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He wasn’t sure if she was nervous by nature or hiding something. He took a risk and fed her a detail. “The woman in the picture is dead. And the work on her face was done in the last month. I’m trying to piece together her last weeks.”
Her face paled. “I never met her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But you have an idea who might have done the work?”
“No. I really don’t. But I can ask around. This guy has an obsession with dolls?”
“I believe so.” He handed her a business card. “Please call me if you hear of any helpful information.”
“Sure.” She studied the card a beat. “How does the work done on her face relate to her death?”
He had already tossed her a couple of morsels of information, but no more. “Can’t say. Keep in touch. Thanks.”
Sharp and Vargas arrived at Diane Richardson’s Monument Avenue house just after two. The historic redbrick town house had been built circa 1912 and had floor-to-ceiling front windows as well as a wide front porch stretching the length of the house. A large planter on the porch was filled with dried and withered marigolds.
Vargas touched a brittle blossom. “My plants look like this, though I’ll bet she didn’t forget to water hers.”
“How long does it take for a plant like this to die?” Sharp asked.
“Under a covered porch like this in mild weather? A couple of weeks.”
Sharp nodded. “Did you speak to Diane Richardson’s parents?”
“I did as soon as the doctor identified her. They’re shattered. They couldn’t talk and asked that I come back. They’re expecting me this afternoon.”
“I’ll come with you,” Sharp said.
“Sure.”
Sharp studied the building’s brick exterior and looked inside the brass mail slot centered in the front door. “There are no signs of forced entry on the lock. A month’s worth of mail is scattered on the floor inside. No newspapers.”
“Not too many people get the newspaper delivered anymore.”
Sharp checked his watch. “When is the leasing agent going to be here?”
“Any second.”
The sound of high heels clicking on the sidewalk had them both turning to find a neatly dressed woman in a dark A-line skirt, white blouse, and red heels. Her blond hair was twisted into a knot, and gold hoop earrings dangled. Keys jangled in her hand as she hurried up the brick front steps.
“You must be with the police,” she said. Expensive perfume wafted as she brushed bangs from her eyes.
“I’m Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police, and this is Agent Vargas. We’re here to see Diane Richardson’s place.”
“I’m Gina Heath, the property manager.” She thumbed through a ring of keys. “I understand you have a search warrant.”
Sharp reached in his notebook and pulled it out. “Would you like to read it?”
“Yes. I need to justify your entry just in case I have an issue with Ms. Richardson or her family.”
“Ms. Richardson is dead,” Vargas said.
Frowning, the woman scanned the paper. “My maintenance man said her mother called him a couple of hours ago and wanted to get into the apartment. He said she sounded upset.”
Ms. Heath found the right key and handed the search warrant back to Sharp. “What happened?”
“Can’t say right now,” Sharp said.
Her gaze held his for a beat, and then she shoved the key in the lock. It didn’t work. After a couple more tries, she discovered the right key and the dead bolt clicked open. “Sorry, I haven’t been on this property in the three years since Ms. Richardson rented it. She is—was—a model tenant.”
Ms. Heath pushed open the door and knelt to carefully collect the mail, piling the envelopes into a neat stack and setting them on a small entryway table. She clicked on the light.
The house had ten-foot ceilings, and from the front entry, Sharp could see through to the kitchen. A stairway to his left climbed to the second floor, and to the right were two large rooms. The first was a living room and the second a dining room. His footsteps echoed through the house as he made his way toward the kitchen. The room was bright with granite countertops and modern light fixtures. A large window looked out on a narrow grassy yard with a small table on a slate patio.
“I checked her records,” Ms. Heath said. “According to her rental application, she was a marketing director for a chain of restaurants in the central Virginia area. I don’t know if the employment information is still correct, but I made a copy of her application.” She removed the photocopy and handed it to Vargas. “Now you know all I know about her.”
Sharp glanced at the application. “What’s the rent here?”
“Thirty-five hundred a month plus utilities.”
“That’s kind of tough to swing on a fifty-thousand-dollar annual salary,” Vargas said as she looked up from the application.
“She had a trust fund.” The woman’s gaze swept the front living room. “One look at the furniture and you can see there had to be money in her family.”
“Or she had more creative ways to make her money,” Vargas said.
Ms. Heath frowned. “I doubt that. She didn’t strike me as the type.”
“What’s the type look like?” Vargas challenged.
“I’ve been in property management for a long time, Agent. I know trouble when I see it.”
Vargas moved to the hallway and picked up the stacked mail. “You would be surprised, Ms. Heath, how people make their money or what trouble really looks like.”
“She had a real job.”
“It didn’t cover the rent. And a real job doesn’t mean she wasn’t moonlighting. Drugs and prostitution are both great ways to make some sizable cash on the side.”
The woman tugged at the hem of her shirt. “I approved her application. She gave me the bank account information confirming a sizable amount of money she told me was a trust fund payment.”
“And you were able to verify the money’s source?” Vargas asked.
“No. But you’re wrong about her,” Ms. Heath said.
“We’re trying to find out how she died, Ms. Heath,” Sharp said. “That means we have to ask some unpleasant questions.”
“Diane wasn’t trouble,” Ms. Heath said.
“Did you do regular maintenance on the apartment?” Sharp asked.
“Sure. We come in every six months to change the filters and check for issues, such as damage to floors or walls, as well as pets. This is a no-pet property.”
“Did maintenance ever find anything out of the ordinary?” Sharp asked.
“Not that I’m aware of, but I’ve contacted our man and he should be here soon.”
Sharp walked up the polished front stairs to the second floor. The first room on the left was a guest room and office combination. All neat. Nicely decorated. Again, screamed money. The next room was a renovated bathroom fitted with white marble tile and a walk-in shower and claw-foot tub. When he and Tessa were first married, she had moved into the small place he’d rented on Libby Avenue. Bathroom counter space had been nil. There was no tub and only a small shower just big enough for the two of them. How many times had he stepped into that shower and rubbed against her?
Shaking off the memory, he opened the medicine cabinet and found a collection of pill bottles. By their looks, they were for anxiety and depression. He took a picture with his phone and moved to the bedroom. Dominating the center was a mahogany bed with a canopy. Nothing about the room struck him as off.
Vargas appeared at the door. “Ms. Heath said the maintenance man is here.”
“Okay.”
Downstairs, Ms. Heath ended her call and nodded toward a beat-up red truck. “That’s my superintendent of properties, Mike Bauer.”
A midsize man wearing jeans, heavy work boots, and a green T-shirt got out of the truck. Graying thick hair was brushed back off a lean face. His muscles were taut, and he had the look of a body builder.
&
nbsp; Sharp extended his hand to the man and made introductions.
Bauer’s grip was strong. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”
Sharp repeated the questions he’d asked Ms. Heath. “The place was always clean and well kept,” Bauer said. “No pets. I changed the filters. Her place was always nice. I was here a week ago, and I noticed the dead plants. That’s not like her, so I took extra time walking the property.”
“And?” Sharp prompted.
“In the back alley, I found a doll shoved in her trash bin. The can was already full, so the doll was sitting on top. It seemed odd. Garbage hadn’t been picked up the week before, so it was lucky I saw it.”
“What kind of doll was it?” Sharp’s gaze locked on Vargas, who looked up when he said doll.
“One of those old-fashioned types. White face. Heart-shaped lips. Frilly dress. If you saw one, you’d recognize it.”
Sharp’s muscles snapped with interest. “What did you do with the doll?”
Bauer shrugged. “It was in the trash.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Sharp said.
Bauer hesitated. “I took it. It was in perfectly good shape, and it seemed a shame to waste it.”
“Do you still have the doll?”
“I was going to give it to my daughter.”
“We need to see it,” Vargas said. “It might be evidence.”
