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, he’d even taken to driving to his parents’ house each day for cop talk with his retired detective father. A week into that, his mother had booted him and told him to get a life.
Thanks, Mom.
Jenna motioned him down the long corridor. “Thanks for coming in first thing. We’re meeting in the conference room. You sure you’re okay with this?”
“Yeah. I’m not getting paid. All I’m doing is giving you my opinion, right?”
“Right.”
“Then I’m not violating any rules.”
Jenna—a private investigator for Hennings & Solomon—had called him the night before asking if he’d assist on a cold case that somehow landed in her lap. Why not? He could kill time—no pun intended—and keep his mind sharp for his eventual return to the job. Plus, there’d be no emotional involvement with this case. Technically, it wasn’t his, so he could walk away without running himself through a meat grinder over it.
“Good. I’ve looked over all the files, but I’m missing something.”
Brodey followed Jenna while eyeing the art lining the walls. Some would call it modern. He’d call it weird with all those slashes of color, but whatever. Art meant a real picture of something. A woman in a park, a kid flying a kite, something he could look at and recognize. This hoity-toity stuff, he didn’t get.
They reached the conference room, where a huge whiteboard smothered with notes and charts covered one wall. His sister had been busy. She’d also done a fine job of organizing her evidence.
She gestured to the wall. “I have it all laid out for you. Just the way Dad taught us.”
He wandered to the board and glanced at Jenna’s notes. Victim’s name, Jonathan Williams. Scene of the crime, brownstone on the cushy North Side. Cause of death, gunshot to the head.
“Crime-scene photos?”
“No. I was hoping you or Dad could help with that.”
Not if he wanted to stay under the radar he couldn’t. “I’ll talk to Dad. Tell me again how you got this case.”
“It’s kind of convoluted.”
“It always is, Jenna.”
“Remember how I worked on Brent’s mom’s murder case a few months back?”
How could a guy forget Brent, the giant deputy US marshal who had stolen his sister’s heart and managed to convince her she didn’t need to walk around half-naked for people to notice her? Brent had enough baggage to fill a 747 jet and Jenna had still fallen in love with him. If nothing else, it showed a boy could overcome a rotten childhood and grow into an honorable man.
“So this has to do with Brent?”
“No. Mrs. Hennings. She was the one who convinced my boss to take on Brent’s case. She’s at it again with this one.”
Did someone say convoluted? “Oooookay.”
“Mrs. Hennings attended a social function and ran into a decorator she knows.”
Brodey gawked. A decorator? This should be good.
Jenna held her hand up before he could crack wise. “The decorator was hired by a real-estate agency to stage the house of the murder victim. The house has been on the market for two years and they’re about to drop the price. Before they did that, the victim’s estranged wife—they were separated, but not yet divorced—wanted to try redecorating it. I suppose when a house is worth close to two million hiring a decorator isn’t an issue.”
Brodey let out a low whistle. “I’ll say. Why am I here?”
“The decorator told Mrs. Hennings about the house, and here we are.”
“What do you get out of it?”
“My boss’s undying gratitude for keeping him out of trouble with his wife.”
Brodey laughed. One thing about Jenna, she knew how to stay on a man’s good side. He pointed to the board. “Whatcha got?”
“You may remember this case. He was a stockbroker living the good life until the market crashed. For years he’d basically been running a Ponzi scheme with his clients’ money. His marriage fell apart and he was drowning in debt. The FBI eventually caught up to him and he was under investigation.”
“He was murdered before the Feds charged him, right? Is that the guy?”
“Yes. On the day his body was found, he didn’t show up for a meeting with his biggest client. That was unusual so his firm called his wife. Apparently he hadn’t updated his emergency contact at the office so her cell phone was the only number they had.”
“Ah, damn. Don’t tell me the ex found him.”
Jenna nodded. “In the laundry room.”
Poor woman. Brodey still hadn’t gotten used to viewing murder victims’ bodies, inhaling that nasty metallic odor of blood and trying to remain unaffected. Forget about a loved one. That? No way.
Refusing to give in to his thoughts, Brodey stood, arms folded, studying the board. “I think I remember this. Looked like a robbery gone bad, right?”
“Yes. In the two years since the murder, the widow has spent most of the insurance money settling their debts, but she’s not in the clear yet. It’s a mess. With the divorce pending, the finances hadn’t been worked out. The house was paid off,
