Cassidy gave a kitteny little mew of pleasure, then pushed him away. “You should have awoken me. We have work to do.”
She was right, so he didn’t argue, pushed thoughts of hauling her back to bed out of his mind.
Cassidy sat down on her side of the partners’ desk and turned on her laptop. She yawned. “Let’s start with Ashley Stanfield, Vaughn’s date at the party last night, see how she fits in.”
While Cassidy busied herself, Beau went in and got her a cup of coffee, which she moaned over and sipped gratefully.
“Thanks. I feel better already.” She typed a few more lines, took another sip of coffee, and started reading info onthe computer screen. “Ashley Stanfield’s twenty-nine years old, graduated from Wellesley, does some modeling, wants to be a Broadway actress. She’s all over Instagram. Has a big following on Facebook. Her father is Theodore Stanfield. He’s a Texas billionaire.”
Beau took a drink of coffee and studied the screen over her shoulder. “Now I remember why the name sounded familiar. I’ve met Stanfield a couple of times. Made his money in the beauty business.”
“Theodore Stanfield owns a line of hair and skin products, and a chain of spas with salons in all the major cities.”
“If he’s a client of Vaughn’s, he must be an investor. Far as I know, the guy wouldn’t need to borrow money.”
Cassidy clicked to a few different locations. “I’m not seeing any connections between Stanfield and your father or Milford.”
“Can’t fault a guy for hoping. Maybe we’ll turn up something later.”
Cassidy started typing. “Let’s take a look at Senator Scott Watson.” She clicked her mouse a couple of times and an article about his death popped up in theDallas Morning News.
“Check this out,” she said. “Scott Watson died from anaphylactic shock. According to this, Watson had a severe allergy to peanuts. Somehow one got into his lunch. He was alone when it happened. He fell unconscious, died a few hours later.”
“A peanut got into his lunch,” Beau repeated with mild disbelief. He sighed. “I guess those things happen. Assuming it was anything but an accident seems like overkill.”
Cassidy flicked him a glance at the word. “You’re right. There’s no reason to suspect it was anything more sinister than a fatal mistake.”
But the phrase she had used popped into his head.Seems like the body count is rising.
“I need to take a shower before we meet with Mrs. Watson, but first let’s check my phone, see if the audio device in Vaughn’s car is working.” She retrieved her cell, but the indicator light wasn’t on. It was Sunday morning. After a late night out, Vaughn was probably still sleeping. Or maybe he got lucky and Ashley Stanfield was keeping him entertained.
“Let’s see where he went after he left the party.” Cassidy brought up the GPS software and a map popped up on the screen. The GPS was working. Beau watched the pulsing signal, a stationary dot at Vaughn’s address in Turtle Creek.
Cassidy went backwards to the original time stamp, the date the vehicle began to move, setting the device in motion at 12:15 P.M. last night. The dot moved along the road from the Westhaven Country Club, made a stop on Lawther Drive in Lakewood, then drove straight to the current location in Turtle Creek.
“Lakewood,” Beau said. “Pricey neighborhood.”
“I’m guessing the stop he made was Stanfield’s house.”
Beau grinned. “Looks like our boy Vaughn didn’t get laid.”
Cassidy chuckled. Rising, she leaned up and kissed him, then headed for the shower. Resisting the urge to join her, Beau went back to work on his emails. He needed to go into the office next week. He had sales meetings, client meetings, planning and strategy sessions.
It wasn’t going to happen. Not as long as Cassidy was in danger. A memory arose of her lying in the hospital, fluids dripping into her arm, her head swathed in bandages.
Not gonna happen again. He’d be better prepared. Both of them would be.
Half an hour later, a noise in the doorway caught his attention and he glanced up. Looking far better than she had the day before, makeup covering the bumps and bruises, she walked in wearing a navy-blue sweater with a long navyplaid skirt and boots, very professional for their meeting with the senator’s wife, as she always was when she was working.
“Looks like you’re ready,” he said, joining her at the door.
“Ready and hopeful.”
They made a quick stop in the kitchen for another cup of coffee and some of the orange Pillsbury refrigerator rolls Mrs. O’Halloran kept for him that he’d stuck in the oven. Then they headed out.
Beau opened the door leading into the garage. “Time to find out what Emily Watson has to say.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
