Page 47 of Straight Shooter

“Do they have kids?”

“Nope. Although Andre is like a son to them.”

“Hmm.” She rolled that information over in her head. “I wonder what’s at stake for Mrs. Moretti if her nephew gets convicted.”

He shrugged. “Could be anything. Hell, it’s probably worked in Moretti’s favor to have his nephew as a congressman. So who knows what Mrs. Moretti could be involved in. Aside from that, the murder happened at their vacation home, and that carries a lot of scandal. If it had happened at a hotel, there’d be less of a tie to the Morettis.”

“But Moretti has an alibi, doesn’t he? I remember reading that somewhere.”

“Yeah, he and his wife were away and Andre had use of their premises.”

She stomped her foot into the carpet, sending the recliner into a back-and-forth motion that matched that of the battle inside her head. She let out a huff of frustration. “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“Moretti wants Jenny Carter dead to clear Andre’s name—we know that for certain. But who else could be involved? Why’d they hire Max and me to work against Moretti?”

Rhett waltzed closer, and she took in his full height and the bulging veins under the skin of his arms. “Has to be the guy who was in the room with Andre.”

“That’s another thing. Raquel and Jenny were hookers. Jenny was confused about someone else being there that night, but shouldn’t she have known beforehand there’d be two guys? Isn’t that something they’d negotiate payment for?”

Rhett laughed gruffly. “Yeah, you’d think. But Andre’s a catch. He’s affluential, cocky, and a high-profile client. If they were fucked up on cocaine like Jenny said, plans could have changed at the drop of a hat. Hell, maybe the second man joined unannounced.”

Peyton shook her head. Her hair tickled her shoulders, and the sensation annoyed her almost as much as Rhett’s point. She pulled the tendrils into a ponytail and secured it with the elastic she’d been wearing around her wrist. “Have you looked into other politicians? Who does Andre hang out with?”

Rhett pulled out his phone and sat down in the recliner. He brought up his email and clicked on one with four attachments. He handed her the device and she opened the first picture—one of Andre dressed in a light-blue suit leaving one of the popular nightclubs in the Keys. In the second, he was at an art event and had his arm around a woman she didn’t recognize. The third picture was of him at a basketball game with a handful of guys, one of whom had a very familiar face.

“Who’s that?” she asked, showing Rhett the screen.

“Ah. That’s Renton Stone. He’s a Florida congressman as well, but from a different district. Mandy sent me those images this morning, and she’s found out some interesting facts about Renton.”

Peyton shuffled closer so her full weight sat on the chair’s arm. “I’m listening.”

“Renton has two assault charges from college. Both cases against younger female students.”

She stared at the emerald-green eyes and dark hair. His smile was cool, confident, and charismatic. “How long ago was that?”

“He’s forty-one now, so about eighteen years ago.”

She scrunched up the corner of her mouth. “Isn’t that a little too far in the past? You’d think there’d be something recent if he were involved.”

Rhett’s hand fell to her knee. “Not necessarily. Once a creep, always a creep. After the charges, he probably learned to keep his cool and save his fetishes for paid hookers.”

She read Mandy’s note at the bottom of the picture and lifted the tip of her pinky to the screen. “It says here he’s congressman of district eight.” She tilted her head. “How far is that from Key West?”

“Key West is part of district twenty-six, which Andre’s congressman of, and district eight is Palm Bay and the surrounding area.”

“That’s a few hours away.”

“Six, to be exact,” Rhett said. He circled his arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

If the conversation weren’t so serious, her mind would be going in an entirely different direction. “Hmm. Seems like a long way to travel just for hookers and blow.”

“I agree,” he said, massaging her neck. “But look at the next picture.”

She opened the final attachment—a grainy image of what looked to be a profile shot of Congressman Stone climbing the stairs to the entrance of one of Key West’s finest hotels.

“Where was this taken?”