> “Me too,” Muller said. “He used to be a friend of mine.”
She slowed, spotted the mailbox with the address she was looking for, and turned into the long driveway of a sprawling Cape house with gray cedar-shake siding and a lushly landscaped yard.
“This must have cost a small fortune,” Bree said.
“One point seven five million,” Muller said. “I checked before we left.”
“How does a chief of detectives afford a place like this?”
“Wife’s money,” Muller said. “She came with a trust fund.”
That had Bree chewing the inside of her cheek. Parking, she said, “How come I didn’t know that?”
“I take it you were never invited out here for dinner or a barbecue.”
“I’ve never been here before in my life.”
“I have,” Muller said, and he climbed out.
Bree followed him as he crossed the driveway. When they were twenty feet shy of the door, it opened, and a tall, distinguished-looking man in a well-cut suit exited carrying a briefcase. The man stopped when he saw them.
A woman in her forties appeared in the doorway behind him. She had sandy-blond hair, a tennis-honed body, puffy red eyes, and a tortured expression on her face.
“Kurt,” she called to Muller in a wavering voice. “I’m crushed to see you like this.”
Muller nodded, said, “I am too, Vivian.”
The well-dressed man half turned toward her.
Vivian McGrath gestured to the man absently. “Kurt, this is Lance Gordon, my attorney. Detective Muller used to work for Tommy, Lance.”
“We both did,” Bree said.
“I’m sorry for your loss, all of you,” Gordon said. “Vivian, call anytime if you have questions.”
“I appreciate it, Lance,” she said. “Really.”
The lawyer pursed his lips and nodded before walking past Muller and Bree. When he went by, Bree noticed an oddly familiar odor trailing him. Weirdly sweet. But she couldn’t place it.
Bree and Muller went to McGrath’s widow. Muller said, “Got to be hard, Viv. Even after everything.”
Bree forgot about Gordon and focused on Vivian as tears leaked from her eyes and she swallowed against emotion.
“It’s true,” she choked out. “I’d already lost him. But this. It’s just…”
Muller patted her shoulder awkwardly, said, “Viv, this is Detective Bree Stone. We’re part of a task force working on Tom’s case. Alex Cross is leading.”
Vivian smiled weakly. “Nothing but the best for Tommy.”
Then she put a well-manicured hand on Bree’s arm and said, “He talked of you often, Detective Stone. Please come inside. Can I offer you coffee?”
“Please,” Bree said, and Muller nodded.
She led them through rooms that could have been featured in Architectural Digest and ushered them into a kitchen with exposed-beam ceilings, cream-colored cabinets, and a maroon stove.
Gleaming copper pots hung over a prep station. Every surface was spotless. Every knife and utensil looked in its place, so much so that it felt sterile to Bree. There were no pictures taped to the fridge, no stacks of mail on the counters, and no dishes in the sink.
“Sit, sit,” Vivian said, gesturing to stools at a breakfast counter. “What do you want to know? How can I help?”