by Nora Roberts
"Yours or his?"
David sat back. He didn't care for the direction of the questioning, or the implication. "His, apparently. Several attempts to reach him proved unsuccessful. In the time between my arrival and his death, Avano didn't come to the office, at least not when I was here, nor did he return my calls."
"Must've annoyed you."
"It did." David nodded at Maguire. "Which I dealt with during our brief conversation at the winery. I made it clear that I expected him to make time to meet with me during business hours. Obviously, that never happened."
"Did you meet with him outside of business hours?"
"No. Detectives, I didn't know the man. Had no real reason to like or dislike him or think about him particularly."
David kept his voice even, edging toward dismissive, as he would when winding up a tedious business meeting. "While I understand you have to explore every avenue in your investigation, I'd think you're scraping bottom if you're looking at me as a murder suspect."
"You're dating his ex-wife."
David felt the jolt in the belly, but his face stayed passive as he leaned forward again. Slowly. "That's right. His ex-wife, who was already his ex when he was murdered, already his ex when we began seeing each other socially. I don't believe that crosses any legal or moral line."
"Our information is that the ex-Mrs. Avano wasn't in the habit of seeing men socially, until very recently."
"That," David said to Maguire, "might be because she hadn't met a man she cared to see socially, until very recently. I find that flattering, but not a reason to murder."
"Being dumped for a younger woman often is," Maguire said easily and watched cool eyes flare. Not just seeing her socially, she concluded. Seriously hung up.
"Which is it?" David demanded. "Pilar killed him because he wanted another woman, or she's heartless because she's interested in another man so soon after her ex-husband is murdered? How do you bend that premise both ways?"
Furious, Maguire thought, but controlled. Just the sort of makeup that could calmly sip wine and put bullets in a man.
"We're not accusing anyone," she continued. "We're just trying to get a clear picture."
"Let me help you out. Avano lived his own life his own way for twenty years. Pilar Giambelli lived hers, a great deal more admirably. Whatever business Avano might have had that night was his own, and nothing to do with her. My socializing with Ms. Giambelli, at this point, is completely our business."
"You assume Avano had business that night. Why?"
"I assume nothing." David inclined his head toward Claremont as he got to his feet. "I leave that to you. I have a meeting."
Claremont stayed where he was. "Were you aware Mr. Avano was having financial difficulties?"
"Avano's finances weren't my problem, or my concern."
"They would have been, if they connected to Giambelli. Weren't you curious as to why Mr. Avano was dodging you?"
"I'd been brought in from the outside. Some resentment was expected."
"He resented you."
"He may have. We never got around to discussing it."
"Now who's dodging?" Claremont got to his feet. "Do you own a handgun, Mr. Cutter?"
"No, I don't. I have two teenage children. There are no guns of any kind in my house, and never have been. On the night Avano was murdered, I was at home with my children."
"They can verify that."
David's hands curled into fists. "They'd know if I'd left the house." He wasn't having his kids interrogated by the police. Not over a worthless excuse of humanity like Avano. "That's all we're going to discuss until I consult an attorney."
"That's your right." Maguire rose and played what she banked was her trump card. "Thanks for your time,
Mr. Cutter. We'll question Ms. Giambelli about her ex-husband's finances."
"I'd think his widow would know more."
Maguire continued. "Pilar Giambelli was married to him a lot longer, and part of the business for which he worked."
David slipped his hands into his pockets. "She knows less about the business than either of you." And thinking of her, David made his choice. "Avano had been, for the last three years, systematically embezzling money from Giambelli. Padded expense accounts, inflated sales figures, travel vouchers for trips not taken or taken but for personal reasons. Never a great deal at a time, and he picked various pockets so that it went unnoticed. In his position, professionally and personally, no one would have, and no one did, question his figures."
Claremont nodded. "But you did."
"I did. I caught some of it the day of the party and, in double-checking it, began to see the pattern. It was clear to me he'd been dipping for some time under his name, under Pilar's and under his daughter's. He didn't trouble to forge their signatures on the vouchers, just signed them. To a total of just over six hundred thousand in the last three years."
"And when you confronted him…" Maguire prompted.
"I never did. I intended to, and believe I made that intention clear during our conversation at the party. My impression was he understood I knew something. It was business, Detective, and would have been handled through the business. I reported the problem to Tereza Giambelli and Eli MacMillan the day after the party. The conclusion was that I would handle it, do what could be done to arrange for Avano to pay the money back. He would resign from the company. If he refused any of the stipulations outlined, the Giambellis would take legal action."
"Why was this information withheld?"
"It was the wish of the senior Ms. Giambelli that her granddaughter not be humiliated by her father's behavior becoming public. I was asked to say nothing, unless directly asked by the police. At this point, La Signora, Eli MacMillan and myself are the only people who know. Avano's dead, and it seemed unnecessary to add to the scandal by painting him as a thief as well as a philanderer."
"Mr. Cutter," Claremont said. "When it's murder, nothing's unnecessary."
David had barely closed the door at the cops' back and taken a breath to steady himself when it opened again. Sophia didn't knock, didn't think to.
"What did they want?"
He had to adjust quickly and folded his concern and anger together, tucked them away. "We're both running late for the meeting." He scooped up his notes, slid them with the reports, the graphs, the memos into his briefcase.
"David." Sophia simply stayed with her back to the door. "I could've gone after the cops and tried to get answers I haven't been able to get from them. I hoped that you'd be more understanding."
"They had questions, Sophia. Follow-ups, I suppose you call them."
"Why you and not me or several other people in this building? You barely knew my father, had never worked with him or as far as I'm aware spent any time with him. What could you tell the police about him, or his murder, that they haven't already been told?"
"Little to nothing. I'm sorry, Sophia, but we'll need to table this, at least for now. People are waiting."
"David. Give me some credit. They came directly to your office, and stayed in here long enough for there to have been something. Word travels," she finished. "I have a right to know."
He said nothing for a moment, but studied her face. Yes, she had a right to know, he decided. And he had no right to take that away from her.
He picked up his phone. "Ms. Giambelli and I will be a few minutes late for the meeting," he told his assistant. He nodded to a chair as he hung up. "Sit down."
"I'll stand. You may have noticed, I'm not delicate."
"I've noticed you handle yourself. The police had some questions that sprang, at least in part, from the fact that I'm seeing your mother."
"I see. Do they have some theory that you and Mama have been engaged in some long, secret affair? That could have been put to rest easily enough by the fact that until a couple of months ago you lived a country apart. Added to the fact that my father had been living openly with another woman for several years, a few dinner dates is very sm
all potatoes."
"I'm sure they're covering all angles."
"Do they suspect you or Mama?"
"I'd say they suspect everyone. It's part of their job description. You've been careful not to comment, to me in any case, on how you feel about my relationship with your mother."
"I haven't decided how I feel about it, precisely. When I do, I'll let you know."
"Fair enough," he said equably. "I know how I feel about it, so I'll tell you. I care very much about Pilar. I don't intend to cause her trouble or upset. I'd be sorry to cause you any, either, first because she loves you and second because I like you. But I was just in the position of choosing between causing you both some upset or having my kids interrogated and doing nothing to stop the investigation from wandering down a dead end."
She wanted to sit down now. Something told her she'd need to. Because of it, pride kept her on her feet. "What did you tell the police that's going to upset me?"
Truth, he thought, like medicine, was better given in one fast dose. "Your father had been embezzling from the company for several years. The amounts were spread out, and relatively moderate, which is one reason they went undetected as long as they did."
The color drained out of her face, but she didn't flinch. Didn't flinch even as the fist of betrayal slammed hard into her heart. "There's no mistake?" she began, then waved him off before he could answer. "No, of course there isn't.
You wouldn't make one." There was a light lick of bitterness in the statement. She couldn't stop it. "How long have you known?"
"I confirmed it the day of the party. I intended to meet with your father within the next couple of days to discuss—"
"To fire him," she corrected.
"To ask for his resignation. As per your grandparents' instructions. I reported the embezzlement to them the day after the party. He would have been given the opportunity to pay back the funds and resign. They did that for you—for your mother, too, for the company, but mostly for you. I'm sorry."
She nodded, turning away as she rubbed her hands over her arms. "Yes, of course. I appreciate your being honest with me now."
"Sophia—
"Please, don't." She closed in as he stepped forward. "Don't apologize again. I'm not going to fall apart. I already knew he was a thief. I saw one of my mother's heirloom brooches on Rene's lapel. It was to come to me, so I know my mother didn't give it to him. I knew when I saw her wearing it, on her widow's black, that he'd stolen it. Not that he'd have thought of it that way. Any more than he'd have thought of the money he siphoned from the company as stealing. Pilar, he'd think, has so many trinkets. She wouldn't mind. The company, he'd tell himself, can afford to lend me a bit more capital. Yes, he was a champ at rationalizing his pathetic behavior."
"If you'd rather go home than attend the meeting, I can make your excuses."
"I have no intention of missing the meeting." She turned back. "Isn't it odd? I knew what he did to Mama all those years—I saw it for myself. But I managed to forgive him, or to tell myself it was just what he was, and make it, if not all right, somehow marginally acceptable. Now he's stolen money and jewelry, so much less important than stealing a person's dignity and self-respect as he did with my mother. But it took this for me to face fully that he was worthless as a human being. It took this for me to stop bleeding for him. I wonder why that is? Well, I'll see you at the meeting."
"Take a few minutes."
"No. He's already had more of my time than he was entitled to."
Yes, he thought as she walked out of his office. Very much like her grandmother.
Since it was Sophia's turn to drive, Tyler rode back from the city in silence. Unless, he thought, you counted the blast of the radio. He'd turned it down twice, only to have her snap the volume back up again. Departmental meetings gave him a headache and so did the opera currently screaming out of the speakers, but he decided to let it go. It certainly prevented any pretext of conversation.
She didn't look to be in the mood for conversation. He wasn't sure just what she looked in the mood for, but it sure as hell wasn't talk.
She drove too fast, but he'd gotten used to that. And even with whatever storm was brewing inside her, she wasn't careless as she swung around the curves and slopes of the road.
Still, he nearly sighed when he spotted the rooftops of home. He was about to get there, in one piece, where he could shrug out of his city clothes and fall into blessed silence and solitude.
Even with her mouth so firmly shut, he thought, the woman just wore him out.
But when she stopped at the end of the drive, she turned off the engine and was out of the car before he was.
"What're you doing?"
"Coming in," she called over her shoulder, adding a brief, glittering look to her words.
"Why?"
"Because I don't feel like going home."
He jangled his keys in his hand. "It's been a long day."
"Hasn't it just?"
"I've got things to do."
"That's handy. I'm looking for things to do. Be a pal, MacMillan. Buy me a drink."
Resigned, he jabbed his key in the lock. "Buy your own drink. You know where everything is."
"Gracious to the last. That's what I like about you." She strolled in and headed straight to the great room and the wine rack. "With you, Ty, there are no pretenses, no games. You are what you are. Surly, rude, predictable."
She chose a bottle at random. Variety and vintage didn't matter at the moment. While she uncorked it, she looked around the room. Stone and wood—hard materials, expertly and cleanly worked into a dignified setting for big, simple furnishings and plain colors.
No flowers, she thought, no soft edges, no polish. "Take this place, for example. No frills, no fuss. A manly man lives here, it says, who doesn't have time for appearances. Don't give a flying fuck about appearances, do you, Ty?"
"Not particularly."
"That's so damn stalwart of you. You're a stalwart individual." She poured out two glasses. "Some people live and die by appearances, you know. They're what matter most. Me, I'm more of a happy-medium type. You can't trust someone who has appearances as his religion, and the ones who don't give that flying fuck, you end up trusting too much."
"If you're going to drink my wine and take up my space, you might as well tell me what's put you in this mood and get it over with."
"Oh, I have many moods." She drank the wine, too quickly for pleasure, and poured a second glass for herself. "I'm a multifaceted woman, Tyler. You haven't seen the half of me."
She crossed to him, slowly. A kind of sexual gun-fighter's swagger. "Would you like to see more?"
"No."
"Oh now, don't disappoint me and lie. No games, no pretenses, remember." She trailed a fingertip up his shirt. "You really want to get your hands on me, and conveniently, I really want to be handled."
"You want to get drunk and get laid? Sorry, doesn't suit my plans for the evening." He plucked the glass out of her hand.
"What's the matter? Want me to buy you dinner first?"
He set the glass down. "I think more of myself than that. And surprise, more of you."
"Fine. I'll just find someone who isn't so picky." She took three strides toward the door when he grabbed her arm. "Let go. You had your chance."
"I'm taking you home."
"I'm not going home."
"You're going where I take you."
"I said let go!" She whirled. She was prepared to scratch and claw and slap, could already feel the release of it gush through her. And was more surprised than he when she grabbed on hard and collapsed into tears.
"Shit. Okay." He did the only thing that came to mind. He picked her up, carried her to a chair and sat with her on his lap. "Get it all out, and we'll both feel better."
