Challenging Matt

“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.