Chapter 1 #2
“No reason to be mean about it,” I grumbled.
Newcastle was the southernmost of King George County’s four towns. Bloody Mary and King George Proper ran along the Potomac to the north, Newcastle and Nottingham to the south, and all four towns met in the middle where their corners formed the Towne Square.
Newcastle had figured out what it wanted to be and hadn’t wavered since.
Cobblestone streets over original brick, gas streetlamps burning all day because someone decided they looked better that way, iron benches with the town seal worked into the backrest, and a public park at the center with a fountain that gurgled in spring, summer and fall.
The old buildings had been restored instead of knocked down, and the newer ones built to match so well you couldn’t tell the difference unless you knew what you were looking at.
Art galleries and independent bookstores and bistros with handwritten menus, wine bars that stayed open late, and more than one place where you could take a pottery or art class and feel like a better person for it.
It drew young professionals who wanted character without inconvenience, well-heeled retirees who wanted everything in a walkable distance, and people who described themselves as creatives in a way that just meant they could afford to do it.
The farmers market on Saturday mornings was more for social status than buying groceries, and parking was near impossible all the time, which was why locals walked or biked everywhere.
It wasn’t a cheap lifestyle. But you get what you pay for.
The Windsor was at the end of Westminster Street, a four-story converted textile building with exposed brick and original iron window frames painted flat black. The lobby had pine floors worn to silver down the center from a hundred years of use. Thankfully, they hadn’t been covered or painted.
Officer Plank was posted at the entrance in a uniform so crisp it looked like he’d just taken it from the box.
He was a few years into the job now, still pink cheeked, still clean cut, and still sporting the single dimple that had earned him the nickname Baby Fresh around the station.
The shine had dulled a little since his rookie days, but not much.
He’d been living in sin with Officer Wachowski for almost a year now, and she’d finally agreed to marry him.
The jury was still out on what his parents thought about the match.
Honestly, I didn’t know what I thought of it either.
Wachowski was older in physical years and experience, and I had a soft spot for Plank.
“You always get the good ones,” I said to Plank.
His cheeks pinkened slightly. “How’s it going, Doc? You sure you’re okay to go up? It’s pretty rough in there.”
“I’m fine,” I said, figuring this was going to be a common question throughout this pregnancy. “Women have been working and having babies since the beginning of time. They used to glean the wheat and give birth right there in the fields.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean you plan to give birth on our crime scene,” Plank said, deadpan.
A laugh escaped unexpectedly. “I think you told a joke, Plank. Nice one.”
His color deepened.
“What have you got for us?” Jack asked, breaking the moment.
“I was first on scene after the 911 call,” Plank said. “Unit 403. Victim was DOA. I made sure the condo was clear and backed out. I got the name from the building manager. Wade Rivers is the name on the unit registration. Lieutenant Daniels is already up there with her crew.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “And keep working on those jokes. You’ll be as good as Detective Cole one day.”
“One can only hope, sir.”
I don’t know what I was expecting when we entered the lobby, but it wasn’t this.
The far wall was a showstopper—a floor-to-ceiling black steel frame around a gas fireplace that ran the full length of it, long and low, the flame steady and blue at the base.
Not the kind you heat a room with. The kind you light for effect.
Deep leather sofas faced it on either side, the color of good cognac.
The pine floors were worn silver-pale down the center from a hundred years of foot traffic and nobody had covered them, which was the right call.
On a long sideboard near the elevator someone had set out the morning buffet—fresh juices in glass carafes, cucumber water, an assortment of fruit and muffins.
The lobby had also gathered an audience, despite cops in full uniform and the CSI team in their white Tyvek suits coming in and out of the building. Four residents had arranged themselves in the seating area near the fireplace and showed no signs of leaving.
The woman at the center of the nearest sofa was somewhere in her sixties and wearing a silk caftan the color of a good bordeaux and a matching turban.
She had a martini glass with three olives still in it.
At nine thirty in the morning. When she caught sight of Jack her eyes lit up like Christmas morning.
I had to admit, Jack was a sight to look at, and he tended to draw female attention wherever we went.
But there was something about this woman’s feral gaze that made me decide it was best for Jack not to be alone with her, despite the fact she was old enough to be his mother.
Next to her was a man in his early thirties in a fleece vest and house slippers who kept cutting his eyes toward the elevator like he was reconsidering his decision to come down.
On the arm of the chair beside them sat a woman who looked like she’d been poured into a white bodysuit and had decided it was appropriate attire when someone died in your building.
She had long blond hair, three-inch nails, and the kind of effortless curves that made men fall all over themselves.
She sat with her legs crossed and her full attention on Jack.
Her phone was clipped into a small ring light on the side table beside her, angled at the room.
“Ooh,” she said, and smiled the kind of smile that was used to getting things. “You look like you’re in charge. Is it true someone died? I heard it was Wade.”
“A tragedy,” the woman in the turban said, taking another sip of her martini. “Such an attractive man.”
“We can’t comment on ongoing investigations,” Jack said. “And you can’t record during a murder investigation until we’ve cleared the scene. Are you all residents here?”
“Yes,” she said. “Maybe I could interview you at my place later. I’m in 203. My subscribers would love it. Especially if it’s murder.”
“Of course it’s murder,” the man in the fleece vest hissed. “We could all be in danger. It could have been any of us. The killer could be among us.”
“Take a Xanax, Parker,” she said, continuing to stare at Jack. “Save your imagination for your next book.”
The fourth resident had stayed quiet. He had the Mediterranean good looks of a Greek or Italian, with swarthy skin and a five o’clock shadow. He wore a sport coat over a T-shirt and was leaning against the wall near a hallway with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Officer Plank is going to get your names and statements,” Jack said, leveling a look at the woman in white. “No recording.”
She reached over and picked up her phone without urgency, turned the screen toward Jack so he could see she’d stopped the recording, and smiled at him again.
“Of course,” she said.
Jack gave Plank a nod and we headed toward the elevators.
“Colorful crew,” I said. “Stay away from that woman in the turban. She wanted to take a bite out of you.”
“I hope not. She looked rabid.”