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
