by Rayna Morgan
He reached out his hand. Tom didn’t reciprocate, so he handed a business card to Pat.
The lieutenant was all business. He nodded toward the striped car.
“Is that the man you caught breaking in?”
Smith wiped the grin off his face. “Yes, sir. The alarm was triggered thirty minutes ago. Henry always sets the alarm before he and the missus go to work.”
He stared at the ground, shuffling his feet. “I heard about Henry’s wife. It’s a terrible thing.”
Tom displayed no emotion. “Just tell us what happened here.”
“His wife’s the one who hired us to install a security system. Henry laughed at her. Told her they had nothing worth stealing.”
“He still bothered to set the alarm?” Tom asked.
The security guard shifted his feet as though they were sore.
“When I gave him instructions on how the system works, we talked about people being careless. He said people with things to worry about are the ones who neglect to use alarms.”
He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s true, you know. My buddy works patrol for a ritzy area in the hills. There have been multiple break-ins. Expensive paintings were stolen. So far, the cops haven’t been able to catch them.”
Pat cringed, looking sideways at her boss.
The guard stifled a grin. “Well, I guess you know about that.”
The lieutenant barked orders. “That’s enough, Smith. We’ll take it from here.
“Pat, escort the man in the vehicle to the house. Then, move our car so this man can get back to work.”
• • •
Tom observed scratch marks on the front door. He looked at the man beside him who appeared to be in his mid to late thirties.
“Not very good at this, are you?”
“It’s not something I’ve done before,” came the snappy reply.
From his looks, Tom believed him. Gray suit, purple shirt, striped tie. Not typical burglar attire.His hair and mustache were trimmed and his shoes were polished to a sheen.
The detective entered the house, motioning the man to take a seat.
“Mind telling me who you are and why security caught you breaking in?”
“Don’t turn a stupid mistake into a federal case, Detective.” Beads of sweat on his forehead belied his calm voice.
“Let’s start with your name,” Tom ordered.
The man sat casually, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded in his lap. “Brody Hall.”
Tom nodded to Pat. She pulled out her notebook.
“Would you mind confirming that with your driver’s license, sir?” she asked.
He jerked a wallet from the inside pocket of his tailored suit.
Pat held it up to Tom, displaying a Boston address. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Hall.”
Tom grabbed a chair and placed it two feet in front of the man. He sat hunched forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Now, why don’t you tell us what you’re doing here.”
Brody took a moment to gain his composure before he stretched an arm across the couch.
“I didn’t have time to inform anyone I was coming. I’m sure Mr. Dade would have seen me.”
“What reason would he have? Did you know Sandra Dade?”
The man appeared reluctant to answer.
“Okay, Brody, we can do this one of two ways. Either we book you for breaking and entering, or you convince us you had good reason to enter the dead woman’s house. Most people use a less intrusive manner to express their condolences.”
There was no response. Tom waited with dwindling patience.
Seconds later, he stood and shoved his chair out of the way.
“Looks like Mr. Hall is choosing to remain in our fair city, Pat. Let’s go.”
“Wait.” The man exhaled a deep breath. “I can explain.”
“We’re listening.”
“I work for a man who believes Sandra Dade is his daughter.”
The detectives exchanged surprised looks.
“We were under the impression no one knew her father’s whereabouts,” Tom said. “Had his identity been known, he would have been notified of her death.”
His response was curt. “He only recently discovered this so-called offspring.”
“You aren’t making sense. You better start at the beginning.”
Brody straightened his tie and brushed lint from his trousers.
“I'm in the employ of Andrew Carlisle. You may have heard of him. He’s made a fortune in high tech on the East Coast.”
“Sorry. I don’t keep up with high tech companies.”
Tom made no effort to hide his sarcasm. Brody Hall was getting under his skin.
“I thought most of the tech geeks were in Silicon Valley,” Pat said.
“That’s where Andrew began. He joined a startup company straight out of college which became a huge success. He displayed both brilliance and aggressiveness, qualities which allowed him to advance in a world of stiff competition. He rose rapidly in the ranks and made a name for himself in technology.”
“How did he end up back east?”
“He was grateful for what he’d learned from his mentors, but eager to go out on his own. Honoring a non-compete clause with his former employer, he moved to Boston to set up shop.
“It was a risky, smart move on his part. Back there, he was a big fish in a small pond. He lured people from the Valley with promises of lower cost of living, less commuting, and a more enjoyable lifestyle. Plus, he didn’t have far to go to recruit skilled graduates from Harvard and MIT.”
“Is that where he found you?”
His chest puffed up. “Harvard. Top of my class.”
“Good for you.” The guy was more than getting on Tom’s nerves. “Let’s get to the part about what you’re doing in Buena Viaje.”
“Andrew has been ill with a rare form of cancer. Not fatal. Although for a time, the prognosis was uncertain. He took steps to put his affairs in order.”
Brody stared out the window. “That’s when I found out.”
Tom sat up straighter. “I’m all ears.”
Brody returned his attention to the detective. “Andrew hired a private investigator to track down his abandoned child.”
“Quite a surprise for you, I imagine.”
“I was shocked to learn of her existence. He and his wife had no children. In all these years, he never mentioned a child born out of wedlock. Apparently, the result of a relationship with a woman he met in an office where he worked.”
“Why didn’t he marry her?”
“She was a cleaning woman of some sort.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No one appropriate for Mr. Carlisle to marry.”
“What was his interest in the child after so much time had passed?”
“He believed he might die. He wanted to take responsibility by acknowledging her. I was sent to bring her to meet him.”
Tom walked to the window, crossed his arms behind his back, and stood silently.
After a moment, he stared at Brody.
When he returned to his seat, he resumed the conversation by changing topics. “What exactly is your position with Mr. Carlisle?”
“I’m the CEO of his corporation.”
“You mean his right-hand man?” Pat asked.
Brody smiled smugly. “Yes, you could say that.”
“The successor to a dynasty,” Tom said. His face was grim as he waited for a response.
Brody barely contained his pride. “Yes, Andrew has groomed me to take over.”
With that, Tom jumped up, towering over the man he interrogated. The room was suddenly charged with energy.
“And inherit his millions when he passes.”
He looked at his junior officer. She mirrored his smile.
“His Will is set up that way,” Brody mumbled, realizing where the conversation was headed.
“Did you come here to escort Carlisle’s daughter hom
e?”
Tom leaned within inches of Brody’s face.
“Or dispose of your mentor’s heir so she wouldn’t be around to inherit his fortune?”
Brody turned away, refusing to answer.
The lieutenant lowered his voice. “You haven’t explained what you were doing when the security guard caught you.”
Brody shifted uncomfortably. “When I learned the woman is dead, I arranged to fly back to Boston. My employer is in remission, but his condition is still touch and go.”
“Why bother to break into Sandra’s house?”
Brody hesitated.
“We’re waiting.”
“Before I left town, I wanted to retrieve a letter.”
“What letter?”
Brody stared at his hands to avoid the detective’s eyes. “A letter my employer wrote in haste.”
“We need more than that.”
“When the investigator found an address, Andrew wrote to Sandra explaining the situation. He told her they should meet, that he would send someone to pick her up.”
“Why do you say Carlisle acted in haste?”
“There's no proof she's his daughter. I begged him to wait for a DNA test.”
“After so many years, it was more than hasty,” Pat said. “It was presumptuous. What made him think Sandra would have anything to do with him?”
“If you knew him, you wouldn’t ask. It’s his way. He’d never think otherwise.”
“With Sandra dead,” Tom persisted, “why worry about the letter?”
“The media would love to get their hands on a story about the millionaire philanthropist who abandoned his daughter. There was no need for his reputation to be ruined—”
“Over someone who no longer mattered,” Tom finished. His voice was icy.
Pat shut her notebook in disgust. “Tell your employer there are no grandchildren, if that's what he hoped for.”
Tom stared daggers. “A matter of concern for you as well, I imagine.”
Brody ignored the implication. “I’ll wait to tell him in person. May I go now? I’ve got a plane to catch.”
The lieutenant signaled Pat to follow him into the hallway.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“Are you looking at him for the murder?”
“He was in town that night and he had a motive.”
“There’s no proof of cause,” Pat reminded him.
“Or is there?” Tom asked. “Is Brody looking for the letter to protect his employer's reputation, or because it contains something which would tie him to her murder? We’ve got to locate that letter.”
They returned to the living room where Brody was on his phone.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to change your reservation,” Tom informed him.
He turned to the other officer. “We’re taking Mr. Hall to the station, Pat.”
“Hold on!” Brody yelled. “I didn’t steal anything. You said if I gave my reason, you wouldn’t press charges.”
“I said if you convinced me you had a good excuse.”
Tom grabbed Brody’s elbow and steered him toward the door. “I’m not convinced.”
Brody argued as Tom looked over his shoulder at a truck entering the driveway. “I doubt you will convince him either.”
Henry stomped across the porch and slammed the door. “What the blazes is going on!”
“Everything is under control,” the lieutenant assured him. “Nothing has been stolen.”
Henry approached the stranger in his living room. “Who are you?”
“Take him to the car, Pat,” Tom ordered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Brody went willingly, relieved to get away.
“I don’t have time, Henry. I’ll call later to explain,” Tom said. “But I can say this man has a connection to Sandra.”
Henry watched the man’s progress to the unmarked vehicle. “Is he responsible for her death?”
“We haven’t sorted that out yet. I’ll let you know when we do.”
Henry’s mouth twisted. “Maybe now, you’ll get off my back and arrest my wife’s killer.”
Tom left Henry fuming to enter the car with an equally angry Brody.
He glanced over his shoulder and whispered to Pat.
“You looked into the victim’s background. How did you miss the father?”
She started the engine. “There are no records. We had no way of knowing. No one knew, not even Sandra.”
“Unless she did,” Tom mumbled.
“What are you thinking?”
He observed the man in custody through the visor mirror.
“What if Sandra received the news she was heir to a fortune and used it to blackmail Andrew or Brody?”
His eyes moved to the man watching from the house. A thin smile crossed his lips.
“Or Henry intercepted the letter and realized how to use it to his advantage.”
“After disposing of his wife,” Pat added.
“We need to find out whether Sandra read the letter before she was murdered.” Tom pounded the dashboard. “Or if she didn’t, who did.”
“There was a stack of unopened mail by the front door,” Pat said. “Henry’s been distraught the last few days. Maybe the missive from Carlisle hasn’t been opened.”
“Get a warrant and go through Henry’s mail. If it’s not there, we’ll search every inch of the house. I intend to get my hands on that letter.”
Chapter Seventeen
The detectives turned Henry’s house upside down. There was no trace of the letter.
Tom glanced at his watch. Twelve-ten. On a hunch, he directed Pat to drive to the insurance office.
As Tom had hoped, everyone was out for lunch except the receptionist, a young woman wearing an ill-fitting suit and a wrinkled blouse. She got flustered the moment Tom pulled out his badge.
“I’m Detective Elliot, Miss. This is Officer Fisher. You’re new here, aren’t you?”
She stifled a nervous cough. “I’m a temporary, filling in while they interview for an office manager.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bridget, sir. Bridget Jones.”
Her visitors exchanged amused looks, causing her to giggle. “I wasn’t named for the movie. I came out before it did.”
“We have a few questions for the owner,” he told her.
“Mr. Alexander is attending a luncheon. He may be a while,” she said.
“No problem. We’ll wait.”
He took a seat and leafed through a magazine.
“Can we bother you for coffee?”
The receptionist turned a shade of crimson. “Of course. I should have asked.”
He looked at the rookie and jerked his head toward the young woman. “Officer Fisher will help.”
As soon as the women exited the room, he hurried to the desk previously used by the office manager. He listened for voices in the kitchen to assure himself the receptionist was occupied.
As he shuffled through the drawers, frustration mounted. He knew there was only an outside chance of finding something the victim left behind. Still, he was hopeful.
The conversation in the kitchen grew louder. Pat sneezed, their prearranged signal that time was running out.
His hands moved under the drawer as he pushed the chair away from the desk. He felt an object taped to the bottom.
He was careful to put on plastic gloves before loosening the tape to remove a letter-sized envelope.
Sandra Dade’s name and address were scrawled on the front in an unsteady hand. There was a Massachusetts postmark, but no return address.
Tom dropped the letter in an evidence bag before returning to his place on the couch.
The receptionist returned with a steaming mug of coffee. “Here you are, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks anyway, but I received a call.”
He motioned to his partner. “C’mon, Fisher. We have to go.”
The young woman failed to notice the gloves on his hands.
• • •
In the car, Tom used the same plastic gloves to open the envelope.
Inside was a single piece of folded stationery with Carlisle's name at the top and a Boston address printed across the bottom.
He unfolded it carefully, wary of smudging prints, and read the handwritten letter aloud.
Dear Sandra,
These words will come as a shock after such a long time, but I believe I am your father.
There are no reasons to explain why I abandoned you and your mother many years ago. I wish I had reached out to you sooner. I’m ashamed to admit my reason for reaching out now is an illness which might be terminal. This could be my only chance to set things right between us.
I have no reason to suppose you may consider a relationship after the way I deserted you. Should you find it in your heart to see me, you will give a dying man hope for redemption. In anticipation, I am sending my trusted associate, Brody Hall, to accompany you to Boston.
It is my intent that as my sole living heir, you inherit my estate except for a single bequest to Brody for years of loyal service.
Your mother was never interested in material possessions, a trait you should be proud of. It is one of many things I loved about her. Still, I am hopeful you will accept this gift. I assure you, it will be more than enough to allow you and your family to live the rest of your lives in any manner you choose.
As soon as we have established proof of heredity, I plan to rewrite my Will accordingly.
I cannot wait to set eyes on you. From pictures I have received, you are the spitting image of your mother. Seeing a likeness of her beautiful smiling face would bring more pleasure than I can say.
Respectfully,
Andrew Carlisle
The detectives were speechless. For several moments, the only sound was the gray noise of cars whizzing by on the freeway.
Tom finally dropped the letter in the evidence bag which he handed to Pat. “Have it tested for fingerprints.”
He looked at a point on the horizon.
“We’ve seen murders committed for passion, jealousy, and cruelty, but this could be murder for profit. Pure greed. There are millions of dollars at stake here. Money people would do anything to get their hands on.
