Twenty-two

FEIGNING INTEREST, VICTORIA nodded along as Sutter talked about the upgrades he and his wife had made to the unit, and told them not to miss the private rooftop deck.

After he excused himself to greet another visitor, Ford turned to her. “Should we see the bedrooms next?”

“Definitely.”

Playing their parts, they checked out the second bedroom first, which the Sutters were currently using as an office, before moving on to the master suite. Victoria smiled politely as a woman passed them on her way out. Then she turned to Ford, whispering, “I think it’s him.”

He nodded in agreement. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

The bedroom had a contemporary-style décor, lots of clean lines and white fabrics. Victoria spotted another wedding photograph on one of the nightstands—a close-up of Sutter and his wife, smiling and looking adorably happy.

“Watch the door for me,” Ford said.

She blocked any incoming traffic by putting her hand on the doorframe and pretending to study the room. Ford grabbed his phone from his back pocket and took a picture of the Sutters’ wedding photo. He checked the image, then tucked his phone away.

“What do you think the odds are that Sutter and his wife met and got married all in the last fourteen months?” she asked.

“About fifty-fifty.”

She agreed, which meant they were quite possibly looking at an infidelity situation here. Maintaining their ruse, Victoria checked out the large master bedroom closet as another couple entered the room. Ford came up behind her.

“Plenty of room for your shoes,” he said teasingly, in a normal volume.

The setup of the closet reminded her of the closet in her old townhome, the one in which she’d blacked out during the break-in. Remembering that moment, she suddenly began to feel slightly . . . off.

No. Not here. Drawing on her relaxation techniques, she focused on taking steady breaths from her diaphragm.

I feel calm and relaxed.

“Look there,” Ford said quietly, clueless to the rising panic she felt. He moved around her, into the closet, and pointed to a row of men’s red T-shirts, zip-ups, and polo shirts, all bearing the same black logo. “He works at XSport Fitness.”

The comment diverted Victoria’s attention and grounded her. Instead of focusing on whether she felt light-headed, the lawyerly wheels in her mind began to spin in. Knowing that Sutter worked at an XSport Fitness club was helpful—she could likely contact him at work, instead of at home, to tell him about Nicole and Zoe.

She exhaled, feeling steadier than she had moments ago, and then noticed that the other couple was waiting to check out the closet. “Oops, sorry. I’ll get out of your way.”

Ford followed her into the master bathroom, which had double sinks, a porcelain soaking tub, and a steam shower.

“Crap. Not a toothbrush in sight,” he whispered.

Victoria paused while the other couple passed by the bathroom on their way out.

As soon as it was just the two of them, Ford quietly opened one of the cabinets. “Bingo.”

“You can’t take his toothbrush,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

She pointed in the direction of the living room. “Because he’ll notice that it’s gone. And when he finds out who I am, he might put two and two together, and I don’t want to get disbarred for stealing a damn toothbrush.” She paused. “But, there’s always Plan F.”

“What’s Plan F?”

She grabbed a small Ziploc bag from her purse. “Does he have a hairbrush in there, too?”

“Oh . . . I like the way you think, Victoria Slade.”

She waved this off. Yes, yes, she’d become quite the super-sleuth these days, but they needed to forgo all compliments and commendations regarding her mad skills until later. “Just hurry.”

Ford pulled a two-inch round brush from the cabinet.

“Not that one. That’s a woman’s brush. Yes—that one,” she said when he grabbed a flat brush with boar bristles. She checked to make sure no one was coming while Ford yanked some hair strands off the brush.

He put the brush back, shut the cabinet with one hand, and then dumped the hairs into the bag that Victoria held open. She zipped it shut and stuffed it inside her purse.

And Peter Sutter would never be the wiser.

“Should we check out the rooftop deck?” Ford asked, getting back into character.

“Absolutely.”

They nodded while passing by a man who headed into the bedroom just as they were leaving. On the upper floor, there was an alcove that contained a wet bar for entertaining, and then a door that led to the deck. Ford put his hand on the small of Victoria’s back as she stepped outside.

The couple who’d been in the master bedroom was outside, as were two other women. Victoria walked to the far end of the deck and leaned against the chest-high stone ledge, as if checking out the view.

“I’d been hoping he wouldn’t be married.” She sighed. “It obviously makes things more complicated.” She checked her watch and saw it was already after one thirty.

Ford pulled out his cell phone.

“Is Nicole on standby again?” she asked.

“She’s in a class right now, but she said she’d have her phone with her.” He forwarded the picture he’d taken of Sutter and then tucked the phone back in his pocket. “If she says it’s him, what happens next?”

“I’ll get the hair sample over to a lab I’ve used in other paternity cases. But that’s just so we know that we haven’t made a mistake. We’ll do a second, official paternity test after contacting Sutter and telling him about Zoe.”

“How long will it take to get the results from the lab?” Ford asked.

“Three to five business days, depending on how busy they are.”

Ford’s phone buzzed with a new text message. He took it out of his pocket, read the message, and showed the phone to Victoria.

OMG. That’s him.

*   *   *

FORD ASKED VICTORIA to take a second look around the condo with him.

She smiled jokingly. “Why? Are you considering moving?”

“I want Sutter’s wife, the real estate agent, to think we are.”

She cocked her head. “You want to talk to them.”

Yes, he did. Both the protective older brother and uncle in him, as well as the nosy investigative journalist, wanted to know more about this married Peter Sutter who was his niece’s father.

He and Victoria went back downstairs and made their way through the place one more time.

“I love the double oven,” she said as they entered the kitchen. She squeezed his hand and smiled up at him warmly. “That would come in really handy during the holidays.”

An image suddenly popped into his head of him and Victoria having Thanksgiving dinner with their friends and family.

He paused, wholly caught off guard by the thought.

Fortunately he was spared from having to answer when a pretty brunette, dressed in cream linen pants and a loose-fitting pale pink shirt, walked over.

She shook hands with both him and Victoria. “Melanie Ames. I’m the listing agent, and also one of the owners. Are there any questions I can answer about the place?”

Back on his game again, Ford turned to Victoria, as if thinking. “Well . . . I guess I’d be curious to know if it’s generally a quiet building? We both occasionally work from home.”

Melanie nodded. “The great thing is, we’re on the top floor, so you obviously don’t have any noise above you. Below us, you have the middle unit, which is owned by a couple in their fifties—really nice people. Then there’s the first-floor unit, owned by a single guy. Super quiet, keeps to himself. But not in a creepy, serial killer kind of way,” she added quickly.

Peter Sutter came out of the dining room, chuckling. “I love how you always throw that in whenever you describe poor Toby. ‘But not in a creepy, serial killer kind of way.’”

She smiled affectionately at her husband. “Because that’s the first thing you think of when you hear about a guy who ‘keeps to himself.’” She turned back to Ford and Victoria. “Anyway, in general, I’d say it’s a pretty quiet block for being so close to Wrigley. Obviously, you’re going to get some people walking by on a Friday or Saturday night who’ve had a few beers at the game. But I’ve lived here for nine months now, ever since we got married, and I practically lived here the four years before that. During that time, we’ve never had any serious issues with noise.”

Hearing this—that the Sutters had been together for nearly five years—hardly improved Ford’s opinion of the man who’d slept with his sister fourteen months ago and then had left without saying good-bye.

Melanie looked to Peter for confirmation, and he nodded. “You know me, I love being close to the stadium. We’re actually staying in the neighborhood, going to a single-family home just a couple blocks over,” he said to Ford and Victoria. “P.J. and I need a front yard to play catch in.” He winked at his wife.

“We’re expecting our first child in December,” she explained, touching her stomach. “And my husband here is set on Peter Junior if it’s a boy—P.J., for short.”

“Because it’s a cute nickname,” Peter said.

“Yes, it is. For pajamas.” Melanie turned back to Ford and Victoria. “We’ll probably still be negotiating this on the way to the hospital.” Then she clapped her hands, getting back down to business. “So. Any other questions I can answer for you?”

Ford glanced at Victoria, who likely was thinking the same thing he was—that Melanie Ames seemed like a nice person who deserved better than her philandering jerk of a husband.

And also that Peter Sutter had some seriously fertile sperm.

“Nope,” Ford told the couple. “I think you’ve covered everything we need to know.”