His clothes were the same. As homicide detectives, both she and Vin were plainclothed (i.e., no uniform) most of the time, but she liked to joke that Vin had a uniform all his own. Dark jeans. Dark top. Leather jacket.
His always-present aviator glasses were shoved up onto his head, even though the sun had set long ago.
Jill smiled fondly as she reached up to remove them. He always forgot they were there.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, taking the glasses from her without meeting her eyes.
“You got a haircut,” Jill said. “It looks nice.”
His eyes looked up then, and something flickered. Something she didn’t recognize.
Then he shrugged. “I was past due. Mom had been getting on my case.”
She nodded, jingling her keys in her palm. This was normally the point where she would have said something. Would have chattered on happily about how she was getting her hair cut later that week, or did his barber still smell like garlic? Or even a teasing you sure you’re not getting gussied up for a girl?
Tonight, she said none of those things. Tonight, she said what she really wanted to say, even though it betrayed more than she wanted.
“Thanks for the doughnut,” she blurted out. “It was… It meant a lot.”
He rolled his eyes. “It was just a doughnut, Henley.”
Was it though? she wondered.
“Well,” she said, looking down at her keys. “Thanks anyway.”
“Whatever,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He turned away without another word and started down the walk to his car.
“Hey, Moretti,” she called before she could think better of it.
He turned back.
“I really did miss you,” she said.
He said nothing. She didn’t expect him to.
But he smiled. A real smile.
And that was something.
CHAPTER SIX
Jill’s first day back on the job was a big one.
As in… the biggest of her career.
Not because the crime was particularly unique. Being shoved off a staircase wasn’t common, but neither was it particularly creative.
No, it wasn’t the crime that was career breaking.
It was the victim.
Jill hunched down, linking her gloved hands between her knees as she studied the blank, staring eyes of the dead woman.
“Lenora Birch. Who did this to you?”
“I’d forgotten how creepy it is when you talk to the vics,” Vincent said.
Jill glanced over to where her partner crouched across from her, his posture mimicking hers on the other side of the victim’s body.
He didn’t look back at her. His gaze never moved away from the gruesome scene in front of him.
“Well I think it’s creepy that you don’t talk to them,” she said. “They’re people. Not ‘vics.’”
This time he did meet her eyes. “Exactly. They’re people. And it’s my job to figure out who stole their humanity away from them.”
“Right,” she said, standing up. “Your job. Because I’m just here because you’re such great company and I love all the blood.”
“Not much blood with this one,” he mused, standing with her.
He was right. As far as crime scenes went, it was clean in more ways than one. No footprints, no broken windows, and Jill was willing to bet as soon as the forensics guys finished up… no fingerprints.
But the method of death too was cleaner than most in that there was less blood than a stabbing or a shooting. But somehow the pristine crime scene almost made the death more gruesome.
Jill’s eyes followed the gorgeous, old-fashioned staircase all the way from the marble floor where they stood up to where it curved up around a magnificent chandelier. Then on to the point where Lenora Birch must have spent her last seconds of life.
“She could have fallen,” Jill said.
Vin came to stand beside her, his eyes repeating the exact motion hers had. “She didn’t fall.”
Jill was inclined to agree; nothing about this scene felt right. But they had to explore all options, as Vincent well knew.
Jill took the stairs two at a time, and Vincent followed her up. It was an exceptionally beautiful home. Most of the old walk-ups in this part of town were.
Jill and Vincent didn’t get many cases in the Upper East Side. The crime rate in the uppity part of town was lower than other parts of New York.
“This is too pretty a place for someone to die,” Jill said quietly. She held her gloved hand over the immaculately polished wood railing, hovering just an inch above so she didn’t actually touch it. “Do you think this is prewar?”
Vincent grunted, his eyes in constant motion as they ascended the stairs, although she doubted he was marveling at the decor the way she was.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself. The staircase beneath her feet seemed to be made of the same marble as the entryway floor. And she didn’t know art, but the paintings on the walls didn’t look like prints bought on the Internet the way all of Jill’s were.
This place smelled like money. Old money. And lots of it.
Which made sense, considering one of Hollywood’s most beloved legends lay dead below them.
“I can’t believe she’s dead,” Jill said quietly.