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
