“You’d go to Alex Romero for help?” Uneasiness stirred in Dan. “Man, you are in a bind.”
“I need information. Alex’s wife is very good at getting that.”
“Alex and Jazz are both in Helsinki and should be there at least another month,” Dan told him. “You can e-mail him.”
“I’ll e-mail her,” he said emphatically.
“And who am I looking for in Japan?” Dan asked.
“The ME who performed an autopsy on William Peyton. The only one, because there was no second opinion.”
“Cause of death?” Dan asked.
“Sudden cardiac failure. So, no reason to do a second. But Cori ordered an immediate cremation.”
“Still not unusual,” Dan suggested, “for a grieving widow.”
“If she’s grieving.” He waited a beat before continuing. “Now the ME has disappeared. Resigned his position, left the country with his family. I want you to find him and see if there was anything unusual about Peyton’s autopsy that didn’t get into his report.”
“What do you suspect?”
“All I know is this: This woman is married to a sixty-something billionaire, who happened to be in perfect health when he drops dead in her bed. She gets all the money, voting shares on a highly competitive company board, and several luxurious homes in the process. The stepson gets nothing. And now I find out from their GP that the old man had a vasectomy, after she tells me they were trying to have a baby.” Max lowered his voice even more. “There’s some other stuff going on around here and it stinks. The whole thing doesn’t add up right and I’m starting to agree that William Peyton’s death was just too damn convenient.”
Dan waited, but Max was suddenly silent.
“Who are you talking to?” The demand from a female near Max came through Dan’s end loud and clear.
The connection died and Dan rose reluctantly from the comfortable bed. Mad Max was busted. But he’d handle it. In the meantime, Dan had just enough time for a shower with Monique before leaving for Japan.
“Who are you talking to?” Cori repeated, but all Max did was close the phone, facing away from her. He had to come clean and tell her the truth. Had to turn around and admit that he was conducting a very preliminary, but very real investigation into her involvement in her husband’s death.
What would he find when he turned around? Angry sparks? The palm of her hand whipping in his direction? Tears, denials, and demands that he leave?
Or would she just do what she’d done the last time they’d clashed…run away?
He pocketed his phone and slowly pivoted to face her. Instead of furious she looked…hopeful. Relieved, even.
“I was talking to Dan Gallagher,” he said, his gaze flitting over the thin robe she had wrapped around her.
Her fist clutched the knot at her waist. “I heard you say something about Beckworth. That William’s death was too convenient. What did they find? What do you know?”
He glanced at her skimpy cover-up again, and the tenuous hold she had on it. “You want to get dressed or have this conversation in a robe?”
“I don’t want to have this conversation at all,” she said. “But I can’t put it off any longer.”
“What do you mean?”
She studied him for a long time, then wet her lips. “I think my husband was murdered.”
“You do.” He purposely didn’t show any surprise. “Why?”
“I’m first with questions. What were you talking to Dan about?”
“My objective here.”
“Your objective? Other than keeping me alive?”
He leveled his gaze and didn’t blink. “I’ve also been asked to investigate your role in your husband’s death.”
Her eyes widened. “That explains a lot.”
He watched every infinitesimal change in her expression, waiting for a telltale sign of guilt. But she never looked away, never paled, never even tugged her robe with nervous fingers.
And Cori never could bluff, either.
“Have you found anything?” she asked. “A single clue to prove I pulled off a perfect crime to inherit a few billion dollars?”
In truth, no. “I think it’s odd that your doctor told me your husband had a vasectomy.”
“Mahesh hadn’t treated William in years. His vasectomy was reversed after we were married, and there’s a microsurgeon at Mercy Hospital who’ll confirm the reversal.” She lifted one eyebrow. “And by the way, that’s not exactly a smoking gun.”
“I just found it surprising since you said you were trying to have a child.”
“But not relevant,” she said dismissively. “Any other reason to suspect me?”
“You were the last to see him alive.”
“And I inherited a ton of money,” she agreed. “And Beckworth is scared of pissing off a major client.”
“Probably.” He took a step closer. “Okay, my turn. How long have you suspected foul play?”
“From the minute he died.”
He tried to process that. “What? What happened? And why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Her jaw set. “I didn’t know who to trust.”
“Trust me.”
She looked doubtful, then nodded. “I guess I don’t have a choice now.” She tilted her head to the sofa in an invitation. “Sit down. And don’t interrogate me, Max,” she warned. “I’ll tell you the truth.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “But start from the beginning.”
“The beginning was the end,” she told him, sliding down the edge of the armrest to sit on the sofa with him. “The night he died. There was nothing leading up to it, no clues, no indication. Yes, he’d gotten a little more safety conscious, as that bulletproof glass indicates, but he was a wealthy man with vast holdings. That didn’t set off any alarms.”
“What did?”
“His last words.” Her voice was soft, and ominous.
“Tell me everything that happened that night.”
She lifted a shoulder. “That’s just it. Nothing happened. It was the most uneventful evening. William hadn’t worked late and, for once, we had no function to attend. Marta had the night off and had gone to her sister’s house. I made dinner, we each had a glass of wine, and we watched television. The most mundane evening imaginable, watching Larry King and the news.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“I made some lemon balm tea and went upstairs around eleven.”
“And William?”
“I think…” She drew her mouth in a tight line. “I think he went down to the boat.”
He waited for her to elaborate.
“I was in the bathroom washing up when he said he’d be back in a little while, and I’m almost certain that’s where he said he was going. On another night he might have gone into his office to work, or to the kitchen for a late snack, but he and Giff were planning to go offshore fishing early the next morning. So I think he went to the boat, probably to program the chart plotter for their course, or check the fishing gear and weather reports. I honestly never really knew.”
“How long was he gone?”
She thought for a moment. “It could have been a half hour, an hour.”
“Were you awake when he came in?”
She shook her head. “The tea makes me sleepy.”
“Did your husband drink it?”
“No. He hated the taste of it.”
“More wine?” Max leaned forward. “Did he finish the bottle?”
“Nope. He wasn’t a big drinker.”
“So then what happened?”
She exhaled and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Maybe an hour later, midnight or one, he got up to go to the bathroom. I didn’t hear him or wake up. I heard water running—the toilet flushing or the sink. But I’m not sure. The next thing I knew, he was in bed, moaning and gripping me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said…” She looked at him, raw pain in her eyes. “He said, ‘ Cara’—that’s what
he called me—‘this wasn’t meant for me.’ ”
“What wasn’t?” Max urged.
“I don’t know; I was half asleep. I sat up to turn on the light and he stopped me. Held me, but his hands were so cold and shaking.” Her voice cracked and he saw her swallow. “Then he told me to be careful. He told me that…I couldn’t be too careful. Then, he said it again. ‘This wasn’t meant for me.’ Then he died.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
She loved him. The knowledge punched him and Max stood suddenly. “That could have several meanings,” he said. “Like his death was too soon, or not meant to be.”
“I thought of that,” she agreed, tucking her feet under her. “But there was something in the way he said it that…that made me distrustful of everyone.”
He paced across the patio, then looked at her. “Why didn’t you tell the police? Why haven’t you done anything?”
She pulled the robe over her exposed legs. “Because the autopsy said he died of a thrombosis and emboli, and there was nothing in him or done to him to cause a blood clot to the heart. It was pronounced a natural death.”
“Did you consider a second opinion?”
She shook her head. “Those first few weeks, I was in a fog. In shock. Billy was wild, making insane accusations, and I just tried to shut everything out. I wasn’t even thinking straight until about six weeks ago.”
He waited a moment, considering what to tell her. “I just found out that the medical examiner is missing.”
“What? The doctor who did the autopsy? Yakima Bauer?”
He frowned. “What’s his name?”
“Yakima Bauer. He’s half German, half Japanese.”
“Half Japanese?” He recalled his blithe promise to Dan. “He might be more difficult than I thought to find in Japan.”
“What do you mean?”
He briefly explained that the ME had left the country and that he’d asked Dan to track him down.
“I have a copy of the autopsy,” she told him. “Would it help to look at it?”
He nodded. “And make a list of anyone who would want your husband dead.”
“I tried. I couldn’t come up with anyone, honestly. I’ll show it to you.” At his curious look, she added, “I’ve been very quietly checking out every board member, reading their personnel files, and old e-mails to and from William. I haven’t hired investigators because I wanted to be able to give someone specific direction. Of course, the deeper I look, the more vulnerable I am.”
“That’s why you hired a bodyguard.”
“Exactly. Billy’s antics and big mouth provided the perfect excuse to hire protection while I try to figure this out. But I know this in my heart—it wasn’t Billy.”
Max happened to agree. “Someone knows what you’re doing.” He crouched down in front of her and put his hand on her leg. “You realize that, don’t you? Whoever took a swipe at you in the parking lot and a shot at you in your cabana and clocked you in the spa. He knows.”
She nodded slowly. “I’m going to find him, Max.”
“No,” he corrected. “We are.”
“Why aren’t you wearing the Bulgari earrings, Breezy?” Gifford lifted a strand of blond hair and peered at his wife’s bare earlobes.
She flicked at her hair and took in enough of a breath to lift her well-exposed cleavage an inch.
“I thought your other gift would distract you enough not to notice.”
His gaze dropped to her bosom, round and high and glistening with a golden sheen. “If you lost those fucking earrings, I’m not going to notice anything.”
“Chill out. They’re in a safe.”
“Where?”
Breezy grabbed a silk wrap and her evening bag from the vanity, knocking over an open lipstick that hit the white carpet. Swearing softly, she scooped up the gold tube.
“I told you this afternoon. Swen has them in a safe at the Mandarin.”
“I know you told me,” he said, examining her face for signs of a lie. “But when I called you, you said you were on your way there to pick them up.”
She sighed. “I got distracted. Let’s go.”
Giff followed her out of the bedroom, pausing in front of a mirror in the hallway to check out the off-white Armani suit he wore with the open-collared shirt. He straightened his shoulders and touched the single button on the jacket, exposing the edge of his Rolex watch.
He touched the balding spot on his head before stepping away. “What distracted you?”
“Oh, Giff, it was awful. Someone barged into Cori’s massage room and…”
“And what?” He stopped halfway down the curved stairs and glared at her. “What happened to her?”
“We really don’t know. Someone attacked her.”
“What?” He tried to think of a reason someone would walk into a massage treatment room and attack a client. “Was she hurt?”
“Not really. Just scared, poor thing.” She tugged at his sleeve. “C’mon, we’re really late.”
“Billy,” he said as he followed Breezy down the stairs.
Breezy opened the front door and nodded to the waiting limo driver. “Sorry, we were a bit delayed. Drinks ready?”
“Of course,” he responded, opening the back door for her.
Giff followed Breezy into the back and before he’d taken off his jacket, she’d handed him a glass of Scotch and had her own champagne ready.
“Could have been Billy,” she said, “trying to convince Cori to give up the fight and turn over his father’s estate to him.”
“Pretty stupid way of going about it,” Giff noted.
“Billy’s stupid,” Breezy said. “To us, my love,” she said, clinking his glass and taking a healthy gulp. “Drink up, because who knows what the bar situation is going to be at this gallery.”
He sipped, and Breezy cuddled in next to him, sliding her hand between his legs and fondling his nuts. “You want me to relax you, baby?”
He waited for his cock to stir under her touch. But he didn’t feel sexy. He felt old and bald and troubled. He sipped again, laying his head back while she stroked. His balls tightened a little and he let out a breath of relief, but then the first twinge started. Like a needle to his temple. “Shit,” he muttered, slurping some Glenlivet.
“What’s the matter, Giff?” Breezy asked, her fingers still for a moment. “The headaches again?”
He just groaned. The headaches he could stand. It was the other part, right after the headaches started. The scary part.
“Easy, Giff. Drink.” She unzipped his pants and slid her hand into his shorts. “Just let me take care of you.”
He took a solid slug of Scotch, the ice touching his lips as the hot liquor burned his throat.
The guilt started like a black ball in his gut, moving up, taking over. He shouldn’t relax. He shouldn’t be going to gallery openings and charity events.
He should be home figuring a way out of his mess.
He squeezed his lids as the needle in his temple dug deeper and the back of his eyes throbbed. Slowly, he opened them. Praying…hoping…oh fuck.
Breezy’s cool, damp fingers slid over his cock but he remained limp. “Come on, baby,” she cooed, stroking him. “I know you like this.”
He took one more deep drink and spread his legs. He did like it. He always liked it when Breezy took care of him. That’s what she did; that’s why he married her. He squeezed his eyes and willed his dick to respond, but pain speared behind his eyes.
What kind of man couldn’t get it up for a quick blow job in the back of a limo from his willing wife?
She stroked again, licking her fingers and sliding her wet hand over him.
A guilty man, that’s who.
She dipped her head to suck him, but he pushed her away. “Not now, Breezy.”
She looked up at him, her eyes glinting, then softening. “Whatever you want, baby.”
Shadows darkened his peripheral vision. “Later,” he murmured. When
the headache was gone, if his remorse and shame and worry hadn’t siphoned all his blood to his brain instead of his dick, he’d take advantage of the woman he’d selected with the same care he gave every decision that reflected who he was.
He had to think. No matter how much it hurt.
“Where was that bodyguard?” he asked suddenly, causing Breezy to straighten and carefully replace him in his shorts. “He didn’t go five feet from her at the board meeting this morning. How did someone get by him?”
Breezy shrugged. “She escaped him somehow and got to Swen.”
Giff took a slow sip, finishing the Scotch as the inside of the limo got darker and darker at the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes to block out the reality of something that superseded all his sins and all his troubles.
Something that felt sickeningly like karmic retribution. Something he couldn’t deny any longer.
“You okay, Giff?”
No, he was not okay. But how could he tell his beautiful, prized wife that the world she’d so carefully built with her quick wit, her model’s body, and her always-ready tongue was coming to an end? How could he tell Breezy that he was slowly going blind?
Chapter
Ten
“R onald Mendoza is here,” Marta announced.
Cori looked up from the vanity mirror, her mascara applicator frozen mid-stroke. “The broker for William’s boat?”
As it did every time William’s name was mentioned, Marta’s wide mouth turned downward with sadness. “He’s down on the dock. With Mr. Roper.”
Cori grabbed a pair of sneakers and a few minutes later, a cup of coffee in hand, stepped into the wicked summer humidity and sunshine and headed toward the dock. Men’s voices floated up from the water, and as she neared the gate, she saw Max standing on the rear deck deep in conversation with the broker she’d hired to sell the forty-eight-foot motor yacht. She slowed her step and drank in the image of the man she once loved so ferociously that it hurt to look at him.
Sometimes it hurt still.
He wore a white knit polo shirt over khaki pants, the fitted short sleeves doing just what her fingers itched to do—wrap around his sizeable biceps just for the pleasure of squeezing the granite-hard muscle. His dark hair lifted at the roots in the breeze, tempting any woman to tangle her fingers in the thick strands. He stood solid and steady, unfazed by the slight sway of the vessel in the water.