The sheriff buzzed my phone.
I dreaded answering. I thought he might give me an earful about the way we handled the kidnapping, but he had other things to focus on. “I need you and the nitwit to get over to the Law Office of Trent Keating.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody stabbed him.”
“Who?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have called.”
I groaned. “We’re on our way.”
I ended the call, banged on the hatch to JD’s stateroom, and told him we had a fresh case.
Jack staggered out a few minutes later with tousled hair and sleepy eyes. He made a beeline for the coffee.
I figured Trent Keating wasn't going anywhere. Flynn finished grilling breakfast, and we dished up plates. The three of us ate on the sky deck as the morning sun bathed the marina in an amber glow.
I filled JD in on the situation.
"Who is this Keating guy?" Flynn asked.
"I have no earthly idea.” I did a quick Internet search on my phone. A few pages of results popped up. Trent was apparently an attorney who practiced family law—divorces and estate planning, mostly.
I sent Isabella a text and asked her to see what she could find out about the man.
The name bounced around my head. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't quite place it.
After we inhaled the omelettes, we collected ourselves, then left theAvventuraand hustled down the dock to the Porsche. Flynnstayed behind to look after the boat and the animals. He would probably never admit it, but I think he had his fill of adventure for the moment.
Trent had a home office on Banyon Way. It was a quaint little mint green bungalow with white trim, a picket fence, and a nice veranda. An American flag hung from a column out front. There was no sign in the yard.
EMTs and the medical examiner were already on the scene. A crowd of curious neighbors gathered on the street. Paris Delaney had arrived, and her camera crew captured footage.
Jack found a place to park. We hopped out and hurried to the scene.
Paris and her crew confronted us along the way. "Deputy Wild, what can you tell us?"
"Not much at this time,” I said dryly.
I continued past the camera, and we pushed through the gate and strolled the walkway up to the veranda. Deputies loitered around the entrance. Camera flashes spilled out as Dietrich snapped photos. Forensic investigators chronicled the scene.
Something told me this wasn’t going to be pretty.
56
We stepped into the foyer, onto the dark hardwoods. There was no sign of forced entry at the front door. No broken panes of glass in the immediate area.
The staircase to the right led up to the second floor. There was a bench and some chairs in the hallway that led to the living room—a place for clients to sit. Trent had turned the parlor into his office. What was once a small sitting room across the hall had been converted into a reception area with a desk and chairs.
Trent's office was crowded as responders swarmed. Sheriff Daniels looked on with a grim face.
A slightly frumpy woman with short auburn hair sobbed into a tissue as she stood in the foyer.
Forensic investigators dusted door handles and common surfaces for prints. With as many people who came in and out of this place, the killer might be hard to pin down.
JD and I stepped into the small office as Brenda hovered over the remains.
