Page 52 of Done Dirty

“Oh, sure,” he said. “A few times.”

“The same woman?”

“No, different,” he said. “But I recognized them. Most of them have been here before. Wade was a fitness coach of some sort.”

“Any idea what was in the envelopes?”

“I’m no expert, but it felt like it might be a lot of cash,” he said with a shrug. “But the envelopes were sealed, so I can’t be sure. But I’ve held an envelope of cash a time or two in my life. Figured they were just paying him under the table so he didn’t have to pay taxes, know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Mind if we head up?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let me grab the key from Jessica’s office.”

He came back a minute later and said, “Just take the elevator up. I let Jessica know you’re here. She wants to know when a cleaning crew can come.”

“It’ll be a couple of more days,” Jack said. “We’ll send a crime scene cleanup team to take care of things, and then Wade’s next of kin and Ms. Marsh can come collect any belongings.”

“I’ll let her know,” he said. “There’s a wait list for these condos. Though between you and me, I wouldn’t be too excited to stay in one where a man just died.”

We made our way toward the elevator and saw it was already waiting open. Jack punched the button for four.

“Plank sent a text while you were on the phone with the lab,” he said. “He and Wachowski have found six of our black book women.”

“That’s good work. I’m curious to hear what Wade’s financial records show,” I said, stepping off the elevator.

Jack looked down at the key in his hand and said, “Jessica keeps the master key in her office. I wonder how many people know it’s there. And how hard it is to access.”

“Jessica would certainly have access,” I said.

“What was your impression of her?” Jack asked.

“I didn’t like her,” I said immediately. “She seemed desperate and like she’s trying too hard to be younger than she is. Like one of those girls who never gets past high school.”

“It doesn’t make her a killer,” Jack said.

“No, but she had the hots for the victim and no one can verify her alibi.”

Jack used the key and unlocked the door of the condo. It smelled stale, the lingering scent of fingerprint powder and blood prevalent.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Give me a minute,” Jack said.

He walked through the living room without touching anything and into the bedroom. I followed him to the doorway and watched.

He stood in the center of the room for a moment, just looking. Not at anything specific—at all of it. The way the furniture was arranged. The angle of the bed to the door. The mirrors. The dark stain on the hardwood floor where Wade had fallen, and the spatter pattern on the wall behind it—cast-off, medium velocity, the shape of it telling a story if you knew how to read it.

Jack walked to the far side of the room, near the window, and turned around.

“He was here,” he said.

I looked at where Jack was standing. Facing the bed. Back to the door.

“His back was to the entrance,” I said.

“Full back,” Jack said. “Not angled. Not turned partway. Whoever came through that door, Wade didn’t see them coming. Didn’t hear them. Didn’t react in time.” He looked at the floor, at the distance from where he stood to the stain. “A man like Wade—vain, controlled, hyperaware of himself in a room—doesn’t stand with his back to a door unless he’s completely distracted.”

“Sex would be a distraction,” I said. “If there was a woman in this room she’d be a witness to murder.”