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.

“Why don’t you tell us your version of what happened,” Kerri suggested, as if they had one damned clue what she was talking about, “and we’ll go from there, Ms. Gibbons.”

“Certainly.” She sat a little straighter. “Mr. Abbott purchased a property on Whisper Lake Circle with the intention of removing the current older home along with any other buildings or patios within the property’s boundaries. His ultimate goal is to build a new, state-of-the-art smart home. When Mr. Thompson learned of the property’s transfer, he and Mr. Abbott had a disagreement.”

Kerri, like anyone else who lived in Birmingham, recognized the Thompson name. “Are we talking about the Mr. Theodore Thompson running for the Senate or his father, T. R., the one running for governor?”

“The son, Theo.” Her voice sounded the same, but the woman’s face clearly expressed her distaste for the man.

“Did your boss buy the place from Thompson?” Falco asked.

“No.” Gibbons folded one hand atop the other on the table. “The house was built by the parents of Mr. Thompson’s wife. After her mother passed away some years ago, Mrs. Thompson opted to sell the property. The problem arose when Mr. and Mrs. Thompson learned that Mr. Abbott had bought out the current owners and intended to remove the existing home. Apparently, Mrs. Thompson was disturbed by the plan and wanted to reacquire the property.”

“When and where did this disagreement take place?” Kerri asked.

“It was at the Giving Gala last week. Mrs. Abbott wasn’t feeling well, so I attended the event with Ben—Mr. Abbott—in her stead. Mr. Thompson approached him on the veranda outside the ballroom and demanded that he sell the property to him rather than destroy it. Mr. Abbott refused, and the exchange grew quite heated. Mr. Thompson threatened to take legal action to stop the work, and then he stormed off. I don’t think very many of the other guests saw or heard the exchange, but it was quite uncomfortable for several minutes.”

“Have Mr. Abbott and Mr. Thompson had disagreements before? Business or personal?” Chances were, Kerri realized, the two families knew each other well. Theo Thompson was five or more years older than Ben Abbott, but their fathers were about the same age. It was highly doubtful that the two didn’t know each other. If nothing else, they certainly traveled in the same social circles.

Gibbons shook her head adamantly. “Not at all. Mr. Abbott is a peacemaker. Everyone loves him. Mr. Thompson is quite a bit older than him, but the two families, the Abbotts and the Thompsons, have known each other for decades,” she said, confirming Kerri’s conclusion.

“My impression,” Gibbons went on, “was that Mr. Thompson had been drinking excessively that evening and lost control of himself. Considering his run for his father’s Senate seat, I’m surprised he behaved so badly about this, particularly in public. Has he taken some sort of legal step? Is that why you’re here? He did threaten to do so, and we’re fully prepared to react in kind.”