Читать книгу Challenging Matt - Julianna Morris - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

MATT CHATTED WITH Jeannette McGraw at the bar as they waited for their drinks. She was tall, articulate, intelligent and had a stunning smile. Basically, the type of woman who had always attracted him, yet he kept picturing Layne McGraw in his mind.

Jeannette’s pint-sized sister was irritating, but she had a quiet freshness that was appealing at the same time. Not that it mattered. Things had just gone from a headache to a major problem. What were Layne and her aunt after, and did Jeannette have anything to do with it?

He looked at the beautiful blonde and saw nothing but a prowling female looking back at him. It seemed improbable that she knew anything about her sister’s activities, or she wouldn’t have interrupted.

“What was that again?” he said, realizing Jeannette had posed a question.

“I, uh, asked if you knew of any other nonprofit organizations applying a business model to medical research?”

“There’s at least one, and they’ve had encouraging results. I read about it a couple of years ago and thought the concept was intriguing.” Matt didn’t add that it was when he’d been laid up with his broken tibia. He’d gone out with a high fever and racking cough to a slope nicknamed the Devil’s Widow Maker; he was lucky he hadn’t broken his fool neck instead of his leg.

He glanced across the large ballroom. Had Layne and her aunt gone home, or were they lingering, hopeful he would relent and give them what they wanted? It had only taken him a second to recognize Dorothy Hudson—she wasn’t the kind of woman you forgot. With her classic beauty she could have stepped from a delicate hand-carved cameo.

“So, how do you know my sister?” Jeannette asked. She laughed lightly. “I was surprised to see her here—this sort of party isn’t her scene. She’s a backyard barbecue sort of gal. Probably complete with tofu burgers. Not that she cooks, but she has vegan friends who do.”

“I’m barely acquainted with Layne.”

“That’s good to know. I wouldn’t want to step on her toes...if you understand what I mean?” She was obviously trying to be delicate, but there was a distinct invitation in her eyes.

Matt was tempted, despite her connection to the Hudson scandal, yet the subtle slap at her sister had put his teeth on edge. He was tired of predatory games. Honestly, he’d heard women stick a verbal knife in one another—some would do anything to get ahead—but between sisters it was particularly distasteful.

“I understand. Do you plan to stay in pharmaceuticals or go elsewhere?” he queried, deliberately moving the subject away from flirtatious topics. Few women could match Jeannette McGraw, but at the moment, he simply wasn’t interested.

Though disappointment flickered in her expression, she began describing her work. Ironically, that was when she seemed most genuine. Her polish and sophistication weren’t unique, but her apparent commitment to developing new antibiotics was admirable.

“So both of your parents are doctors,” he mused after a several minutes. “I imagine that influenced your career choice.”

“Yes.” The playful invitation had vanished entirely from her eyes, which told him she was smart enough to get the message without him needing to be blunt. Whether she knew why he’d lost interest was another question.

Matt swirled the golden liquid in his brandy snifter, then set it on a tray. “It was very nice meeting you, Jeannette, but I have a check to write for the mayor’s favorite charity.”

“I hope we’ll run into each other another time.”

“Certainly.”

Matt quickly made his charitable contribution and headed out to the parking garage, hoping to see Peter before he went to bed. He also wanted to speak with Connor, though the Eisley security chief rarely seemed to sleep in Matt’s experience, so getting there early enough wasn’t an issue.

The city streets were still teeming with people as he drove to his grandfather’s estate. His stepfather and mother lived in a wing of the mansion, while his grandparents lived in another. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, at least for Peter, but he’d agreed because it was what Katrina had wanted. At the security gate Matt stopped and nodded as the guard stepped forward.

“Good evening, Mr. Hollister. We didn’t expect you tonight.”

“It wasn’t planned, but I have some business to discuss with my stepfather.”

“I believe Mr. Davidson is taking his evening stroll. He passed by a few minutes ago, headed toward the water.” The guard gestured to the southwest.

“Thanks, I’ll see if I can catch up.”

Matt parked and hurried down the moonlit path. Growing up he’d roamed every inch of the grounds and could find his way blindfolded. There were acres on the estate, with fine gardens surrounding the house, and the rest in natural woodland crossed by a meandering creek, yet it had seemed like a prison when he was a boy. Nobody would admit it, but his mother had been virtually agoraphobic back then. And she’d tried to keep him confined to the estate as well. It was his grandparents who’d insisted he go to boarding school.

Terrence “Terry” Jackson had been Matt’s only friend. As the son of the head groundskeeper, Terry had come to work with his father during the summer. They’d spent every minute together, discovering ways to beat the security system, goofing off and having fun.

Matt’s mouth tightened.

Damn it, Terry had children and was a dedicated teacher. A new ALS research project to discover a cure, however well funded, was just a shot in the dark. They both knew it was unlikely to yield results in time to help him.

“Peter, it’s me,” Matt called, seeing his stepfather’s silhouette near the high, tree-lined bluff overlooking the Puget Sound. The moon hung above the horizon, painting everything in silver light and shadow.

“Matt, you’re the last person I expected to see tonight. Didn’t you go to the mayor’s gala?”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. Dorothy Hudson was there as well, asking questions about the embezzlement case. And her niece Layne came to my office yesterday about it.”

He heard Peter’s sharp intake of breath. “What did you tell them?”

It seemed an odd inquiry, but it was an odd situation. How many people had a business partner who’d embezzled several million dollars?

“Very little. They want details about how the thefts occurred, and probably some other information. Apparently the police and the Carrollton D.A.’s office won’t speak to them, so they’re going elsewhere for the answers.”

“I’ve tried to protect Dorothy from as much of the ugliness as possible,” Peter said irritably. “You’d think she’d appreciate what I’ve done instead of reopening the wounds. William stuck a damned knife in my back and took the coward’s way out when he got caught. It’s as simple as that.”

“His suicide must make his death harder for her to deal with,” Matt murmured.

“That isn’t my problem.”

The harsh response made Matt uncomfortable, but he tried to put himself in Peter’s shoes. His stepfather felt betrayed and angry and wanted to put it behind him. And he was struggling to make his marriage work, which was no picnic considering Katrina’s problems. Matt adored his mother and would do anything for her, but he wasn’t blind. She hated to have her name in the press, and she didn’t leave the Eisley estate except for a few exclusive social gatherings.

“I appreciate your telling me about this, son,” said his stepfather. “I recently told Dorothy I want to sell the company, so perhaps it’s just a momentary aberration on her part. She’s a nice woman, but she operates largely on emotion, rather than logic. Her artistic temperament, I suppose.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll see you sometime next week.”

They shook hands, yet Matt was more unsettled than ever as he headed for the small house where Connor O’Brian resided on the estate.

Connor’s choice of residence was another puzzle. Matt understood why his grandfather would want his security chief living close by; he just wasn’t sure why Connor had accepted the arrangement. Yet as he stepped to the rise and looked down at the place, nestled against the dark outline of forest behind it, he wondered if the small stone house reminded Connor of Ireland. It had been built by Gaelic craftsmen, along with the mansion and high limestone walls surrounding the estate.

He didn’t have a chance to knock on the door since Connor opened it as he approached. “Do you have an early warning system when people arrive?” he asked the older man.

“Dog. Beats electronics any day.”

“Oh. Do you ever sleep?”

“Only on alternate days. Come in, Matt.”

Like the carriage house exterior, the interior probably looked little different from when it was built. There were white plaster walls, natural wood beams exposed in the ceiling, and the broad planked wood floors were polished smooth by over a hundred years of use. The furniture was basic and solid with no decoration. Matt’s own penthouse apartment was stark, but Connor’s living room gave the word new meaning.

“Hey, Finnster,” he called to the rottweiler lying on the floor. The dog raised his head, let out a faint woof of greeting and settled back again. “This place is pretty bare, Connor. You’ve lived here, what, fourteen years?”

“I like being able to leave at a moment’s notice. Helps if you don’t have a lot of nonsense weighing you down.”

Matt had few physical possessions himself, having moved around on the party circuit for so many years, but he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t take Connor more than a minute to do a fast fade out the back door.

“Do you expect to pick up and leave any time soon?”

“You never know. What brings you here? I figured you’d go home with someone from the party.”

Matt’s jaw hardened. Every time he attended a public function or dated a woman, it started a frenzy of speculation about his social life, which made it that much harder to be taken seriously at the foundation. Did the gossip columnists and everyone else expect him to become a monk, simply because he was handing out money for charity? And why would his sex life affect his ability to take his grandfather’s place?

“Not tonight,” he said shortly. “I’m here to talk with you about the woman who came to my office yesterday. She was at the gala, along with her aunt, Dorothy Hudson. It turns out Layne McGraw is William Hudson’s niece. Dorothy is his widow. I want a security check on them both.”

“You should have a preliminary file in a couple of days.”

“Thanks.” Matt glanced around the small cottage. “I don’t get it. Why haven’t you bought your own house?”

Connor patted Finnster on the head. “My needs are simple and this place meets all of them. There’s plenty of room for my dog. I do my job, your grandfather doesn’t bother me and I’ve saved practically every penny he’s ever paid me. Since my services don’t come cheap, that’s a healthy chunk of money. And that’s on top of the Eisley company shares I’ve received as bonuses for services rendered.”

“But you’re stuck...here.”

“It’s only a prison if you can’t leave,” Connor said. “People make their own jails. It’s too bad your mother trapped you in hers.”

Denial rose in Matt’s throat, but he choked it down. Connor knew everything about the family; if they couldn’t trust him by now, something was very wrong. He got up and headed for the door, then turned around. “Connor, what do you think of my stepfather?”

“Think of him?”

Matt frowned. He’d never heard that careful tone in Connor’s voice before. “You investigated Peter when he began dating my mother—you must have an opinion.”

“I found nothing in the background sweep that indicated a problem.”

“But you don’t like him.”

Connor’s face was expressionless. “I don’t like very many people—it’s a hazard of the job. I’ll let you know when I have a report on the two women.”

“Thanks.” Matt headed toward his car again, still frowning.

Just because Layne McGraw and her aunt were asking questions about the embezzlement case, it didn’t mean anything was wrong. The D.A.’s office hadn’t doubted William Hudson’s guilt, so surely they were satisfied with the evidence. The idea that Matt might have missed something himself was disturbing—should he have seen things the police hadn’t?

Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like? Layne McGraw’s question had been echoing in Matt’s head, and he tried to push it away. It was natural William’s family wanted to believe in his innocence; it didn’t mean he was innocent.

* * *

IN THE BEDROOM Layne always used at her aunt’s house, she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes in relief, grateful she’d decided to stay the night. She hated pumps. And nylons. She hadn’t worn nylons since her job interview with the Babbitt.

No doubt the women Matt Hollister dated were fashion mavens who wouldn’t be caught dead without stockings, and probably silk to boot.

Layne glanced at her reflection in the mirror, chagrined as she recalled Matt’s expression at seeing her sister. Her green silk dress hadn’t looked that bad, but she couldn’t compete with Jeannie. And why she cared when the man in question was Matt Hollister, she had no idea.

Layne lay down on the bed, unable to stop thinking about the gala. At least Hollister had kept his cool better than her aunt; having Aunt Dee confront him was astonishing, but it was an indication of how desperate she felt.

The house was silent and Layne rolled over to stare at the dark ceiling, thinking back to the nightmare almost seven months before. Uncle Will’s suicide note hadn’t sounded like him, just a brief typed message, with no personal word to his wife of twenty-nine years. He’d always handwritten his letters; even his business correspondence was drafted first by hand. Back in December she’d told the police she questioned whether her uncle had actually written the so-called suicide note, but they’d dismissed her, claiming a suicidal person didn’t necessarily follow their normal pattern. Maybe, but she still wondered.

A picture filled her head of Uncle Will laughing on the Friday after the Thanksgiving holiday, not long before his death. They’d been making sandwiches from leftover turkey and he was talking about the future as if he didn’t have a care in the world. A few days later discrepancies were found in his client records, a handful of newspaper articles were published, accusations were made against him....and then he was found dead, before he was even arrested.

Yet if it wasn’t suicide, it had to be murder.

She hadn’t discussed the possibility with Aunt Dee, though it must have occurred to her, as well. And it would mean someone had gotten in and killed Uncle Will in his home office. If that had happened, it was mostly likely someone he’d known well...someone he’d trusted. Someone like Peter Davidson, the partner with whom he’d shared the business. The friend who’d turned his back on his old buddy as soon as the suspicion of embezzlement was raised and was now trying to get away with all the proceeds from selling the company.

It appeared Peter Davidson had emerged from the scandal with a spotless reputation. But what if he was involved? It could mean he was a thief and potential murderer.

Damn.

Layne got up and pulled on a robe, deciding she might as well get some work done since she was too restless to lie still.

Sleep these days was elusive. Her uncle had kept meticulous records and documentation on everything, but his company records were in terrible shape thanks to the way they’d been packed, and most of the home records were boxed and stored in the upstairs storage room next to the master bedroom suite. No doubt Uncle Will could have put his hands on whatever he wanted, but she didn’t know what she was looking for and she couldn’t ignore a single scrap of paper in case it was important.

Sitting at her uncle’s desk, Layne read through her notes and the logs she had made of what she’d found. It all seemed innocuous. The personal items that weren’t damaged she had set aside for her aunt—others needed fixing and some were damaged beyond repair.

At the moment it was nearly impossible to make any progress without knowing what she was investigating. The police department claimed they couldn’t release anything because it was an open case and had to be kept confidential. The excuses might be valid if they were treating it as an ongoing investigation. But they weren’t, and she suspected somebody with influence was blocking her access.

And who could that influential person be?

Peter Davidson?

If so, it was no wonder Aunt Dee hadn’t gotten anywhere. The authorities probably didn’t realize the way they were acting was enough by itself to make her question if they had something to hide. The few newspaper articles about the scandal were no help; they were vague and talked about missing money at Hudson & Davidson, but it had all happened so quickly and with Uncle Will dead, they’d shifted to fresh stories.

Layne pressed a finger to her temple as she read an unfinished memo Uncle Will had scribbled a few days before everything fell apart. There was no address or salutation, so the intended recipient was a mystery.

Come on, she urged her tired brain, trying to determine if there was any significant meaning in the bold, strong lines of her uncle’s handwriting. But there was nothing she could see, and she put it on the stack to read another time when her head was clearer.

Tucking her legs under her, she leaned back in the comfortable executive-style chair and closed her eyes. Talk to me, Uncle Will, she pleaded silently. If you’re here in the house the way Aunt Dee seems to think, you must have a reason.

* * *

IT WAS JUST after 5:00 a.m. Sunday when Connor O’Brian parked across the street from the Hudson home in Carrollton, Washington, his gaze sweeping up and down the neighborhood.

He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t on alert, watching for the next threat to come his way, whether it was a gang of Dublin street brats when he was ten, or a group of mercenaries when he was working in covert ops. Working with half of the alphabet soup intelligence agencies in the world had educated him in more ways than one.

After his father’s death his family had moved to Dublin, and with his mother working several jobs, he’d gotten into more trouble than he cared to think about. It had taken several close calls with the law and a new stepfather with iron nerves to keep him out of more serious trouble. And he’d never even thanked Grady for any of it.

Connor massaged a jagged scar above his knee that had almost ended his career when he was twenty-two. Maybe it would have been better if it had; now his memories were a maze of scars...deaths that ought to have been prevented, friends lost and innocence destroyed. Espionage was a hard road once you’d started down it. Working for the Eisleys had come as a welcome break. Instead of international intrigue, he now dealt with ordinary intrigue. The motivations were often the same, but the scale was smaller. But then, one person’s life was just as important to them as another, so maybe scale was moot.

The rising sun showed details of the house—large and comfortable, in an affluent neighborhood—and he snapped several pictures. His staff was already doing a full background sweep on Layne McGraw and Dorothy Hudson, except there were things you couldn’t learn about people from a security report. He had his own methods, somewhat unorthodox, for getting a read on a situation.

A faint whine came from the passenger seat of the Jeep.

“Not yet, boy,” he said to the large rottweiler.

Finnster whined again, his gaze fixed on the house opposite the Jeep. He was smart; he knew his master was watching that house. There were few men that Connor trusted as much as the highly trained dog.

Finn was the closest thing he had to family in the United States. Everyone else was in Ireland. His stepfather had died of heart failure earlier that spring and his mother had moved back to Dún Laoghaire to be close to her daughter. As a rule, Connor spared little energy on sentimentality, but he regretted Grady’s passing more than he cared to think about. He’d always thought they’d have more time to know each other better.

Catching a flash of his reflection in the rearview mirror made Connor’s mouth twist in a humorless smile. Time? He was fifty-four now, and Grady had been nearly eighty. When were they supposed to become closer—on his rare, brief visits back home?

Still, his lost opportunities with Grady were the reason he didn’t want Matt to trash his relationship with Peter Davidson unnecessarily. He didn’t personally like Davidson—wealthy men sometimes took detours around moral issues and Peter was too polished for his taste—but he was a prize compared to S. S. Hollister. Connor snorted. Now, there was a man he had absolutely no use for...and for a long time it had looked as if Matthew would become just like his father.

Connor focused his camera on the classic Mustang parked in the driveway. It was the same car he’d seen Layne McGraw driving when she left the Eisley Foundation building. Something about her name had bothered him from the beginning, so he’d pulled his file on Peter Davidson after Matt’s visit to his house and found a reference to her in Hudson’s obituary, which was included with Davidson’s file.

William Hudson is survived by his beloved wife, Dorothy; nieces Layne, Stephanie and Jeannette McGraw; and nephew Jeremy McGraw...

The obit didn’t discuss William Hudson’s suicide, or that he’d been facing arrest and indictment for embezzling.

The rottweiler whined again.

“Patience, my friend,” Connor murmured, watching for signs of waking in the household, perhaps a curtain moving or a light coming on.

Ah...or miniblinds being opened.

Finnster nudged Connor’s elbow.

“All right. Let’s see how they react to you.”

He checked the microphone on Finn’s collar to be sure it was secure, tested the receiver in his ear, then let the dog out of the Jeep and tossed him a folded newspaper. He made a gesture with fingers, giving the command. The rottweiler drifted across the street and dropped the paper on the driveway before running to the front door, scratching and barking. When it opened, he pivoted and dashed back to the newspaper.

Layne McGraw followed, yawning. She put her hands on her hips and grinned at Finn. “What are you doing, making all that fuss out here? It’s Sunday morning—don’t you know people are catching up on their sleep?”

Finn nosed the newspaper forward a few inches. The newspaper routine was a maneuver they’d used more than once—how someone acted with a dog was revealing. Besides, Finnster was a good judge of character; his approval could be measured in how close he let someone get to him.

Finnster barked eagerly. He crouched down and cocked his head to one side, looking at Layne.

The ham.

Rottweilers had a reputation for ferocity in some circles, but Finn could make himself into a clown, scrunching up his face and using his eyes with the skill of a silent-screen actress. It was why Connor had picked him as a puppy.

“It’s very thoughtful of you, boy, but that belongs to someone else. Aunt Dee doesn’t take the paper. Did you go for a walk with someone and get away?” The girl’s voice was amused, coming clearly through the radio receiver in Connor’s ear.

Finn yipped again. “It’s all right, I’m harmless.” She held out her hand. “Give me a sniff. I probably smell like my aunt’s cat, but JoJo is okay with dogs as long as they let him be the boss.”

Finnster allowed himself to be coaxed and was soon on his back, legs waving in the air as he got his tummy rubbed, along with the place behind his ears that turned him into mush. He was in canine heaven.

Rolling his eyes, Connor belatedly lifted his camera and began shooting pictures.

“What have you got there, Lani?” he heard another voice ask a minute later.

Startled, Connor realized he’d missed Dorothy Hudson’s arrival. Damn it all, he couldn’t afford to get soft. He eased down in the driver’s seat to be less visible and continue taking photos. Since Layne McGraw had seen him the day she’d come to talk to Matt, she might recognize his face if she got a good look in his direction.

“He’s a marshmallow, Aunt Dee,” Layne declared. “His owner probably took him out for a run and he got away. See? He’s dragging a leash and brought us somebody else’s newspaper. Maybe the house looks like his home.”

“What a good boy.” The newcomer added to the caresses Finn was receiving.

If possible, the rottweiler melted further, wriggling along the flagstone driveway to position himself equally between them. His hind legs were even paddling, a sure sign of his pure and complete surrender.

Connor flipped through the Davidson file and found a picture of Dorothy Hudson. The woman petting his dog was just as beautiful as the woman in the photo, though her smile didn’t have the same merry quality. In fact, something about that sad smile reminded him of his sister back in Ireland, who’d never really gotten over her husband’s death.

“What should we do about him?” Layne asked, drawing Connor’s attention. His instincts told him that Layne McGraw and her aunt were decent people, an opinion Finnster would certainly endorse. Yet even decent people did strange things, and they could make serious trouble with the best of intentions.

“Let’s see if he has a license tag.”

Time for their exit strategy. Connor lifted a dog whistle to his mouth—it was outside the audible range for humans—and blew three short blasts, followed by another two.

What the...?

Connor stared. The bloody animal barely twitched an ear, instead he reached out a leg and pawed Layne McGraw’s knee. He was utterly ignoring the command to leave...the toughest guard dog in the state, with highly specialized and unique training, had been corrupted by a pretty girl and her aunt.

Connor sent the command again and Finn finally scrambled to his feet, cocking his head as if he’d heard something.

He barked twice, looking intently down the street and dashed away before the two women could grab his leash.

Scowling, Connor drove after him. Two blocks away he stopped, leaned over and opened the passenger door. Finn climbed in, panting from running, tongue happily hanging from one side of his mouth.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Connor scolded. “Do you have nothing but fur between those ears?”

Finn didn’t appear abashed. He settled down with a pleased sigh and wagged his tail the way any other dog remembering a treat would wag—certainly not like an animal that had been schooled to follow whistled commands without question. The first time those commands were given.

Connor wasn’t superstitious, but he couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing was an omen.

Perhaps the McGraw woman and her aunt were going to be an even bigger problem than he’d anticipated.