Page 10 of Done Dirty

“And he and Paige never had a sexual relationship that you know of?” Jack asked.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Not for lack of trying on her part. When she wasn’t in scrubs she hardly wore any clothes at all. Always trying to show off her body, thinking Wade would be into her because she’s fit or something. But I saw through her ruse pretty easily. Besides, I saw her with a guy a couple of different times. Always when Wade was at work too. One time I was heading to the elevator and she was letting the guy out of the condo. She was only wearing a bathrobe. She didn’t look happy to see me.”

“Any other long-term guests besides Paige?” I asked.

She thought for a minute. “Now that you mention it there was a woman when he first moved in. Her name was listed on his agreement, and he’d introduced her as his girlfriend. But that didn’t last long. Maybe a couple of weeks. Actually, she caused quite a scene in the lobby yelling and throwing things. She did some damage and broke a window. Said he was cheating on her and just went crazy. I was still new to the job, so it left an impression.”

“You remember her name?” I asked.

“I can look it up,” she said. “I’d really forgotten all about it until you asked. I was going to call the police, but Wade was mortified by her behavior and he begged me to let her go. He promised to pay for all the damages. He just said it had been a rough breakup and she wasn’t in her right mind. And he did pay for everything. He even apologized to all the residents and gave them free passes to his studio for a month.”

“Very generous,” I said.

“I told you.” She looked at me accusingly and I decided the best course of action was to drink my coffee so my face didn’t give away my thoughts. I wasn’t a good poker player, though I’d improved considerably over the years.

“What about cameras?” Jack asked. “Someone was able to get into Wade’s condo and kill him, despite the key fobs and man at the front desk. What’s the setup look like?”

“We’ve got cameras in the lobby, front entrance, parking area, elevators, the mailroom, and the pool. There’s no coverage on the residential floors. The residents voted against it when we opened. Privacy concerns. The footage runs on a thirty-day loop. It’s all still there.”

“We’ll need access to all of it,” Jack said. “I can get a warrant if that makes it easier for your employers.”

“I’ll go ahead and give you access,” she said. “But send me the warrant so I’ve got the paperwork to send to corporate. I watch CSI. I know these first hours are crucial for the investigation, and I don’t want to hold anything up.”

“We appreciate that,” Jack said, and I almost laughed at the small twitch at the corner of his eye.

There was nothing more detrimental to law enforcement than amateur detectives who watched too much crime television. We’d once had a guy take his own set of fingerprints and tape them down on paper, which essentially ruined every viable print we could have gotten at the crime scene.

Law enforcement would be easy if it wasn’t for the people.

CHAPTER THREE

I’ve worked enough homicides to know that the body is never the worst part. The worst part is the living—the ones who knew the victim, the ones who have opinions on the victim, and the ones who lie to your face while you try to figure out which category they fall into.

The best thing about the dead was they couldn’t lie. At least not to me.

Lieutenant Daniels was in the living area when we got to Wade Rivers’s condo. She looked up when we came in.

“Bedroom’s yours,” she said. “We’ve done the entry, the living room, the kitchen, and the guest room. No sign of forced entry anywhere. Whoever came in had a key or was invited inside. The master bedroom is untouched.”

“That’s the best kind of present,” Jack said.

She snorted. “I’ll remember that at Christmas.”

Jack and I pulled on gloves and booties.

The condo ran long and narrow, with the main living and dining area open concept. Original factory windows stretched across the far wall in steel frames painted matte black, the glass old enough to be wavy in places, and the floors were a pale oak. Two identical charcoal sofas faced each other on top of a jute rug. The coffee table was black iron, but there was nothing on it—no remotes, no coasters, no magazines. There was no mail stacked by the door, no shoes piled in the entry, no water rings on the coffee table from a glass set down and forgotten.

The kitchen was on the left with a pass-through bar, and from what I could see it was black and minimalist, much like the rest of the condo. There was another door to the left of the kitchen where one of the CSIs was standing in the threshold.

“It’s like a model home,” I said. “Hard to believe anyone lives here.”

Everything had a place. The only disruption was the thin sheen of fingerprint powder across the doorframes and surfaces.

“Anything out of place?” Jack asked the CSI tech in the doorway. He was an older guy in a white jumpsuit and he had a camera slung around his neck.

“Other than the dead body?” the man asked.

“Yeah, other than that.”