“I’m sure she appreciates the career advice.”
Matt didn’t know how Spence did it—a beautiful, twenty-four-year-old Fulbright scholar, thirty-plus years his junior?
He got up and wandered into the living room. The lights of the city were sparkling on the skyline above the dark expanse of Lake Union.
“Maybe you should have her talk to April and Tamlyn’s mother. Or is Ginny no longer performing in Las Vegas?” he asked, knowing perfectly well that his former-showgirl ex-stepmother was living comfortably on her divorce settlement in Barcelona. Ginny hadn’t kicked her legs on stage since giving birth to his twin sisters.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Actually, Spence probably didn’t know. Once his children reached eighteen and he was no longer dealing with support issues, he tried to forget his ex-wives.
“I miss you, son,” Spence said unexpectedly. “We used to see each other more often before you reformed.”
“You could come to Seattle for a visit.”
“Nope. I gave Seattle to your mom and kept the rest of the world. How is she, anyway?” he asked carelessly.
“We don’t discuss her, remember?”
One of the forbidden subjects between S. S. Hollister and his children was their mothers. His charm was legendary, but his relationships with ex-wives were toxic. It was largely due to his casual attitude toward marital fidelity; Spence adored falling in love and thought a pregnant woman was radiant, but found the domesticity of actually being married and raising a child an unbearable slog.
Matt didn’t want to hurt women the way his father had hurt them. Don’t make promises you won’t keep. It was a lesson Spence had inadvertently taught over the years, just by being an optimist who always thought that this time he would stay in love forever.
Forever was a fantasy, no matter what Layne said.
“Ah well, just thought I’d ask, son. Have you heard you’re going to be an uncle? Aaron and Skylar are having a baby.”
“I heard. Aaron and I do talk now and then. But I’m already an uncle—Karin, his stepdaughter, is my niece, too. Aaron is crazy about her.”
“That he is. I’m having a trust fund set up for them both. Hope the baby is another girl and she gets her mama’s red hair and sass. That gal is a real looker.”
Matt pressed a finger to his temple, a hint of irritation rising inside of him. “Skylar is your daughter-in-law, Dad. Your only daughter-in-law. Not a potential girlfriend.”
“That isn’t what I meant.” Spence sounded genuinely indignant. “I want all of my children to be happy.”
Maybe. But he also wasn’t willing to be a real father. Most of the time he wasn’t even around.
“Fine. I don’t hear calypso any longer, the party must be over.”
“Guess so. Let me know when you get tired of being good and we’ll throw a bash of our own down here. Bye, son.”
Matt tossed the phone on the couch, disgusted. It was just like Spence to wake him up in the middle of the night, chat about nothing and then go off to an untroubled sleep after a night of unbridled partying.
Hmm, Montego Bay.
Warm tropical breezes, sailing, brilliant sunsets... They were a far cry from meetings, reports and cold northwest rain. Matt knew he’d be a hypocrite to deny there was a seductive appeal to his old life. But if he went back to it, he’d throw away his chance to do something that actually mattered.
* * *
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON Dorothy finished her shift at the art gallery later, with no sign of Patrick.
She got into her Volvo and sat for a long minute. More often these days, she heard Will in the house, walking up and down the hall, catching echoes of his laughter and low voice. She felt him lie down next to her in bed and smelled the pipe tobacco he used to smoke. Maybe it was her imagination, but she looked forward to it. The hints of his presence were never quite tangible, yet reassuring in their way...and a reminder that she hadn’t cleared his name yet.
A rap on the car window made her jump.
Patrick was leaning down, peering in, and she hit the button to lower the glass.
“You were a million miles away, Dot,” he said, smiling. “I was delayed, something came up and I couldn’t get away. Do you have time for tea?”
Dorothy checked her watch. “I can’t, I have a contract deadline coming up.”
“When is your next shift at the gallery?”
“Not until Friday afternoon. That’s my regular day. I usually don’t work several times a week, but they’ve been shorthanded. If you’re free on Friday we can go...that is, I’m sure I’ll be done with my project by then,” she said.
“I’ll be here. Promptly. Even if I have to shoot someone.”
“That’s drastic. Why don’t you just set the alarm on your watch and tell whoever that you have a prior commitment?”
“Right, less paperwork that way.”
Dorothy waved as she drove off, wondering if she would see Patrick again. She wasn’t being coy, she just needed space to think. Meeting him right now wasn’t the best timing in the world. But then, life didn’t happen in neat little packages, and it certainly didn’t happen when it was convenient.
* * *
LAYNE WAITED IN the Carrollton Police Station on Tuesday afternoon, watching officers and other employees pass back and forth as if she didn’t exist. The chief detective who’d worked on Uncle Will’s case had finally agreed to talk to her, but so far she hadn’t been taken to his desk—he probably hoped she’d just give up if he waited long enough.
“Ms. McGraw?” a man finally said and she looked up.
“Yes. Are you Detective Rivera?”
He nodded. “Come with me. I have a small conference room reserved where we can talk.”
The “small conference room” reminded Layne of the places in television shows where the cops questioned suspects and there was even a mirror on the wall that she suspected was one-way.
Layne sat down and took her notebook from her purse.
“That won’t be needed,” said the detective. “I don’t have information to give you. Our files are confidential, but I wanted to speak with you directly after all the calls from you and your aunt.”
“My uncle believed he could prove his innocence. I just need to know when the illegal wire transfers occurred in order to look for that proof. Surely it isn’t too much to ask.”
Rivera rubbed his forehead. “I speak with families every day who don’t believe their loved ones could be guilty of a crime. Possibly the most difficult aspect of my job is seeing the expression in people’s eyes and knowing their faith was put in the wrong person.”
Layne’s jaw tightened. “My faith in Uncle Will aside, haven’t you ever had a case where you considered the evidence to be overwhelming, only to discover things weren’t what they appeared?”
“Of course, but it’s extremely rare.”
“And can you honestly say that it isn’t suspicious to find a suicide note on a printer that couldn’t have printed it?”
“All right, I’ll admit that seems...questionable.”
Hallelujah.
She’d finally made an inch of progress.
“I never met your uncle,” the detective murmured after a moment. “I was on the investigative team from the start, but didn’t become team leader until a few days after he committed suicide. As a matter of fact, I’m the only officer left in this precinct who was on the team.”
Layne’s stomach swooped and rolled. “Were you at the house the night...the night he was found in his office?”
“Yes.”
It was difficult to think about. Aunt Dee had waited to call the family until after the police were gone and she was alone. Layne had gotten there first and the house had seemed unbearably silent, as if
in shock along with the rest of them.
“About the autopsy report...” she started to say, only to have Detective Rivera shake his head.
“I don’t control those records.”
“Surely you have a copy.”
“As I explained, the police records are not available. Please, there’s nothing more to discuss and I’m late for my son’s birthday party.” He stood, indicating the discussion was over.
She’d known it wasn’t a good sign when he arrived without a file and brought her to a stark, empty room. But curiously, Layne didn’t dislike the detective the way she’d expected.
“I’m not giving up.”
The detective gave her an unexpected smile. “I’d be surprised if you did. And believe it or not, I wish you luck.”
Yet before Layne got to the door, he cleared his throat. “Er...Ms. McGraw, I was just wondering if you know what kind of printer paper Mr. Hudson used in his home office.”
“I’m not sure, probably standard twenty-pound all-purpose paper. Oh, wait a minute, I have a sample.”
She took out a sheet she’d grabbed the other day to make a shopping list. It hadn’t escaped her notice that while Detective Rivera wasn’t willing to provide information, he felt free to ask her a question.
Rivera fingered the paper. “You’re right, it appears to be twenty-pound bond. That’s also what they use at Hudson & Davidson.”
Her eyes narrowed. He’d just wanted to confirm the paper from each location was the same?
Now that was annoying.
“I never claimed they were different,” Layne said crisply. “Good afternoon.”
* * *
OUTSIDE THE POLICE station Layne dropped into her Mustang and tapped the steering wheel. She’d been working with Matt on Uncle Will’s records since Saturday, and an odd companionship had grown between them.
He was also having his security staff get the phone numbers of the new employee names that Emma Farnon and other Hudson & Davidson employees had given her. Emma seemed nice enough, even though she’d contacted Peter Davidson to tell him that Layne was asking questions. And despite the accusations against Uncle Will, Emma had fond memories of him as her boss.
Squaring her chin, Layne took out her cell phone and dialed Matt.
“Hey. What’s up?” he answered.
She blinked. “How did you know it was me?”
“Easy, I added your number to my contacts so your name will show up. Though I still think you need a regular cell phone. Is there a problem?”
“I just got done meeting with Detective Rivera at the Carrollton Police Station. He was nice, but it’s a no-go on telling me anything from the file. So if you want to talk to him, go ahead.”
“I remember Rivera—he was in charge of the investigation, right?”
“Yeah, part of the time.”
“It sounds as if he annoyed you.”
“Good guess.”
Layne hadn’t wanted Matt to contact the police department or the D.A.’s office, but it now seemed clear she wouldn’t get anything from them without help. A lawyer might be able to do something, only she’d rather avoid official channels at the moment.
“I’ll call him as soon as we get off,” Matt said.
“He mentioned being late to his son’s birthday party, so I don’t think he’s there.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Layne got off the phone and pulled into traffic. Aunt Dee wasn’t expecting her, so she decided to drive home and try getting a good night’s sleep.
Layne parked in her garage and locked it, shivering as she regarded her lovely Victorian. She hadn’t slept well since discovering the scratches on her door locks.
Perhaps she should get an alarm system, Layne thought as she checked both the front and back doors and surveyed the exterior of the house for any obvious problems.
Hmm, nothing.
Just the creepy feeling she kept getting that something wasn’t right. And that she was being watched.
She went inside and phoned the cable company again. “I just need information,” she said when she reached the repair department and had given them her address. “I’m trying to find out when your repair guy was in my neighborhood on June 16th, either in the late afternoon or evening. I understand you got a call about damaged cable lines.”
“Let’s see...the call was logged at 6:22 p.m., and our repair specialist was contacted at 6:37 p.m. He was on another site and my records don’t show when he arrived in your area. Are you lodging a complaint?”
“No, just checking.”
Layne’s creepy feeling grew. According to Sanjiv, the repair “specialist” had arrived no later than six. A cable repairman never showed up to fix a problem before it was actually reported. Sanjiv could have been wrong about the time, but what if he wasn’t?
Reluctantly, Layne dialed the police nonemergency number. They couldn’t do anything, but at least they could check the house and give her a little more peace of mind.
* * *
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING Connor stared at the painting on his office wall and scowled, making his second in command let out a low whistle.
“What in bloody hell has you in a mood?” asked Riley Flannigan.
“Nothing.” Connor used the tone he employed when he didn’t want questions, but Riley simply appeared bored and half asleep. It was an act he excelled at—few people would guess that beneath his nonchalance he was a martial arts expert with lethal skills.
“Your ‘nothing’ has everyone in duck-and-cover mode.”
“I notice you’re still sitting there.”
Riley yawned. “I don’t have anything to worry about—I’m a better shot. I’m not the one who blew my last session at the shooting range. In that last set we each fired off six rounds—mine were perfectly placed, but one of yours was half a centimeter off-center.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed. “It was perfect, the ventilation system simply turned on and shifted the target.”
“You should have compensated.”
“Go to hell.” Connor was tempted to kick the other man’s ass into next week, but that would just prove Riley’s point.
And in all honesty, he wasn’t in the best of moods. Connor thought back, recalling his brief conversation with Dorothy on Sunday. Nothing in her manner had suggested she was suspicious of him. Nevertheless, as Matt became increasingly involved in the investigation with Layne, the risk that Dorothy would discover he hadn’t been truthful with her was also greater.
And the damned part of it was that he could have told her his real name, though revealing his connection to Matt would have been trickier. But he’d spent so much of his life in half truths and concealed identities, it was hard to break the habit.
Finnster was asleep in the corner, lying on his side, an occasional low grunt coming from him, accompanied by a faint twitch. What did a dog dream about, anyhow? Racing through fields, eating meaty bones...being petted and spoiled by two women while ignoring a primary command? Connor was trying to be philosophical about that part. He’d run Finn through a vigorous set of exercises since then and he had performed perfectly.
Riley stood up. “It’s a shame the princess and her hubby cancelled their trip to California. I wouldn’t have minded a cushy assignment for a week or two.”
“Stop calling her the princess,” Connor ordered, annoyed. Katrina Eisley Davidson had her problems, but she wasn’t arrogant or a pain in the ass. Riley just had a hang-up about beautiful women with money, no matter what their age.
Riley simply yawned again.
Connor considered pushing the issue, but it wouldn’t do any good. He didn’t pick his people for their willingness to agree with him; he picked hardheaded, skilled operatives who made up their own minds and were happy
to tell anyone to go to hell, including their boss.
“Get out of here,” he muttered.
“I’m already gone.”
Riley sauntered out and Connor looked at the report his team had compiled on Emma Farnon. A number of Hudson & Davidson employees had retired or taken other positions in the past few months and Matt wanted each of them investigated for unexplained financial windfalls.
Matt seemed to think there was compelling evidence that William Hudson could have been murdered. It was curious that Hudson had committed suicide so quickly, but some men couldn’t face ruin. And it wouldn’t have been easy for William to look into Dorothy’s eyes and realize he’d destroyed the life they’d shared.
Connor looked again at the painting of Spirit Lake below the shattered ruin of Mount St. Helens. He wasn’t one to look for hidden meanings in physical objects, yet he wondered at the eerie images superimposed on the canvas of the mountain and lake before the volcanic eruption. Had Dorothy let her imagination take flight, or was there a message in the images...perhaps one about her life?
But which was more real to her—the pretty vision before ruin and devastation, or the reality of death and scandal? He got up and looked at the canvas, suddenly spotting a clump of lupine blooming on one of the gray slopes...renewal in the midst of devastation. Was that a third possibility?
Impatient with the questions, and most of all with himself, Connor grabbed the report on the Farnon woman to take to Matt, along with the contact information he’d obtained on additional Hudson & Davidson employees. He was old enough to know better than to develop feelings for anyone, much less an artistic widow devoted to the memory of her husband.
And he was smart enough to know that using a false name had doomed any friendship from the start...which might be precisely why he’d done it.
* * *
THAT NIGHT LAYNE sat on the bed with her laptop, so jumpy she had trouble concentrating, and she kept getting up and looking out the windows to see if anyone was hanging around.
The police had come the night before, searched the house and backyard and promised to increase their presence in the neighborhood for a few days. While they were sympathetic, it was also clear they thought she was overreacting.
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