The elevator doors opened, and Giff froze at the person staring back at him.
Billy Peyton could kill a man, too.
“Dude,” Billy said, tossing a surfer-blond strand off his face. He grinned, baring his teeth with a scary twinkle in his eye. “You are such a creature of habit. Arriving at the office at…” He looked at his watch. “Six forty-five, on the nose. Before most any other executive at Peyton Enterprises. Before most anybody at Peyton Enterprises.”
Icy cold fear clutched Giff’s chest as blood drained from his head. Something big had to get Billy Peyton out of bed at this hour. “What do you want, Billy?”
“I wanna talk to you.”
Giff tried to slice him with a look he’d perfected on guilty witnesses. “You’ll have to make an appointment and, if I may suggest, bring your attorney if this is about the Peyton v. Peyton case.”
Billy chuckled and stepped into the garage, blocking Giff until the elevator doors thumped closed. “I guess you could say it’s about the case. I have some new evidence that might affect the outcome.”
“There’s a legal procedure for filing evidence,” Giff said, proud of the command in his voice. He reached for the call button, but Billy grabbed his arm.
“Corinne Peyton killed my dad.”
Giff blew out a disgusted breath. “Yes, I’ve heard your theory. Even your own attorney advised you to stop making these ridiculous allegations.” He managed to extricate his arm from Billy’s grasp. “Have your attorney call my office. I have a very busy morning planned.” Behind a locked door, doctoring files and databases and covering his trail.
Billy didn’t move. “Beckworth Insurance is investigating William’s death.”
“If that were true, I’d know it already.” Still, Giff was intrigued.
“It is true. And she killed him. And they know it but don’t know how to prove it.”
What a boatload of problems that would solve. The temptation to believe was powerful, but Billy wasn’t exactly a reliable source. “Beckworth is investigating William’s death?” he asked, just to be sure he heard right.
“You know,” Billy said, that gleam sparking in his eyes again. “If she’s out of the picture, you are the most likely to be CEO, and I could get my inheritance.”
“Being CEO of Peyton Enterprises isn’t important to me.”
“How about a billion dollars? I’ll split the take with you.”
Giff choked. “You can’t even count to a billion.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed. “My dad was right. You are a pompous asshole.”
Resentment whipped through Giff. “Where’d you get your information, Billy? About Beckworth?”
“From the horse’s mouth, I told you. I heard Cori say they are investigating her when she didn’t know I was listening.”
A chill of hope ran over Giff. If Corinne were indicted on murder charges, every problem he had would be solved. Except for the headaches and blindness. But he hadn’t had one since the night in the limo. Maybe it was temporary, stress induced.
The situation with William was fixed…at least he thought so. But Corinne—could this actually be the ticket to getting out of this mess? If so, maybe he could help steer that investigation a little. He sure as hell didn’t want to go to jail.
“The autopsy showed William died of natural causes,” Giff said. “There’s no ongoing investigation. Any case against Corinne is closed.”
Billy gave him a snide look. “Maybe not, dude.”
Giff closed his eyes. Being in any kind of partnership with Billy went way beyond distasteful. “Why are you telling me this, Billy?”
Billy shrugged. “You got a lot to gain with her out of the picture.”
Billy had no idea how much.
“Plus,” Billy said, his eyebrows raised, “you got a certain amount of credibility I don’t.”
For a stupid druggie, Billy was pretty smart. “I have no interest in bringing down Corinne Peyton,” he said. And that was true. He just wanted to stay out of jail for what he’d done.
Billy shrugged and backed up. “Suit yourself, Giff.”
The elevator arrived and Giff got on. As the doors closed, Billy leaned into the opening to hold Giff’s gaze. “Do it your way,” he said, “and you’ll kiss her ass for the rest of your life.”
Or commit suicide for what you did.
Except, Billy had just handed him a better option.
Chapter
Sixteen
A drienne Bauer looked a hell of a lot more accommodating the second time Dan showed up at the house. But this time he had her son in tow, and she was damned relieved to see him.
“Joshua, where have you been?” She yanked the boy into her chest, while sparks shot from her eyes at the man she obviously believed kidnapped him.
“At the train station.” Josh looked over his shoulder for help from Dan, his friend and accomplice now.
“The train station?” She sounded like Dan had dragged him to a Japanese whorehouse.
“Dad gave me a key and it fit a locker at the station,” Joshua said. “I think there was money in it. Lots of money. But it’s all gone now.”
“They clean out the lockers every three days,” Dan explained. “I’m going back to speak with someone in authority, but I wanted to get him home before you were worried sick.”
“Too late for that,” she said, looking at Joshua.
“All we got was some stupid piece of paper.” The boy was unable to hide his disappointment. The mother, on the other hand, was pretty adept at hiding any feelings at all.
“Whatever was in that locker belongs to me, Mr. Gallagher.” She put her hand on Josh’s face and, unlike most thirteen-year-olds, he didn’t duck away. “I doubt there was money, Joshua. That’s just your imagination. Go inside, honey.” She tried to steer him into the house but he held steady.
“Mom,” Joshua insisted. “I’m tellin’ you. This guy, this guy at the train station. He could speak a lot of English and when he realized who we were, he like totally shut down and pretended he couldn’t understand us.” He looked at Dan. “Didn’t he?”
Dan kept his gaze on Adrienne. “Your son has excellent investigative instincts, ma’am.”
“And just what are you investigating?” she demanded.
Dan looked at Josh, angling his chin toward the house. “Go.” They’d developed quite a rapport during their adventure. Josh nodded, gave his mom one more pleading look, then disappeared.
“I need to find some papers your husband may have left behind, specifically an autopsy report,” Dan told her. “To be honest, there’s no formal investigation, but there might be.”
She stuck her hand out, palm up. “Show me what you found in the locker.”
From his pocket, he pulled out a thin piece of Japanese writing paper, with symbols on it. “Can you read that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He already knew what it said; the security guard at the train station had told him. But if Mrs. Bauer lied, then his job just got more complicated.
She studied it for a minute, then handed it back to him. “It says: P-E-Y-T-O-N. Peyton. That is meaningless to me.” She looked up at him, a thinly veiled defense in her eyes. “Now what do you want?”
He’d use every weapon on this lady to find what Max needed, but usually he had no need for more than a smile and lingering eye contact. So he tried both. “Got tea?”
Even though he could tell she didn’t want to, she smiled back. “It’s Japan.”
“Then the polite thing to do would be to let me in.”
She waited a moment, then her shoulders shifted imperceptibly downward and she stepped aside. He removed his shoes and she took him back to the tiny kitchen bathed in a milky yellow fluorescent light.
“Why did you and your family come here?” he asked, pulling a vinyl-covered chair from the table and sitting.
“My husband’s mother was Japanese. His relatives live here.”
“Are you here on an ext
ended vacation?”
She began opening the myriad cabinet doors. “We’re staying for a while. Maybe until Christmas.”
Until the heat was off her husband?
“Mrs. Bauer, I have to—”
“You can call me Adrienne,” she said turning around and leaning against the counter, her face suddenly drawn with sadness. “If my husband did anything wrong, I think I would have known about it.”
“Why do you think he committed suicide?”
“He suffered from severe depression,” she said. “He stopped taking all medications when we arrived here.”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “Did he bring any copies of the autopsies he performed prior to leaving?”
She struggled for a moment, the battle evident in her eyes. “He left some things.” She bit her lower lip and exhaled. “I’ll be right back.”
Hopefully, whatever the doctor left behind would help Max. ’Cause Max sure as hell needed something to improve his mood. Dan had heard something in the big guy’s voice he’d never heard before: misery. He’d handed over the woman of his dreams to another Bullet Catcher and had some harebrained idea that he’d stay in Miami and investigate. When was the guy going to listen to that titanium heart of his? He’d scoffed at Dan’s suggestion to get Lucy’s plane and fly out to California ASAP.
Dan looked around the modest house. If Bauer had gotten a big payoff for a fake autopsy, he hadn’t spent it improving his family’s living conditions.
Adrienne returned with a metal strongbox that she set on the table with a clunk. “I don’t have a key,” she announced.
Dan jimmied the high-security padlock and knew instantly it couldn’t be picked. “Can we go outside in the garden?” he asked.
She led him out there while he carried the box, which he put in the center of the gravel. With one hand, he waved her off. “Stand back.” Pulling out his gun, he aimed it squarely at the lock, pulled the trigger and heard her gasp just as he fired.
“Don’t always need a key,” he said, replacing the weapon and giving her a quick smile.
Her hazel eyes widened but a smile tipped her lips, turning her from merely attractive to extremely pretty. “Evidently you don’t.”
He flipped open the top and started going through the files, labeled in alphabetical order. Nothing said “Autopsy of William Peyton.” No, that would have been too simple. Slowly, he went through every tab again, reading them aloud. “Adams, Cooper, Dawson, Exline, Krebs, Mahar, Ortiz, Paige, Pennington, Roswell, Rucker, Statler, Varn.” No Peyton.
His fingers slipped back a file. Cooper. He pulled out the file and opened it. The only item inside was a black-and-white newspaper clipping with a four-inch photo of three women standing together, wearing evening gowns and holding drinks. A typical society page snapshot, except one woman had a black circle drawn around her face.
Dan studied the pretty lines of her face, the long dark hair. He’d seen a picture of her once before when he’d been looking in Max’s wallet for something. He’d made a joke, and learned she was off-limits to his humor.
Corinne Cooper Peyton.
Why was she circled, and hidden in a file full of autopsy reports? He flipped it over and stared at the words written along the yellowed margin.
She gets it next. Stuck to the paper, a little yellow Post-it note said, “Overlook Glen.”
He had no idea what it meant—except now he could call Max and give him what he wanted most in the world: a reason to go get his girl.
Most women would find Chase Ryker drop-dead gorgeous. From the kitchen window, Cori studied the Bullet Catcher securing locks and checking the gates to the neighboring vineyard. Most women would be mesmerized by his serious blue eyes, the set of his wide shoulders, and the military precision of his spare, graceful movements. And surely most women would be captivated by the fact that he was a former astronaut, had commanded the space shuttle, and had literally seen the world from sixty miles in space.
Was Max aware of that when he left her on that plane alone? Did he care that he was sending her to a romantic hideaway tucked in the hills of wine country with a man as attractive as Chase Ryker?
Obviously not.
Chase came in through the back door, stomping dirt from his feet. “Everything is secure, Mrs. Peyton; you can rest easy.”
“Thank you, Chase. Since no one knows I’m here, I feel fairly safe.”
He looked back through the kitchen door. “Beautiful vineyard out there.”
“Isn’t it? Luckily, our neighbors are generous with their fantastic pinot noir. But I love the view. That’s where I got the name Overlook Glen for the property.” She opened the door to the refrigerator. “Oh. Looks like the cupboard is bare.”
He glanced at her. “I’ll take you to the market, if you like.”
“There’s a little place a mile down the road, and a bigger supermarket not much farther.” She turned from the refrigerator. “I’ll go.”
“No can do, Mrs. Peyton. Max was very clear that you are not to go anywhere alone. If you like,” he suggested, “I’ll go and you can stay here, now that I’ve changed and secured the locks. If you promise not to leave the house.”
She agreed and gave him a shopping list. “Can I go next door and let my neighbors know I’m here?” she asked. “I’ll come back with a few bottles of pinot noir.”
He smiled, a slow, lazy grin that probably made him a poster boy for NASA. “I don’t drink, ma’am. And I’d prefer if you’d wait until I’m back, so I can go with you.”
She agreed. “There are keys hanging in the mud-room for the cars in the garage. You have a choice of a Navigator, which holds groceries, or the Carrera—”
“Which holds turns.”
She laughed.
“I’ll do the SUV.” He took her list and winked. “This time.”
She heard him leave and headed for the back stairs. After a bath she’d take a glass of pinot up to the turret, to her secret place, and indulge in a pity party for missing Max.
Just before her bedroom, she passed the den that she’d set up as an office for William. She stepped into the room, drawn to the warm afternoon sun pouring over the antique oak desk. She grazed her finger along the bullnose edge of the desk, leaving a trail in the thin layer of dust that had accumulated.
William had spent so little time here, except for the few visits he’d made when the Petaluma property became available. About six weeks before he died, he’d come out with Giff for a town council meeting about the property.
At least, Cori thought with a black ache in her heart, he’d said he’d come out with Giff. She closed her eyes and pulled out the chair. She still couldn’t get her head around the possibility that William had cheated on her. It was so out of the realm of reality—but there was damning evidence on that boat.
Was there any other evidence of infidelity?
She yanked the desk drawer open, her breath suspended as though she might find a picture, a letter, a credit card receipt. Something that other women found that confirmed their husbands were bastards.
But pencils, a calculator, and some loose change were all she found. She lifted a pad of paper and under it was a small silver key chain, with no keys. No, she realized, picking it up. This was no key chain. This was one of those tiny computer memories—a jump drive. She fingered it for a moment, frowning. There was no computer in this house. They’d brought laptops when they traveled and had never wired this house for the Internet. She’d wanted it to be a true getaway.
But she didn’t need the Internet to find out what was on this jump drive. In a few minutes, she had her laptop set up on her bed. She slid the drive in and called up the files, not sure what she expected to find.
Maybe something damning. Maybe something that would exonerate him. Anything that might connect her to the man she thought she knew.
The file was called PM Subs. In two clicks, she realized that it meant subcontractors for the Petaluma Mall. Her heart dropped in disappointment.
Her gaze flittered over the spreadsheet, none of the names familiar. In fact, no subs were identified by name, just by specific function. That was strange. There were premolded membrane designers, window and glass installers, asphalt and concrete pouring, lighting, flooring…
Already? They’d just broken ground, for God’s sake. They were months away from taking bids from a lighting sub.
She clicked ahead. Forget bids, these subs had all been paid. She did a quick scan of the dates. Some were paid well over a year ago. That was patently insane in construction. How could this be?
The answer had to be at the Petaluma Mall site. Yanking the jump drive out without even clearing the screen, she stood and peered out the window toward the driveway. Chase wouldn’t be back for a while. And if she showed up with some big, bad bodyguard, they’d know who she was immediately. No, she had to go fast and alone—before anyone at Peyton found out where she was, and alerted the foreman. She had to find out what was going on at that mall and why her company was paying subs years before they did the work.
She could get halfway to Petaluma before Chase Ryker realized she was gone. But then he’d worry and call Max, and they’d put out an APB and send helicopters and Bullet Catchers roaming the hills of Healdsburg.
She grabbed some paper and wrote “Visiting neighbors. Be back soon.” Snagging the car keys, she slipped the jump drive in her jacket pocket and headed for the garage and the welcome speed of William’s Carrera.
When she arrived at the mall site, Cori downshifted and pulled past a six-foot sign bearing the Peyton P, squinting into the afternoon sunlight at the acres of concrete block and rebar, surrounded by an army of dump trucks, front loaders and cement mixers and men moving around like hard-hatted ants crawling around a mountain of red-brown earth.
It was well past “broken ground,” but not nearly far enough along to pay lighting subs.
She parked as close as she could get to the trailer marked OFFICE, which was surrounded by mounds of cement blocks and several rows of Porta Potties. A few men stood near the trailer entrance, some perched on the makeshift stairs, drinking water and Gatorades, hard hats tucked under brawny arms darkened by a life in the sun.