She sighed. “It might be worth a try. At least it would give us a place to start. If your father owed Tate money and didn’t pay him back—”
“You think he’d go as far as murder?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“How do we find out if my dad owed him money?”
“If you’re up for a trip to Dallas, we ask him.”
Beau checked the time on his expensive gold wristwatch, a Patek Philippe. The man definitely had expensive taste. So did his father, she recalled, thinking of the perfectly tailored suits Stewart Reese wore and the Mercedes in the garage.
“The afternoon’s shot,” Beau said. “I’ll call for the chopper in the morning, arrange for a pickup. We can be in and out of the city in a couple of hours.”
“George is right, Beau. We need to be careful.”
He turned to look at her, blue eyes searching her face. “You can go back to Dallas, Cassidy. I won’t think any less of you.”
Ignoring him, Cassidy leaned back in the burnt-orange leather seat. “We can cross off Larson’s name,” she said as she clicked her belt into place. “Dooley Tate is next.”
Beau’s features hardened. “Tate and the other two names on my father’s list.”
* **
As Beau turned the Lamborghini off Country Club Lane onto Fairway Drive and drove toward the house, he spotted an unmarked dark brown police car parked in front. Tom Briscoe unfolded his sturdy frame from the vehicle and walked toward them as Beau drove the Lambo into the garage next to his father’s Mercedes, making a mental note to put the cover on the vehicle so he wouldn’t have to look at it.
Briscoe waited while the doors slid up and Beau and Cassidy got out.
“Beautiful car,” Tom said, eyeing the Lamborghini.
Beau’s gaze went to one of his most prized possessions and he couldn’t help a smile. “It has 740 horses, V-12 engine, zero-to-sixty in 2.7 seconds. Tops out at two hundred seventeen miles an hour. Not that I plan to drive it that fast around here.”
“Good thinking,” Tom said.
“Let’s go inside.” Beau led Cassidy and the detective in through the kitchen, closing the garage door behind them. He continued into the open family room, where he and his parents had spent most of what little time they had ever shared together.
“You want something to drink?” Beau asked. “A Coke or some water?” Not alcohol, not for Tom while he was on duty. Beau knew him well enough to be sure of that.
“I’m fine.” Briscoe seated himself on one of the taupe and brown plaid overstuffed chairs, Cassidy sat down on the matching sofa, and Beau took a seat beside her.
Like most of the house, the room was done in a traditional style, with high molded ceilings and plush beige carpets. The Pleasant HillSentinelrested on the walnut coffee table. Brass lamps sat on matching end tables next to the couch.
“I might as well cut to the chase,” Brisco said, taking a small, lined spiral notebook out of his coat pocket. He waswearing an inexpensive dark brown suit and wing-tip shoes that needed polish.
He looked down at his notes. “No DNA found at the crime scene. No one else’s blood.” He glanced up. “No evidence of a struggle, so we expected that.”
“What about fingerprints?” Beau asked.
“Just yours and your father’s on the letter opener.”
“So the killer wore gloves,” Beau said. “Or wiped the handle clean.”
“Maybe. There was no forced entry, Beau. That means the killer had to have been someone your father knew. He must have invited the man into the study.”
Beau’s stomach began to churn.
“Not necessarily,” Cassidy said, flicking him a glance. “I took a look at the locks on these doors. A simple set of picks would open them in about five seconds.” Which Beau figured Cassidy knew firsthand, since she had let herself in the night of the murder to search for the hidden files.
Tom flashed her a look of respect. “It’s possible. There’s still the alarm.”
