An Image of Death by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

jeans and Birkenstocks.
    The only thing I got right were the jeans, but they weren’t scruffy. Sitting behind a desk was a leaner, lankier version of Denzel Washington. A blue crewneck sweater set off his skin, and when he smiled, which he was doing now, he was definitely “hot,” as Rachel would say.
    “Thanks for rescheduling the meeting.” I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. I was glad I’d worn the new sweater she’d given me for Hanukkah.
    “Ricki said you were a busy person.” He gave my hand a businesslike squeeze, almost as if he knew what his effect on women was and didn’t want it to interfere with his agenda. He motioned to one of two chairs facing the desk. “Please, sit down.”
    I sat and checked out the office. Despite the high ceilings, the room had a musty smell, intensified by an excess of steam heat spewing out of the radiator. Stacks of folders lay on the floor, and cartons were pushed into corners. A framed poster leaned against the radiator. Nails protruded from the walls, with rectangular discolorations around them, which made me think the previous occupant’s artwork had hung on the walls until recently.
    “You just move in?”
    He glanced around. “Not exactly. As a matter of fact, up until a week ago, I thought I was moving out.”
    “Oh?”
    “I came east from California about a year ago to set up the Chicago office of Transitions. We got up to speed pretty fast, but then—”
    “Transitions? I thought it was called WISH.”
    He looked puzzled.
    “WISH,” I repeated. “Women for Interim Subsidized Housing.”
    He paused, then leaned back. “Is that what the women are calling themselves?”
    I frowned. “Am I missing something?”
    “The organization’s name is Transitions. But we’re new and relatively obscure, as nonprofits go. One of our strategies is to build networks and partnerships. Ally ourselves with other groups.”
    “The women.”
    He nodded.
    “I thought they were your fund-raising arm.”
    “Frankly, I’m not sure how they’re set up. Or why they call themselves WISH. I’m just grateful they’re around.”
    I grinned. “Transitions, huh?” The women probably didn’t want their mission to be misconstrued as a menopause support group.
    “What’s so funny?” he asked.
    “Nothing.” I wiped off my smile. “How…how did you hook up with them?”
    “Through Ricki Feldman.” He gestured to the mess on the floor. “It’s her fault the office looks the way it does.”
    “Now you’ve lost me.”
    “This was the cheapest space I could find. I signed a two-year lease, but then last month I get a letter saying the owner wanted to buy out my lease and tear down the building. I met Ricki when I went to her office to persuade her not to.”
    “Feldman Development owns this building?”
    “That’s right.” The radiator clanged and hissed.
    “I get it.” It was my turn to pause. “But you’re still here.”
    Bennett pushed up his sleeves to his elbows. “We struck a deal. She said she’d wait until we had the money to move.”
    “Which she’s now helping you to find.”
    He grinned. “You do get it.”
    “She’s something else.”
    “Yes, she is.” His smile deepened.
    It occurred to me Bennett hadn’t said anything about a family moving east with him. It also occurred to me that Ricki Feldman wasn’t the type of person to let any opportunity pass her by. And with his intelligence, charm, and killer looks, Jordan Bennett had opportunity written all over him.
    “But we’re grateful for support from any quarter. Including video producers.”
    “You’ve been checking me out.”
    “You passed.” He rocked back in his chair.
    “So, tell me about Transitions. Or WISH. Or whatever it’s called. And how you got involved with them.”
    He squared a piece of paper on his desk. “I grew up in foster care.”
    “I thought you said the organization was relatively new.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Then how did you—I mean.…” I waved