The police would have been looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might indicate she was connected in some way to the murder. She was a licensed PI, hired by the victim, a minor suspect with no apparent motive. But she had been at the crime scene and the police would be looking at every possibility.
She walked over and turned on the TV, found a news channel. The murder of a former Texas state senator dominated the news broadcasts. A reporter relayed the story, adding that Stewart Reese’s son had found his dying father; no suspects were yet in custody. There was a number to call at the bottom of the screen if anyone had information.
In the final portion of the broadcast, Beau walked out of the police station, head down, jaw set as he strode across the parking lot. Several reporters shoved microphones into his face, but he just kept walking, sliding gracefully into his low-slung sports car, leaving the media in his dust as they ran after him down the road.
She wondered if the police had insisted he stay in Pleasant Hill or if he would be returning to Dallas. He was head of marketing for Texas American Enterprises. Beau was a very busy man.
But the police would have more questions. Cassidycertainly did. She wanted to know exactly what he and his father had been fighting about the day before, wanted to know if the argument could have continued, could have led to a violent murder.
Wishing she could get into the main house, see if she could find the files she had a strong feeling were there, she sat down at her computer, which fortunately the police hadn’t taken, and went to work.
The senator had given her three names to look into. George Larson was his partner in Green Gables Realty, a chain of real estate offices that stretched east from Dallas to Texarkana and south as far as Tyler. Three months ago, the senator had insisted on selling the company, and apparently Larson wasn’t happy about it.
The second name on the list, Jess Milford, was the recently terminated foreman of Alamo, Stewart Reese’s construction and real estate development company, a man who had worked there for nearly twenty years. He might be carrying a grudge, the senator had said.
Last, Reese’s ex-wife, Charlotte Mercer Reese. According to the senator, Charlotte had never recovered from their divorce. She was fixated on Stewart and wanted them to get back together.
Cassidy had mentioned the senator’s suspicions to Beau but hadn’t given him her name or the others’. He’d been overwhelmed by his father’s death, but sooner or later he’d want to know. She hoped he hadn’t said anything to Briscoe. She wanted to do some preliminary research first, which would be a whole lot harder once the police got involved.
Then again, maybe the cops would get lucky and find the killer right away. The police force in a town of fifteen thousand was small, but Police Chief Eric Warren had a good reputation and Briscoe seemed capable.
A little before midnight, she pushed away from thecomputer. Her neck hurt and her eyes felt gritty, but she had the basics on all three people. She’d need more to figure out if any of them could be suspects.
Tomorrow she would head into town, have lunch somewhere the locals ate, and do a little shopping. In a small town, shopkeepers and restaurant owners knew pretty much everything about everyone. As long as it looked like you were going to spend money, they were happy to talk. You never knew what sort of useful information might surface.
She would see what she could find out about the murder, about the senator, and the three people on her suspect list. Well, four if she counted Beau Reese.
Thinking of him, Cassidy walked over to the window and looked out at the main house. A feeling of unease filtered through her. Beau and his father didn’t get along, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a chance Beau knew where his father kept his personal records. If he did, he might go after them. There could even be something in those records he wouldn’t want the police to know.
No lights burned in the big house. The crime scene hadn’t been officially released, but the last two patrol cars had driven off several hours ago.
Knowing she shouldn’t, unable to convince herself, she turned and walked into the bedroom. After a quick change out of her yellow sweater into a long-sleeved black T-shirt, she dragged her hair into a ponytail and stuck it through the hole in a black, Maximum Security baseball cap. Her gear bag held a set of lock picks. She took the box out and stuck it into the pocket of her jeans, took out a small Maglite flashlight, and headed for the door.
It was dark out, just a sliver of moon. Dim rays threw shadowy light over the flat landscape populated with thick stands of oaks and dense leafy foliage along the creek beds. Dressed as she was, she wouldn’t be easy to spot.
Making her way from the guest house across the manicuredyard, across the terrace to the back door, she used the lock picks, heard the click of the lock falling into place, turned the knob, and slipped into the laundry room.
The senator had given her the security code. She hurried to turn off the alarm. Odds were there was a wall safe hidden somewhere in the study, a problem since she wasn’t a safe cracker, but the combination might be hidden in his desk. Or maybe there would be a hidey-hole inside a piece of furniture. Finding it was a long shot, but she worked with a pro, the owner of the agency, Chase Garrett, so she knew where to look.
She wasn’t about to interfere in an ongoing police investigation by accidentally destroying evidence that might help solve the case. But there was a chance the senator kept his files somewhere else. The master bedroom would be her second choice.
Cassidy turned on her flashlight and followed the glowing yellow circle down the hall.
Chapter Five
Crime-scene tape fluttered in the breeze, but it was almost midnight and the police cars were gone from in front of the house. Beau parked his Ferrari in a spot half a block away, a place in the trees he used to sneak off to when he was in high school, a place his friends could park and wait for him to join them without being seen.
He’d been wild back then, always pushing the limits, trying to prove himself. He and Linc and a kid named Kyle Howler, the sheriff’s son, were constantly in trouble. Then one night, Kyle had goaded them into robbing a convenience store.
Beau, who drove a suped-up red Mustang his dad had bought him, agreed to act as the wheelman. Linc and Kyle wore ski masks and carried revolvers when they went into the store around midnight. But they were kids, not killers. When old man Lafferty brought a shotgun out from under the counter, they put down their weapons and all three of them were arrested.
Linc, who had just turned eighteen, spent two years inprison. A few months younger, still seventeen, Kyle and Beau had had their juvenile records sealed.
What happened that night had changed all of their lives.
The memories slid away as Beau climbed out of the car. No dome light went on, a trick he’d learned as a kid. Grabbing a flashlight out of the Ferrari, he stayed in the shadows as he walked toward the house.
After he’d left the police station, he had checked into the Holiday Inn, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. Even after drinking a couple of beers he had picked up at the store and brought to the room, he couldn’t calm his mind enough to block images of his father lying on the study floor covered in blood.
