Ford followed her into the master bathroom, which had double sinks, a porcelain soaking tub, and a steam shower.
“Crap. Not a toothbrush in sight,” he whispered.
Victoria paused while the other couple passed by the bathroom on their way out.
As soon as it was just the two of them, Ford quietly opened one of the cabinets. “Bingo.”
“You can’t take his toothbrush,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
She pointed in the direction of the living room. “Because he’ll notice that it’s gone. And when he finds out who I am, he might put two and two together, and I don’t want to get disbarred for stealing a damn toothbrush.” She paused. “But, there’s always Plan F.”
“What’s Plan F?”
She grabbed a small Ziploc bag from her purse. “Does he have a hairbrush in there, too?”
“Oh . . . I like the way you think, Victoria Slade.”
She waved this off. Yes, yes, she’d become quite the super-sleuth these days, but they needed to forgo all compliments and commendations regarding her mad skills until later. “Just hurry.”
Ford pulled a two-inch round brush from the cabinet.
“Not that one. That’s a woman’s brush. Yes—that one,” she said when he grabbed a flat brush with boar bristles. She checked to make sure no one was coming while Ford yanked some hair strands off the brush.
He put the brush back, shut the cabinet with one hand, and then dumped the hairs into the bag that Victoria held open. She zipped it shut and stuffed it inside her purse.
And Peter Sutter would never be the wiser.
“Should we check out the rooftop deck?” Ford asked, getting back into character.
“Absolutely.”
They nodded while passing by a man who headed into the bedroom just as they were leaving. On the upper floor, there was an alcove that contained a wet bar for entertaining, and then a door that led to the deck. Ford put his hand on the small of Victoria’s back as she stepped outside.
The couple who’d been in the master bedroom was outside, as were two other women. Victoria walked to the far end of the deck and leaned against the chest-high stone ledge, as if checking out the view.
“I’d been hoping he wouldn’t be married.” She sighed. “It obviously makes things more complicated.” She checked her watch and saw it was already after one thirty.
Ford pulled out his cell phone.
“Is Nicole on standby again?” she asked.
“She’s in a class right now, but she said she’d have her phone with her.” He forwarded the picture he’d taken of Sutter and then tucked the phone back in his pocket. “If she says it’s him, what happens next?”
“I’ll get the hair sample over to a lab I’ve used in other paternity cases. But that’s just so we know that we haven’t made a mistake. We’ll do a second, official paternity test after contacting Sutter and telling him about Zoe.”
“How long will it take to get the results from the lab?” Ford asked.
“Three to five business days, depending on how busy they are.”
Ford’s phone buzzed with a new text message. He took it out of his pocket, read the message, and showed the phone to Victoria.
OMG. That’s him.
* * *
FORD ASKED VICTORIA to take a second look around the condo with him.
She smiled jokingly. “Why? Are you considering moving?”
“I want Sutter’s wife, the real estate agent, to think we are.”
She cocked her head. “You want to talk to them.”
Yes, he did. Both the protective older brother and uncle in him, as well as the nosy investigative journalist, wanted to know more about this married Peter Sutter who was his niece’s father.
He and Victoria went back downstairs and made their way through the place one more time.
“I love the double oven,” she said as they entered the kitchen. She squeezed his hand and smiled up at him warmly. “That would come in really handy during the holidays.”
An image suddenly popped into his head of him and Victoria having Thanksgiving dinner with their friends and family.
He paused, wholly caught off guard by the thought.
Fortunately he was spared from having to answer when a pretty brunette, dressed in cream linen pants and a loose-fitting pale pink shirt, walked over.
She shook hands with both him and Victoria. “Melanie Ames. I’m the listing agent, and also one of the owners. Are there any questions I can answer about the place?”
Back on his game again, Ford turned to Victoria, as if thinking. “Well . . . I guess I’d be curious to know if it’s generally a quiet building? We both occasionally work from home.”
Melanie nodded. “The great thing is, we’re on the top floor, so you obviously don’t have any noise above you. Below us, you have the middle unit, which is owned by a couple in their fifties—really nice people. Then there’s the first-floor unit, owned by a single guy. Super quiet, keeps to himself. But not in a creepy, serial killer kind of way,” she added quickly.
Peter Sutter came out of the dining room, chuckling. “I love how you always throw that in whenever you describe poor Toby. ‘But not in a creepy, serial killer kind of way.’”
She smiled affectionately at her husband. “Because that’s the first thing you think of when you hear about a guy who ‘keeps to himself.’” She turned back to Ford and Victoria. “Anyway, in general, I’d say it’s a pretty quiet block for being so close to Wrigley. Obviously, you’re going to get some people walking by on a Friday or Saturday night who’ve had a few beers at the game. But I’ve lived here for nine months now, ever since we got married, and I practically lived here the four years before that. During that time, we’ve never had any serious issues with noise.”
Hearing this—that the Sutters had been together for nearly five years—hardly improved Ford’s opinion of the man who’d slept with his sister fourteen months ago and then had left without saying good-bye.
Melanie looked to Peter for confirmation, and he nodded. “You know me, I love being close to the stadium. We’re actually staying in the neighborhood, going to a single-family home just a couple blocks over,” he said to Ford and Victoria. “P.J. and I need a front yard to play catch in.” He winked at his wife.