Against the Storm1 (6 page)

She laughed joyously as the tarpon plunged back into the sea. “My God, did you see that?”

Trace lifted his ball cap and settled it back on his head, a habit she had noticed when he was wearing his cowboy hat. “I sure did. Looks like you got a couple of great photos there.”

She replayed the digital images. “Oh, this makes my day.”

“Just being out here makes mine.”

Maggie agreed. It felt so good to be out on the water, the boat sliding over the surface. They ate the ham-and-cheese sandwiches she had brought, but ignored the Diet Cokes. Instead, Trace cracked open a bottle of chilled chardonnay, poured it into two stemmed glasses, and they toasted the perfect day.

Relaxed, Maggie removed her cover-up, put on some sunscreen, stretched out on the cushions and let the warmth of the sun seep through her. With so little sleep last night, she must have dozed off. The sun had moved toward the horizon and Trace was turning the boat when she awakened.

“Time to go home,” he said.

Maggie felt a twinge of disappointment. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“After last night, you needed the rest.”

She inhaled a deep breath of the salty air. “It’s been wonderful.”

Trace seemed to share her mood. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. We can spend the night if you want. Two state-rooms down there. You wouldn’t have to worry about your virtue.”

She was surprised to discover she was tempted, but then sighed. She hardly knew Trace Rawlins, and it was never smart to get involved with someone who worked for you. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to get back.”

“Not a problem.” Wheeling the sailboat expertly through the opening into Clear Lake, he turned toward the marina and his slip at dock A. Easing the vessel neatly into its berth, he tossed a line over the side and pulled the boat in close, then tied it in place.

They’d been out of cell phone range when they were at sea, but now Trace’s iPhone started ringing down in the galley, where he had left it so it wouldn’t fall into the water.

He hit the ladder, reached out and grabbed the phone, pressing it against his ear as he returned to the deck.

“Rawlins.” The caller talked for a while and the lines of Trace’s face went hard. “How’d it happen?”

More conversation, then a muscle tightened in his jaw. “Neither do I. I’m on my way.” Trace hung up the phone and began to pull his jeans on over his swimsuit. “Looks like spending the night wouldn’t have worked for me, either.”

“What’s going on?”

“One of my clients turned up dead. The police think he killed himself. I don’t.”

Maggie slid her pants over her bikini bottoms and adjusted the gauzy cover-up, tying it up around her waist. “You’re saying it was murder?”

“Could be.”

She slipped on her sandals. “I guess finding a murderer tops catching a stalker.”

Trace shook his head. “One has nothing to do with the other. By the time we get home, your alarm system will be installed. As far as the creep goes who’s been bothering you, you hired me to do a job and that’s what I intend to do.”

“What about the murder?”

He gave her a hard-edged smile. “Ever heard of multitasking?”

Maggie didn’t doubt he could handle both cases. One glance at the dark look on his face and she felt sorry for the guy who had murdered his client.

“Besides,” Trace continued, “if Hewitt was murdered, I already know who did it.”

T
hey 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 after
noon 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 suspi
cions. 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.”