Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(13)

She looked at the bottle opener again. “You know anything about wine?” She glanced at Dillon.

“I’m a Bud man.” He smiled and patted his gut. “Can’t you tell?”

“Yeah, I’m not much of a wine drinker, but this looks pricey.” She walked over and showed him the photograph of the bottle, something from Argentina.

Dillon shook his head, and Lindsey stepped over to open the fridge. Not much in it besides a few diet sodas, a Caesar salad kit, and a package of expensive T-bone steaks. Looked like Jen Ballard was trying to impress her date. On a hunch, Lindsey stepped over and peeked inside the oven, where she found two charred potatoes. A detective or a CSI had probably switched off the oven after showing up at the scene.

The wine told a story, Lindsey felt sure. She headed back through the living room, careful not to step on any shards of glass, and went back to the bedroom wing of the town house. The first bedroom had been converted into an office. The second was the master suite, which included a seating alcove and an attached bath.

Lindsey stepped into the bathroom, noting the Oriental rug on the floor. She couldn’t imagine springing for something like that and then sticking it in her bathroom, where it was sure to get trashed from all the dirt and grossness she routinely brought home on her shoes.

A hairbrush and a tube of lipstick sat atop the granite vanity alongside a neat row of perfume bottles, all French. Lindsey eyed the hairbrush and thought about Jen Ballard standing here brushing her hair in the final minutes of her life.

Lindsey stepped into the closet. Floor-to-ceiling shoe cubbies, built-in dresser. The closet could have been in a magazine, except that it was filled with dark pantsuits and boring black pumps. She opened the top dresser drawer.

The judge’s lingerie was another story—lacy and lots of colors.

She slid the drawer shut, feeling inexplicably guilty. She was a detective, for heaven’s sake.

“Anything interesting?” Dillon asked from the doorway.

“Maybe.”

Lindsey stood for a moment, staring at the vanity and remembering the crime-scene photo of the wineglass that had been sitting there. A bath towel lay crumpled on the floor beside the shower.

“So, I’m thinking she comes home, pours herself a drink, and puts the potatoes in the oven. Then she comes back here to shower and get ready.” She walked back down the hallway, retracing her steps to the bloodstain near the kitchen. “She reaches the living room, and he confronts her.”

“So the question is, was he here already, or did he break in while she was showering?” Dillon said.

That wasn’t the only question.

“Would have been noisy, breaking through that door,” Lindsey said.

“Maybe she didn’t hear him because of the running water.” Dillon leaned against the wall. Despite the beer paunch, he was a nice-looking man, with clear blue eyes and a trustworthy air about him. Not that Lindsey was looking or anything, because although they’d started in the same academy class, she now outranked him.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m leaning more toward him breaking in beforehand at some point, maybe while she was at work.”

He tipped up an eyebrow. “Then lying in wait?”

“Possibly.”

Lindsey crossed the living room, stopping beside a piano. The bench was pulled out, and on it sat a booklet of sheet music. Lindsey leaned closer. “‘Für Elise,’” she said, switching on the flashlight to reveal tiny bits of glass on the paper.

“What’s that?”

“The song.”

“You play?”

“No.”

Taking out her phone, she went through the living-room shots Max had sent. No one had photographed the sheet music, or if they had, Max hadn’t thought it important enough to send.

“Hey, you mind holding the flashlight?” She handed the light back to Dillon. “Shine it at an oblique angle, so the glass shows up.”

Dillon crouched beside her and held the light as Lindsey snapped several photos with her phone.

“You’ve got a theory, Linds. I can tell.”

“Maybe.” She stood up.

“See?” He smiled and stood, too. “This is why you’re the detective and I’m still a lowly uniform.”

She shot him a look. “You’re a uniform because you like women falling at your feet.” She took the flashlight back and returned to the patio door, sweeping the beam over the floor.

“You think the crime-scene techs missed the bits of glass on the sheet music there?” Dillon asked.

“It’s possible.”

“So . . . you’re thinking what?”

“I’m thinking . . .” She glanced around. “Questions, mostly. Why is there glass on the floor here by the door, but there’s none on the floor by the piano? And then there’s more glass there by the kitchen, where she was shot and killed?”

“Maybe the guy tracked it in with him?”

She walked over to the piano bench and stared down at the sheet music.

“Linds, come on.” Dillon checked his watch. “We’re not getting any younger, and I’ve got to get back.”

“I’m thinking . . . she comes home, pours a drink. Maybe she’s distracted or in a hurry, and she doesn’t notice the patio door is busted out.”