Page 40 of It's One of Us

Melanie Rich.

What the hell?

Eddie is looking at her quizzically.

“These belong to Park. What in the world?”

“I don’t know. It was spread all over the place by the butler’s pantry. But bad news. That stain ain’t gonna come out. We’re gonna have to find another option.”

“Damn it. I knew we should have gone with the honed Copacabana. That slab’s not still sitting in the back of the warehouse by chance, is it?”

“Nope. It’ll take six to eight weeks for another Staturario to come. I think if we flip this, and put in the sidepiece upside down, the owners might not be able to tell.”

“But the designer will know.”

“You know the rules, Liv. Will it bother the client—”

“Or the designer. All right. Thanks, Eddie.”

“You okay, Liv? You seem...jumpy.”

“All good. I need to think this through and come up with some options for the Joneses.”

He nods. “Lock that door behind me if you’re sticking around, you hear? I’ll be back in a while with the granite.”

She locks the dead bolt and waits for him to drive away. Okay, now she’s calling the police.

Moore.

She’ll call the woman. She liked her better than the man.

She puts the photos of the girl in her purse. She might need them later.

18

THE DETECTIVES

Joey takes the call from Park Bender while Osley is inside Starbucks getting them coffee.

“You’re going to want to come back to the house,” Bender says. “Someone broke into my office.”

“Are they still there?”

“No.”

“All right. Have you touched anything?”

“Other than spilling another cup of coffee, this one all over my desk? No.” The wry tone is only partially apologetic. The man sounds wrecked, and no wonder.

“Stay put, and don’t touch anything else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bender replies smartly.

She hangs up on him, grabs the mic from the computer. “Dispatch, we need an evidence team to meet us at our last address. Possible B and E.”

“Copy that, Detective.”

Osley is jawing with a pretty girl sitting at the table by the window closest to the door, flashing that ridiculous grin, a booted foot up on the stool by the woman, showing off the latest in a long line of cowboy boots. He’s a collector, as he calls it. A shoe whore, she calls it, which makes him laugh.I got style, lady. You could use some. The eighties called. They want those shoulder pads back.