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amble back to where the tech was still taking photos.
    “I’m gonna have a look around. Don’t go anywhere.”
    The tech let out a snort. “Riiight.”
    Hanson walked back out into the living room, taking in the scene. So, the guy was having an affair, the wife found out, and boom—she sliced him up. Hanson continued to look around. This place was really something, like a page out of a magazine. He still couldn’t get over how huge it was. It was the kind place his wife was always yammering about: “sleek,” “modern,” “nice.” There were vases of fresh cut flowers on the glass tabletops, a lot of funny looking sculptures—artistic, he supposed—and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan. It was the kind of place he would live in if he had three other jobs and had won the lottery.
    He noticed a black cell phone resting on top of the small maple wood table next to the door. Hanson picked it up and flipped it open, scrolling down the list in the address book. He let out a low whistle over the amount of women’s numbers. He’d only gotten to the “F’s” when something started to bug him. He put the phone down and pulled his notebook out of his pocket. Mark Monroe. Where did he know that name?
    Hanson spotted a picture of Kelly Ross on one of the bookshelves. It was some dramatic black and white headshot. He looked at the photo more closely. She was an absolute knockout. He saw her in another photo with an older man and woman he guessed were her parents. The whole family had taken a dip in the good gene pool. Like Monroe, he knew he knew her; he just couldn’t place from where.
    He toured the rest of the house. There was a library/den and a formal dining room. There were four bedrooms total: the master, one as an office for her, the other for him, and the fourth a guest room. He wandered into the master bedroom, taking note of the king-sized ebony wood sleigh bed, a series of three black and white framed prints along one wall and a black chaise lounge with burgundy throw pillows along another. The bed was made, but one closet looked like a twister had blown through it. There were more shards of glass on the bathroom floor. Two shopping bags were sitting abandoned on the floor. Hanson walked over and picked them up. In one bag, a woman’s blouse—at least that’s what he guessed it was. Women wore such crazy things these days. A skirt in the second bag. He rooted around each bag, looking for receipts. They were dated from earlier today and crazy expensive to boot. Hanson put the bags back down.
    With the exception of the master bedroom, the remaining three bedrooms were neat as a pin. He strolled into Mark Monroe’s office. The wall boasted a few framed photos of the deceased with some pretty famous athletes, and they were all autographed. There was assorted sports memorabilia and a stack of sports magazines neatly arranged next to his laptop computer. Hanson sat down at Mark’s desk. He thumbed through a few files, but nothing jumped out at him. Sighing, he walked across the hall to Kelly Ross’ office.
    One of her walls was also covered with a bunch of framed magazine covers, and upon closer inspection, Hanson realized it was her face staring out from them in either scantily clad poses or lots of makeup or really artistic looking. So, she’d been a model. She also had several pictures of herself with obviously famous people, although
he
didn’t know who the hell any of them were. She had a similar stack of magazines on her desk, though they looked to be fashion rags, and one table was filled with various makeup bottles and tubes. They’d pore over everything over the next few days, but for now, he wanted to start making the rounds of the neighbors. Hanson shuffled back out into the living room.
    “Does anyone know who these people are?” he called out to no one in particular.
    A female tech answered him. “He’s a big time sports agent, and she used to be a supermodel. I think she’s got a cosmetics