This meant that Georgina would have to form a plan. Hers was typically blow and go. Sign in and grab a tear sheet, doing mental calculations about house size versus lot size while giving the place a quick once-over. The living room and dining room were public space, ergo usually in decent shape. If a house had a bad living room, it was probably one step ahead of the wrecking ball. Single-family homes showed their true colors in the kitchen and bathrooms; that and the size of the bedroom closets. She and Derek had lots of junk, so closet space would be a priority. If the place flunked any one of the above, there were still three other houses on her list.
This newest one would go fast because it was priced reasonably and in a good neighborhood. In a hot market, Georgina knew, she’d have to move if she wanted a chance at elusive home ownership. She and Derek had already lost two chances through indecision. The next time, Georgina swore, if the place was right, passing the kitchen/bathroom/closet test, she wouldn’t hesitate.
Finally, a black Mercedes pulled up in the driveway. The listing agent was Adele Michaels, and the ad in the paper said she had sold more than twelve million dollars’ worth of real estate this year… which translated to three houses in the flats of Beverly Hills. Of course, Canoga Park wasn’t Beverly Hills, but some areas in the West Hills boasted multimillion-dollar estates complete with swimming pool, tennis court, and home theater. The two-story English-cottage-style house Georgina was looking at wasn’t anywhere close to magnificent, but it wasn’t a shack, either. It had three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and sat on a good-size lot with fruit trees and a two-car garage.
The driver’s door opened, and out came a pipsqueak of a kid. She looked nothing like Adele Michaels, whose picture showed a forty-plus big-haired blonde with large white teeth. Georgina doubted if this girl was even old enough to vote. The agent had spiky black hair, wore the requisite black suit, and balanced on black spike heels. She rested her sunglasses on the top of her head, then swung a large purse over her shoulder as if she owned the world. To the ten of them anxiously waiting to be let inside, she did.
Obviously, Adele had handed off the listing to one of her flunky neophytes, a house under a million bucks just not worth her time and energy. Georgina rolled her eyes. The flunky fiddled with a ring of keys and then opened the lockbox to the house. Once she’d freed up the front door, she opened it and stepped inside, the faithful gathering of hopefuls dogging her heels in single file. The agent headed straight into the kitchen. From her leather sack-either a Marc Jacobs or a knockoff-she took out a stack of tear sheets and a clipboard that held a pen and a sign-in sheet. She plunked them down on the kitchen counter.
“Everyone sign in, please-name, phone number, and agent, if you have one. This is the last showing, we’ve already got offers. All offers will be entertained tonight, so if you’re interested, you’d better act fast.”
First to reach the pen was the mother-daughter combo.
Georgina waited her turn to sign in, noting that the living and dining rooms had hardwood floors. The kitchen countertops were tiled. She had hoped for granite, but in this case, she’d make an exception because she loved the design of the kitchen. It had been done Tuscan-style, filled with warm golds, and there was a copper hood over the stove. Newer appliances: a side-by-side fridge and a dishwasher.
Things were looking way up.
Georgina finally picked up a tear sheet and signed in. Scanning the paper quickly, she saw that the house had twenty-two hundred square feet on a ten-thousand-square-foot lot. This was getting better by the millisecond. The house wasn’t going to last through the showing. Immediately, she put in a call to Derek. He picked up on the third ring.
“You have to come now! I haven’t even checked out the bathrooms, and already I want it.”
“Remember that we agreed not to get swept away in mass hysteria.”
“Okay.” Calm, she told herself. “All right, I’m in the master bedroom. Not so big. We can fit our bed in it. But one of the dressers may have to go.” She slid back a mirrored door. “Good-size closet. That’ll help… Oh, Derek! The master bathroom is marble, with a huge Jacuzzi tub!”
“I’ll be right over.”
“It’s going to go above asking, I just know it! The agent already said they have offers from the Sunday showing-”
“Don’t panic, Georgie, we’ll deal. And don’t do anything until we call up Orit.”
“What if we don’t get hold of her?”
“I’m sure they’re not going to consider offers right on the spot.”
“No, that’s true.” Georgina went back into the kitchen. Oh, how she loved the kitchen. “Derek, the kitchen is just perfect. It’s got good appliances and plenty of cabinet space.” She opened a drawer. “The cabinets are all on sliders. And it’s got a pantry and… what’s this door? Looks like a broom closet.” She yanked on it. “I think it’s stuck.”
“ Georgina, I’m going to hang up now. I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye.” She stowed the phone in her purse and turned to the Realtor. “Excuse me. I think this door is stuck.”
The agent ambled over and gave the door a hard tug. “It may be locked.” Without another word, she walked away and began to chitchat up a promising-looking young couple.
Little snot, Georgina thought. And I bet those two don’t even qualify. With determination, she pulled on the handle with all her strength, and the door finally gave way. A large blue plastic garbage bag tumbled out and spilled onto the floor. The tie to the top broke open, and something popped out. It took about a toe tap of time for Georgina to realize what it was.
Then she screamed.
“How long before the coroner’s investigators get here?” Decker checked his watch and didn’t wait for an answer. “You want to give them a call, Sergeant Dunn? Find out if they’ll be here in this century?”
Marge smiled. She had been promoted over a month ago and her new title was a kick to her ears. “I just called the office, Loo. Soon.”
They’d been waiting almost an hour. Normally, that would be a good thing. Although they couldn’t deal with the body until the coroner released it, Decker and his detectives utilized the time by going over the crime scene. In this case, one thing was immediately clear: The house wasn’t the crime scene. The place was spotless. For his effort, Decker found only a couple of fibers that could have been dragged in by someone’s shoe and an empty can of soda in the garbage can under the sink. It was possible that they’d lift something off the items or from the body itself.
Marge hung up her cell and rocked on her feet, her five-foot-ten frame swaying from side to side. “Techs should be here soon, Pete.”
“ To do what?” Decker snarled. “Sweep the floor?”
“They can dust. Check out the drains-”
“Crime wasn’t committed here.”
Marge shrugged. “An empty house is a good place to lure a victim.”
“No spatter anywhere, no wet spots on the floor… it’s not the crime scene.” Decker raked his fingers through his hair, a combination of copper and silver. “I mean, I’m not positive, but I’d bet a winning lottery ticket on it.”
That was Decker’s experience talking: thirty years as a cop, most of them with Homicide, and the last ten as a detective lieutenant.
She said, “Hardly any bloat on the face.”
“She’s fresh, probably dumped last night. There’s no heating inside, and the cool night air probably helped to preserve her.”