe he could cash in on a couple of favors. Or his father could. Being a retired detective, the old man had more contacts in the department. And it would keep Brodey off the radar.
Alexis strode into the kitchen, her sky-high heels clicking on the tile. “How’s it going?”
Even on those heels, he looked down at her. Judging by his six-foot-one size, he’d put her at around five-four. Five-five if he wanted to be generous.
Alexis Vanderbilt.
Vanderbilt.
Her name stank of money. Seriously, how many women walked around in five-inch heels, a pair of tight-fitting black pants that made a man’s mind go wild and a blazer over—get this—a leather halter-top-looking thing. Who did that?
Nobody Brodey knew. That was for sure.
But he kinda liked it. From a purely male point of view.
“It’s not going,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I need to talk to your client.”
Jenna stepped farther into the room to make way for Alexis. “I could have Mr. Hennings contact her.”
Alexis dragged her phone from her jacket pocket. “I’ll call her.”
Maybe the sexy decorator wasn’t so bad after all. Brodey grinned. “Thank you.”
She gave him a sarcastic, bunchy-cheeks grin. “It has nothing to do with your enormous charm. It’ll be faster if I call her. By the time Jenna tracks down her boss and he calls my client, you could be on your way over there. I’m all for efficiency.”
That made two of them. And when efficiency looked like Alexis Vanderbilt, preferably a naked Alexis Vanderbilt because yeah, he was wondering what that looked like, he’d welcome it any day, any time without a doubt. Professionalism aside, he was still a guy who liked action. Plenty of it.
“Brenda?” Alexis said into her phone. “Hi. It’s Lexi Vanderbilt...yes...I’m fine.”
Lexi. He liked that. It fit with her sassy attitude. She bobbed her head while going through the pleasantries with her client and Brodey surmised that, like him, she had issues being idle. For any length of time.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m at the house now. There are two investigators here from Hennings & Solomon.”
Technically, Brodey wasn’t from Hennings & Solomon, but he’d let that go. Not worth the hassle.
“They got here a couple of hours ago,” Lexi continued, “and they have questions for you. Would you be able to speak with them?”
Three seconds passed. Then she handed Brodey the phone. He immediately looked at his sister, waggling the phone at her to make sure she didn’t want to take the lead. She shook her head.
Excellent answer. Not that he would have minded her taking the call, but when the phone hit his hand he got that familiar push of adrenaline, that spark that came with a fresh case and the possibility of leads. At the age of thirty-two, he hadn’t