“It wasn’t a break-in,” Eve said.
“Maybe the crew left the apartment unsecured.”
“They never do,” Whitestone reminded him.
“Mistakes happen, Brad.”
“We’re investigating all possibilities,” Eve began, then stopped when she heard voices.
“That’s Jake.” Whitestone slipped out, and stepped in again a moment later with his other partner. “My appointment’s on the way up. If you don’t need me—”
“We’ll be in touch,” Eve told him.
“Jake Ingersol, Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. I’m in my office.”
“What a mess, huh?” Ingersol offered his hand, quick, hearty shakes, then dropped down at the table. “Hell of a thing to happen. Brad’s been sick about it.”
Where Whitestone projected cheerful competence and Newton smooth confidence, Ingersol was like an energetic puppy, all movement and avid eyes.
Like his partners, he wore a good suit, a perfectly knotted and coordinated tie, and shoes with a mirror gleam. Sun-streaked brown hair curled around his face, made him seem very youthful, somewhat innocent. But his eyes, though warm brown, were sharp, savvy.
“Café Diablo,” Newton said mildly.
“What can I say, it’s what the client wants. I start out hyped,” he told Eve, “add a couple of double Diablo Locas and I’m overwired. I’m getting bits and pieces of what’s going on. Brad said they were inside the apartment? Inside?”
“That’s correct.”
“We put in damn good security. I don’t get it.”
“We believe they had the codes.”
He opened his mouth, shut it again, and sat back. “Jesus, Rob. One of Jasper’s crew?”
“We don’t know that,” Newton said quickly.
“Do you have any reason to suspect someone on the construction crew?” Eve asked him.
“Just doing the math.” He rose, grabbed a bottle of water out of the friggie. “Not that many people have the codes. We sure as hell didn’t kill anybody.”
“Jasper and his people worked on my place for six months before they started on the building,” Newton pointed out. “There was never so much as a coffee mug missing.”
“I know, hey, I know, and I like him, too. A lot. I guess somebody didn’t lock up, that’s all, and whoever killed that woman got lucky.”
Eve nudged Marta’s photo toward Ingersol. “Do you know her?”
“No, I don’t . . . wait a minute.” He shifted a little closer, studied the photo. “Maybe, but I can’t pin it down.”
“She worked for Brewer, Kyle, and Martini,” Newton said before Eve could speak.
“That’s it!” Ingersol snapped his fingers, right hand, left hand—pop, pop. “That’s where I’ve seen her. We coordinate with our clients’ accountants, on taxes, investments, portfolio strategy. I’ve got some clients who use that firm. I work with Chaz Parzarri and Jim Arnold, but I met her awhile back. Just in passing. Wow. I met her.”
“Can you tell me where you were last night, between nine P.M. and midnight?”
His mouth dropped open, briefly. He lifted the water bottle, swallowed. “And another wow. Are we suspects?”
“It’s routine,” Eve said again.
“Well, sure, I was . . . let me think.” He pulled out a date book.