“What time did you arrive?”
“We met outside just after eleven. We had an eleven o’clock showing. We—we came up together, and began with the living area. Ah, Mrs. Gordon wandered off to look at the bedrooms. We encourage clients to look around, and then she—”
Eve stopped him again. “The place is furnished, but the records show it’s been untenanted for three months.”
“It’s staging. Rented by the owners. To, ah, give the prospective buyers a better feel for how it looks, lived in. I don’t know how that woman . . . I don’t know how she can be here. The log says the agent from City Choice showed it yesterday, and logged out at twelve-thirty.”
“Is that so?”
“The building is well secured.” He looked almost pleadingly toward the couple huddled together in a chair. “It’s prime property. Quiet, safe.”
“Yeah, safe.” Eve looked over at the woman. Not much older than the victim, she judged. Shaking, teary. “You found the body.”
“I—I wanted to see the bedrooms. Especially the master. We want a large master, with a view if we can get it.
So I . . . And she was there, on the bed. Dead. She looked dead. I screamed for Brent, and I ran away from the—from her.”
“Did you go into the room? Any of you?”
“Nobody went in. I play a cop on screen.” Gordon smiled weakly. “City Force, maybe you’ve caught it.”
“Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. Brash young detective, maverick. Anyway, a lot of it’s bullshit, I guess, but you get how you have to secure a crime scene. So we didn’t go in, or touch anything after Posey found the woman. We called nine-one-one.”
“Okay. Mr. Wayne, how far in advance do you make these appointments for showings?”
“It depends. In a case like this one, fast as you can. There was a contract on it, but it fell through. We heard about it yesterday, but City got the jump on us. They must have somebody on the inside, somebody at the lending company who gave them the head’s up. I contacted the Gordons as soon as I got word, but we couldn’t make it in until this morning.”
“Why them, particularly?”
“It’s just what they’re looking for. The location, the property, the price range. It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for.”
Gordon gave him a look of quiet disbelief. “Chip, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“The owners are bound to be willing to renegotiate the price, considering. We can—”
“Brent, I want to go. Can’t we leave? Please.”
“Give me your contact information,” Eve told them, “and you’re free to go. We may need to talk to you again.”
Eve walked the loft again, made notes, ran it through her head while the sweepers began their part of the job.
“Cams off on building security, too, and the virus . . . it looks like it infected that system. They’re linked up with the individual security. It’s not the same system as the first murder,” Peabody continued, “but it’s the same brand. A commercial model. Also, the other residents aren’t home. Word is everybody works days. The building is typically empty from around nine in the morning to around five in the afternoon, weekdays. I started a background on the other residents. I’m not getting anything that clicks.”
“He scoped it out. He wouldn’t have had much time, but he did his homework. He was waiting for the opportunity, and knows how to take advantage of it. She should have a record of the appointment on her office comp, something there. We’ll get his name. Whatever name he used. Where’s the cohab this time of day?”
“He works from home primarily. Research consultant. Their place is only a few blocks from the real estate agency.”
“We’ll take him first. The parents, they’re in Brooklyn, right?”
“Yeah. The mother works as a family counselor now.”
Eve nodded, took a last look before calling the elevator. “It’s all about family, isn’t it?”
17
ANTHONY HAMPTON WORE CASUAL OFFICE WEAR, a trim goatee, and high-end skids. He greeted Eve and Peabody with a quick smile, and a harried look in green eyes that sparked against warm brown skin.