I glance at his name tag that reads North. So far I don’t hate him. “What do we know?” I ask, but I’m far more eager to let that woman on the floor talk to me than these two.

He motions for me to join him back in the den. In other words, I was too optimistic about not hating him. We’re about to play politics and egos. I really fucking hate politics and egos.

“Let’s not,” I say. “I have plans that don’t include staying long. I’m here as a favor. Tell me about the victim.”

His lips press together and he motions to the other room again. I sigh and just do it. I play the game, the one where he makes sure I know he has the bigger cock, even though I don’t have a cock at all. I back into the den and he’s right there, towering a good foot over me. “I’m wondering what you know that I don’t know,” he says. “Why are you in on this one?”

The wedding dress, I think. Or my brother doesn’t trust him. Actually, I’m not sure my brother even trusts me. “Did my brother warn you that I get along with dead people better than most officers?” I ask.

“He did, actually.”

“Then we can agree it’s in our best interests that I interact with the woman on the floor, not you. That said, let's get what we have to out of the way. What do we know about the victim?”

His lips tighten but he answers. “Emma Wells,” he says. “Thirty-eight-year-old interior designer. She and her husband, Gibson Wells, bought this house right after you moved to L.A. He’d become the ‘it’ accountant for the rich and famous. They’d been here six months, and he’d really just hit big in his career when he died of a heart attack at only forty-five.”

Young, I think, but more common than most want to believe. “How long ago was that?” I ask, because yes, I could guess based on when I left and returned, but you never guess or assume in police work. Too often expected timelines don’t connect.

“A year ago.”

“She moved on fast,” I comment. “Who’s she marrying?”

“Morgan Rockport,” he replies. “His dad is Barry Rockport. He was a big banking executive before he passed a few years ago.” Morgan isn’t familiar, but Barry stirs a memory I can’t quite catch. For now, I focus on the more important Rockport. “What else do we know about Morgan?” I ask.

“Morgan apparently went to some prep school and then Harvard. And now he’s an attorney for the rich and famous. Yes, there is a theme here, but as you know, perhaps irrelevant, as it’s a common one in East Hampton.”