She had used that bakery for every cake she’d ordered since her daughter was born. Her sister loved the place too.
“Yes, ma’am.” Falco flashed a fake smile.
Maybe he would learn not to stick his nose into her personal business in the future.
3
11:30 a.m.
Abbott Options
First Avenue South
Kerri parked in the lot at Abbott Options. The LT had called to say that the chief of police himself had gone to Ben Abbott’s parents and made the notification, which was frustrating. But that part wasn’t nearly as frustrating as the idea that the chief insisted the Abbotts were not to be bothered until tomorrow. In other words, Kerri couldn’t interview them today. It was ludicrous. Just because the Abbotts were rich and powerful didn’t give them special treatment in a homicide case.
Except that, apparently, it did. Damn it. Every surviving member of the man’s family, every close friend or business associate, had to be scrutinized. No one could be set aside or overlooked. Everyone acquainted with the victim or victims was a potential suspect at this stage. She reminded herself to breathe and stared at the home of Ben Abbott’s internationally famous business operation. The sleek concrete-and-steel building that housed Abbott Options was a close neighbor to Birmingham’s iconic Sloss Furnaces. The building was relatively new, built by an interior design company only a couple of years ago. According to Falco’s internet search, Abbott had flown to Birmingham early last year and made the company an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they had promptly vacated the premises. Just another indication that Ben Abbott was a man unafraid to go after what he wanted—even when it wasn’t on the market.
“Oh, man, Devlin,” Falco said as she parked. “There’s like a rooftop party room made of glass for celebrating milestones and wining and dining customers.” He thrust his phone in front of her. “Check out that view of the city’s skyline.” He tapped the screen. “The one of Sloss is killer too. No wonder the guy wanted this place.”
“Nice views,” Kerri agreed. “Did you find anything that suggested bad blood between Abbott and the previous owners?”
Falco shook his head. “In fact, the wife of the previous owner and our missing vic worked on a big fundraising project together last Christmas. You know, one of those charities that helps make sure all kids get a visit from Santa.”
“Add them to our interview list just the same.”
“Already done.”
“Thanks.” Surveying the minimalist approach to landscaping and the modern architecture of the property, Kerri scooted from behind the wheel. “This is a drastic change from the Abbott home.”
“I think maybe the crime scene is just temporary lodging. I sent a text to a friend of mine in property records to find out if the dead guy owns any other properties. Abbott recently purchased a residence over on Whisper Lake Circle. My contact says he filed all the paperwork for tearing down the existing house. Since the property is restricted to residential, seems to me he’s planning to build a new house.”
Might not be significant, but it was worth checking out. “We should take a drive there next. Have a look around. Talk to his contractor.” She met Falco at the front of the Wagoneer. “Did your contact know the name of his contractor?”
“She sure did.” Falco grinned, gave her a wink. “Creaseman and Collier.”
Before she could respond, he said, “Added them to the interview list too.”
Maybe she had misjudged the man’s ability and work ethic. In this instance she had no problem at all being wrong.
Inside, a marble reception desk sat amid the steel, glass, and concrete. A young man, midtwenties maybe, rose from his ultramodern transparent chair as they approached. His gray tight-fitting suit and crisp white shirt were a sharp contrast to the narrow bright-fuchsia tie that completed the ensemble.
“Good morning. My name is Brent. Welcome to Abbott Options. How may I assist you?” He looked from Kerri to Falco and back.
Kerri showed her credentials. “I’m Detective Devlin; this is Detective Falco. We need to speak with whoever is in charge this morning.”
Brent blinked as if he needed a moment to process the request or, more likely, the fact that they were cops. “Certainly.” He picked up the phone and pressed a series of buttons, then announced, “I’m sending Detectives Devlin and Falco from our esteemed BPD to your office.”
He placed the handset back into the cradle and gestured to his right. “The elevator will take you to the fourth floor. Marcella Gibbons will be waiting there for you.”
“Thanks.” Kerri strode across the sleek concrete floor to the single elevator.
When she and Falco paused in front of it, the doors opened automatically. Interesting. They stepped into the gleaming steel box. State of the art—what else would she have expected?
“I guess we don’t have to tell it where to take us,” Falco murmured.
He was right. There was no control panel or visible speaker. Just sleek stainless steel walls that shone to a mirror finish.
“Looks that way.”
The elevator lifted and a few seconds later glided to a stop. The doors slid open, and a tall slender woman waited in the corridor.
“Hello, I’m Marcella Gibbons, Mr. Abbott’s personal assistant. Please follow me.”
Kerri and Falco exchanged a look and followed the woman, who was a bit older than the man who’d sent them up, but she was still young. Thirty, maybe. Also like the employee downstairs, she wore slim-fitting attire—in this case a dress—that was somehow still modest with a knee-length hemline, three-quarter sleeves, and a higher neckline. The dress was black, as was her hair, which she wore short and neatly styled in a no-nonsense bob. Her shoes were practical flats, also in black.
There was carpet on this level, but the color was very near to that of the concrete in the lobby. The offices they passed were walled with glass, giving new meaning to transparency. So far everyone they’d seen seated at a desk was twenty- or thirtyish. All were stylishly dressed and appeared very busy.
When they reached the end of the corridor, double glass doors slid open to what appeared to be a conference room. Gibbons moved through the open doors and gestured to the long glass table. “Please sit wherever you’d like.”
Falco followed Kerri inside, and they sat in the first chairs they encountered. The chairs, too, were transparent, like sitting on air.
“Would you like water or coffee?” Gibbons asked. “Hot tea, perhaps?”
“No thank you,” Kerri said. Falco declined as well.
Gibbons used a remote to darken the glass walls, giving them privacy from the rest of the floor. Then she settled into the chair at the head of the table.
“How may I help you, Detectives? I assume this visit is related to the public disagreement that Mr. Abbott had with Mr. Thompson. Mr. Abbott isn’t here at the moment, but I’ll answer your questions as best I can. I was with him when the debacle occurred.”
Falco deferred to Kerri with a glance. This was the thing she had meant when she’d been irritated about not being able to make the notification to Abbott’s parents. Whenever the police showed up, most people immediately blurted whatever incident they believed might be relevant to the visit. It was a defensive instinct of sorts. If there was more than one possibility, they always—always—went with the least offense.