Читать книгу Against the Storm - Kat Martin - Страница 12

Six

They were headed back to Houston. The perfect day at sea had ended far too quickly.

As he dodged in and out of the heavy traffic on Highway 45, Trace mentally replayed the phone conversation he’d had on the boat.

“Trace, it’s Annie. You need to get back to town. That Sommerset case you just finished? Hewitt Sommerset turned up dead half an hour ago in his study. The police are calling it a suicide.”

Trace’s stomach had knotted. “How’d he die?”

“Gunshot wound to the head. His son doesn’t believe he pulled the trigger.”

He clenched his jaw. “Neither do I.” Hewitt was a good man. Trace needed answers and he was determined to get them.

The car in front of him slowed and he slowed as well, his mind drifting from Hewitt to the pretty redhead in the seat beside him. At least for a while, he had been able to keep Maggie’s mind off her stalker. He wasn’t sure how the man who had left the notes was keeping tabs on her, but there had been no sign of him on their way to the shore or at any time while they were there.

The figurine was another matter. Someone had broken into Maggie’s house. There were no visible signs of entry, but the locks were paltry and there were ways to get in without leaving evidence. By now, the security alarm would be operational and the locks all replaced. Even so, the guy was a threat that had to be dealt with.

Trace had spoken to Rex Westcott and put him on notice to be ready for the stakeout tonight. Maggie was safe for the moment.

Trace thought of the day he had spent with her. He didn’t have a problem mixing business with pleasure, not when it was a good way to do his job. He had let down his guard and relaxed more than he’d meant to, something he rarely did with a woman, but he liked Maggie O’Connell. She was smart and talented and vibrant. Along with that, she was sexy as hell.

He flicked a glance her way, caught a glimpse of soft lips and gorgeous red hair, and his groin tightened. He wanted to take her to bed, taste those pretty lips and lose himself in all those sweet curves.

It was a bad idea, he knew. Every time he got involved with a woman disaster struck.

This is different, he told himself. Nothing more than a physical attraction. He wouldn’t let himself get in too deep.

Trace took a last glance at Maggie, told himself that time would settle the matter one way or the other and forced his thoughts back to the more immediate problem at hand.

The death of his former client, Hewitt Sommerset.

Trace’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. The Saturday traffic along Route 45 had turned brutal. Maybe there was a wreck up ahead, roadwork, something. Whatever it was, his frustration was making him edgy and restless. He stepped on the brake for the hundredth time, bringing the Jeep to a halt behind the white Toyota pickup ahead of him.

He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Dammit! I need to talk to the police.”

Maggie turned in her seat. “You’re going to the crime scene?”

He nodded. “As soon as I drop you off, I’m heading for the Sommerset house.”

Her gaze went to the dense trail of cars rolling slowly along the pavement ahead of them. “Where is it?”

“The Woodlands.” Thirty miles north of Houston. “At this rate it’ll be dark by the time I get there.”

She studied the slow-moving traffic. “You’re probably right. It’ll be even later if you have to drop me off. Why don’t you just take me with you? I’ve got a good book. I can wait in the car until you’re finished. I can see this is important to you, and I really don’t mind.”

He started to say no, then paused. It wasn’t as if there was a shoot-out in progress. The questions he wanted answered and the information he had to deliver wouldn’t take that long. And with traffic the way it was, it would save him at least forty minutes.

“You sure?”

“Thanks to you I got some terrific material today. It’s the least I can do.”

Trace smiled, feeling a wave of relief. “Great.” He wanted to be there for Jason and Emily. Hewitt’s son and daughter were both good kids. It was his son-in-law, Parker Barrington, Emily’s husband, who was the problem.

“So what’s the story?” Maggie asked. “The police think it’s suicide but you think it’s murder. Why is that?”

He rarely talked about a case, but most of this would be in the news in a couple of days, anyway.

“A few weeks ago, the victim—Hewitt Sommerset—came to see me. He wanted to find out if his son-in-law was stealing money from the company.”

“And you found out he was.”

“Parker Barrington is chief financial officer of Sommerset Industries. At Hewitt’s request, we installed a couple hidden cameras, put a live feed in his computer. We caught him doctoring the books, siphoning money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

One of Maggie’s wing-shaped eyebrows went up. “So his hands were definitely sticky.”

“Definitely.”

“You think Hewitt Sommerset confronted his son-in-law, who killed him to keep from being caught?”

“It’s possible. Depending on what Hewitt told him, Parker may not have realized other people already knew.”

The heavy traffic continued until they got a ways north of Houston, then the cars began to thin out. The Woodlands was a huge development of homes, shopping centers and offices, even a prestigious golf course. What made the area such a desirable place to live was that all those things were hidden among dense grooves of trees and beautifully cared-for landscaping.

Trace wound his way along the curving roadways lined with trees and shrubs, and turned onto a street with massive homes tucked away among the foliage on oversize lots. The Sommerset mansion sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Two patrol cars were parked in front, along with Jason Sommerset’s flashy silver Porsche. Emily drove a Mercedes, but it wasn’t there. Trace wondered where her husband was.

He felt a jolt of hot, dark anger. Parker Barrington was in for a little surprise when he found out all the evidence condemning him was well documented. Hewitt was a decent, hardworking man who had built an empire though years of dedicated work. He didn’t deserve to be killed by an ungrateful, thieving son-in-law.

“You look like you’re going to explode.”

Trace shoved the car into Park and turned off the engine. Under different circumstances he would have smiled at Maggie’s words. Instead, he took a deep breath and reined in his temper.

“You’re right. Hewitt was more than a client. He was a friend. Until I’m completely sure what happened, I don’t want to jump to conclusions.” He cracked open his door. “You all right here?”

“I’ll be just fine.”

“With any luck, I won’t be gone long.”

Maggie watched Trace stop to speak to one of the policemen, who let him into the house. It was quite a place, at least ten thousand square feet, and painted a pale, dusky rose. Done in the French style, it sported a mansard roof and arched doors and windows.

The mansion was grand and imposing, and she wondered if Hewitt Sommerset had been happy there. She knew a little about him, what she had seen on TV. He was a well-known figure in the Houston area, a self-made billionaire, a philanthropist who donated millions to charity. He’d been a dedicated husband and father, a man who had greatly mourned the death of his wife two years ago.

In the time since then, Hewitt had returned to work, immersing himself more deeply in the company than he had for a number of years. Maybe that was the reason he had uncovered his son-in-law’s nefarious activities.

Maggie couldn’t help feeling sorry for the daughter who had married such a dirtball. She smiled, thinking she would love to be a fly on the wall when Trace confronted him.

Hearing a soft whine from the back of the Jeep, Maggie got out of the car, went around to the rear and let Rowdy out for a quick pit stop. Several patrol cars were parked at the curb, and a number of officers wandered in and out of the house. Rowdy sniffed the base of a nearby tree, took care of business and returned to the Jeep.

“Load up,” Maggie commanded, as Trace had done, and the dog jumped back up. Making himself comfortable in his bed, he rested his black-and-white muzzle against the cushion.

“Good boy.” Maggie reached in to pet him, then shut the tailgate.

The light was fading but still good. The days were getting longer, the weather warmer. She glanced around, her photographer’s eye kicking in. The sun was beginning to set, but at this time of day, the soft golden rays filtering down through branches of the gnarled old oaks brought out interesting details: the uneven texture of the bark, the faint curl of a newly budded leaf.

Maggie reached into the backseat and grabbed her camera. While she was waiting for Trace, maybe she could catch a few good shots.

Trace crossed the black-and-white marble-floored entry reminiscent of a French château, heading straight to Hewitt’s study. He had been there in the late afternoon just a few days ago, bringing his employer the damning evidence that had been collected against Parker Barrington.

The study, a huge, walnut-paneled room with two-story ceilings and heavy brass chandeliers, swarmed with people now, the forensics squad hard at work poring over the scene. Hewitt’s desk was in disarray and a large bloodstain remained where his body had been found slumped over the top.

“Trace!”

He recognized the youthful voice, turned to see Jason Sommerset walking toward him. He was twenty-four years old, golden-haired, handsome as sin and spoiled rotten. It was amazing he’d turned out to be such a nice kid.

“Jason. I’m so sorry. I liked your father very much.”

His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. But he wasn’t crying now, he was angry. “Dad didn’t do it, Trace. He didn’t kill himself.”

“Take it easy—I don’t think so, either. We talked just last week. He was looking forward to the trip the two of you were taking to the Bahamas.”

“Someone killed him. They made it look like he pulled the trigger, but I know he didn’t.”

Trace settled a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. To find out the truth one way or another.”

Jason took a steadying breath. “I knew you’d come. Dad trusted you and so do I.”

Trace just nodded. Clearly, Hewitt hadn’t told his son what they had found out about Emily’s husband. Jason was smart and he seemed to have inherited his father’s gift for sizing people up. Trace wondered if the boy would be all that surprised to discover his brother-in-law was a thief.

Someone called Jason’s name, and with a nod of his head that indicated they would talk again, he walked off down the hall, leaving Trace to the task he had come for. Returning his attention to the study, he scanned the room for anything out of place, and spotted the familiar features of Detective Mark Sayers, a classmate of his at community college and a longtime friend.

Trace walked toward him. “Got a minute?”

His head came up and surprise lit his face. “Hey, Trace.” A little shorter, a little beefier, Mark had light brown hair and hazel eyes. Except for the cheap suits he wore and his overall rumpled appearance, he was a good-looking guy.

“Under different circumstances I’d say it’s good to see you,” Mark said. “But your timing’s not great. I guess you must have heard—Hewitt Sommerset is dead. Looks like he killed himself.”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

One of Sayers’s light brown eyebrows went up. “That right? I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

“Business acquaintances, mostly. Grew into a little more than that over the years. You and I need to talk.”

The detective’s interest sharpened. “Okay.” Turning, he led Trace down a hall lined with expensive paintings in heavy gilded frames, and turned into one of the numerous parlors in the house, this one elegantly furnished with peach brocade sofas and dark green velvet drapes. There wasn’t so much as a piece of fringe out of place on the Persian rugs that covered the polished oak floors.

“I guess you’ve talked to Hewitt’s son, Jason,” Trace said as Mark closed the door.

“We talked to him. His reaction isn’t unexpected. No son wants to believe his father killed himself.”

“When did it happen?”

“Last night. Hewitt was supposed to be out of town, but something must have come up. Apparently he keeps his study door closed when he’s away. The body wasn’t found until this afternoon.”

“How was it done?”

“Thirty-eight caliber gunshot to the side of the head. The pistol is registered to Sommerset, who allegedly kept it in a drawer in his desk.”

“But someone else could have pulled the trigger.”

“There were no signs of a struggle.”

“Maybe he was unconscious.”

Sayers pondered that. “I suppose it’s possible. There weren’t any obvious wounds to suggest that.”

“Maybe not. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been done some other way.”

Sayers looked unconvinced. “Hewitt left a suicide note, Trace. We found it on his computer.”

“Typed, then. Not handwritten.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, my friend. Nobody writes notes by hand anymore.”

It was a good point, one Trace silently conceded. Not that he believed for a minute that Hewitt had actually written it.

“You need to find out where Parker Barrington was last night.”

Sayers’s gaze narrowed. “Why is that?”

“Parker was embezzling funds from the company. And not small change, either. Millions, Mark. Siphoning the money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Jesus. You got any proof?”

“All you need. Hewitt came to me with his suspicions. We set up surveillance in Parker’s office. I took him the cold, hard evidence two days ago.”

The detective’s eyes widened. “Two days ago? You’re not thinking Parker Barrington killed Sommerset to cover up the theft?”

“Unless you can convince me otherwise, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

Sayers glanced away, as if he wished he could look back to the time of the murder. “I’ll need to see what you’ve got.”

“I’ll have it in your office first thing in the morning.”

“And I thought this one was going to be easy.”

Trace’s mouth edged up. “When are they ever easy?”

Mark friend laid a hand on his shoulder, walked him out of the parlor and back down the hall. Trace flicked a last glance into the study as they passed, and continued toward the foyer, lit by a huge chandelier.

“Have you talked to the daughter?” Trace asked.

“She and Parker were here earlier. She was really shaken up. We let him take her home.”

Trace made a mental note to go see her. Once the dirt on Parker was uncovered, Emily was going to need all the support she could get.

Sayers stepped out on the wide front porch and Trace followed.

“Besides murder and mayhem,” his friend said, “anything new and exciting going on in your life?”

Trace thought of Maggie, spotted her at the edge of the yard, snapping photos of beautiful flame-colored tulips growing around the base of a huge oak tree. They were almost the color of her hair. He watched the way she moved, with a confidence and ease that marked her as a professional. Why that turned him on, he couldn’t say.

“Not much,” he answered, but as he looked at Maggie, he was thinking maybe that would change.

Sayers’s gaze followed his toward the tree and he started to frown. “That isn’t… Jesus, Trace, tell me the redhead isn’t with you.”

Trace dragged his gaze away, finding it harder than it should have been. “She’s a client. A photographer. Name’s Maggie O’Connell. Matter of fact, I was planning to talk to you about her.”

“I know who the hell she is.”

Trace didn’t like the sound of that. “Want to tell me why?”

Sayers drew him away from the hum of officers and people walking in and out of the mansion. “I shouldn’t say this. I could get in a shitload of trouble, but…”

“What is it?”

“She came to us claiming she had a stalker. Said she’d been getting hang-up phone calls, that kind of thing.”

“That’s right. Go on.”

“Captain Varner got wind of it. Turns out Maggie O’Connell brought rape charges against his son, Josh, when she was in high school. Josh was arrested. He claimed he was innocent, claimed Maggie was a willing partner. They were both underage or it would have been far worse. As it was, Josh got kicked off the football team and everyone in his school basically shunned him. They called him a rapist and a pervert, stuff like that. It went on for more than a week—until the O’Connell girl admitted she had lied about the rape.”

“Maybe she was telling the truth and she just got scared.”

“The boy was completely cleared. They’d been seeing each other for weeks.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“She’s one of those women, Trace. She wanted attention and she got it. The charges were dropped and the records were sealed because of their ages, but it still caused Josh and his family all kinds of trouble. And believe me, Maggie O’Connell is still on Varner’s hit list.”

“Which is why the police aren’t willing to do much more than show up if she calls them.”

Mark shot Maggie a hard glare. “It’s no secret in the department what happened. Captain Varner doesn’t believe any of that bullshit about a stalker, and neither does anyone else.”

Trace clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. Mark was the kind of guy who would check the facts, find out the truth. The story about the phony rape accusation was undoubtedly true.

“She’s a good-looking woman, Trace, but I wouldn’t trust her. Don’t let her get under your skin.”

Trace reined in his temper, which was beginning to build. “Thanks for the heads-up, buddy.”

“Hey, man, we’re friends. And you’ve already had more than your share of trouble with women.”

Trace thought of Carly, remembered the sick feeling in his stomach when he’d found out she was sleeping with half the men in Houston. She was a liar and a cheat. He hated a liar, no matter how beautiful she was.

He just nodded as he walked away.