"I'm sure you believe that, but this investigation is just beginning. Arthur was a federal judge, which means you'll have the FBI and the local police working on this case. Everyone will be digging deep into Arthur's life, and you and your mother are the two people who are closest to Arthur." He pulled out his card and handed it to her. "If you have any problems tonight, call me."
She reluctantly took his card, then stared back at him as if she wanted to say something, but eventually she shrugged and got in the car, slamming the door behind her.
As the limo pulled away, he had a feeling that digging into Arthur's life could turn up secrets that no one was ready for, including him.
Chapter Three
Saturday morning, Flynn headed into the office a little before eight. After a long night spent interviewing witnesses, going over statements taken by other personnel, and dealing with the crime scene investigators and the medical examiner, he'd headed home for a few hours of rest. But sleep hadn't come easy. This wasn't a typical case for him. This was the murder of a man who had been not only a father figure to him, but the actual father of a girl he had once loved. He owed it to Arthur and to Olivia to bring his killer to justice.
Since his townhouse was only a few miles from his office, it was a quick drive, with an even quicker stop for coffee at the café next door. Then he pulled into the underground garage for a two-story, nondescript building in Santa Monica. There was no signage on the structure, but there was a code required for the elevator, from both the garage and the lobby, and another code required to enter the office suite on the second floor.
The suite contained a reception area that was rarely used, and two offices, one of which was his. The other belonged to Beck, his second-in-command, who was currently working a case that had taken him to San Francisco. In addition to the offices, there was a conference room, a tech center, and a large room they called the bullpen, with eight desks and a wall of monitors.
There were currently twelve people working under his leadership on the task force: two cyber experts, two analysts, and eight agents, all of whom he had handpicked, and most of whom he'd gone through Quantico with.
When he walked into the bullpen, he found Savannah already at work. Today she was in black jeans, black boots, and a teal sweater. She'd swept her blonde hair into a ponytail and was seated in front of a computer screen. Since it was the weekend, most of the other agents were off or working other cases. But he was ready to call in more help as needed.
He sat down in the chair next to Savannah's desk. "Thanks for coming in today."
"Of course. Lucas is in the tech center. He's trying to get into Arthur's phone. Those damned passwords can be tricky. In the meantime, I've been looking into the judge's family."
"He doesn't have much in the way of family beyond his new wife and her daughter."
"And a sister in Sydney, Australia. She hasn't been back to the States in over a decade."
"They've been estranged for all of their adult lives. She won't be any help. I think the key to Arthur's life is probably Juliette."
"I wouldn't count on that," Savannah said grimly. "Juliette has a long history of depression and anxiety, including two hospital stays, one of them being a 5150 psychiatric hold after a suicide attempt."
His gut churned at that piece of information. "When did these hospital stays occur?"
"The first was eighteen years ago after the death of Juliette's first husband, Travis Harper. He was killed when their car hit a tree during a storm. Juliette was the driver."
"That's terrible. And the daughter—Callie—was she in the car?"
"No. She was ten years old at the time and at home with a babysitter. The second hospital admission was six years later, when Juliette tried to kill herself with sleeping pills. I found no evidence of any other hospital admissions after that."
He was beginning to understand why Callie had been so protective of her mother last night. "What about the daughter? Any mental health issues?"
"Not that I've seen. Callie Harper is a twenty-eight-year-old chef. Her current employer is Bouffage, a French restaurant in Manhattan Beach."
"A chef, huh? Interesting."
"Getting back to Juliette," Savannah continued. "Her work history is spotty. She stayed home for a long time while Callie was young, then worked as an admin at an artist's cooperative in Venice Beach for a few years. After that, she moved on to a party-planning firm, which eventually led to her job at the Piquard Museum, where she has been for the last three years. She started there as an event coordinator and worked her way up to the director position last year, shortly after she married Arthur, who, as you know, was a major financial contributor to the museum."
"Yes. He has always been a collector and a supporter of the arts."
"It seems somewhat ironic that an art collector would be killed in an art museum."
"I agree. There has to be a tie. Although, Juliette's mental health adds a new dimension to the investigation."
"Especially in light of the heated conversation that went on between her and her husband shortly before he went over the railing. Juliette's answer to you last night didn’t seem like the whole truth."
"No. I thought her daughter led her to that answer."
"But I can't imagine that frail woman being able to shove Judge Corbyn over the railing."
Savannah made a good point. "Maybe she had someone else do it," he suggested.
"Possibly."
"Well, keep digging." He got to his feet. "I'm heading over to Arthur's house now to see what other clues I can find."
"We don't have a warrant yet," Savannah reminded him.
"Hopefully, with my personal connection, I won't need one."
"From what I saw last night, I wouldn't be so sure. Juliette might not have found you to be a threat, but Callie certainly did, especially when you started questioning her mother."
"I understand her protective instinct, but I think I can win them both over."
"With your charm?" she teased.
He smiled. "That, too. But I was thinking more about my past relationship with Arthur. He introduced me to both of them as a friend. I just need to remind them that we're on the same side."
"Are you on the same side?" she challenged.
"I'm on the side of the truth. We'll see where we all end up when we get there."
It had been a hellishly long fourteen hours, Callie thought, as she took a seat on the couch in Arthur's study just before ten o'clock on Saturday morning. She'd managed to get a few hours of sleep, and after taking a long shower and changing into jeans and a sweater, she felt marginally better, but she was still weighed down with worry.
She hadn't wanted to go to the art exhibit the night before. She'd tried to beg off several times, but her mother had insisted. She knew how important it was to her mom to have support at her events, so she'd been the dutiful daughter and agreed to attend. She'd never imagined it would end up the way it had. She'd never been Arthur's biggest fan, but she couldn't believe someone had hated him enough to kill him.
She drew in a shaky breath at the memory. Arthur's murder had been so public, so undignified. He would have hated that. Appearances were everything to him.
Her gaze drifted to the life-sized painted portrait of Arthur on the opposite wall. He had been an extremely handsome and vain man. He'd also been a brilliant lawyer and judge. He was generous with his money, especially when it came to art and struggling artists, but he could be stingy when it came to leaving a tip after a good meal. In many ways, he was still an enigma to her. She'd sensed he had secrets, but she'd never thought those secrets were big enough to get him killed.
She'd been shocked when Flynn MacKenzie had asked her mother about a tense conversation she'd had with Arthur only a short time before Arthur was killed. Seeing her mother flounder in search of an answer had made her worry.
Fortunately, her mom had followed her lead, and the explanation was certainly plausible. They had, in fact, argued about th
eir weekend plans when they'd picked her up in the limo on the way to the event. That hadn't been a lie. She just didn't know if that's what they'd been arguing about in the museum. She hadn't mentioned her mother's recent concerns about Arthur's fidelity to the police or the FBI agents, because they hadn't asked, and she really didn't know anything.
That was a question for her mother, but her mom had been in no condition to speak coherently about anything. Hopefully, today she would be better, but that might be a foolish hope. She'd seen her mother spiral downward too many times to count, and an event like this might trigger a complete breakdown. She'd already put in a call to her mother's doctor but had gotten his answering service. She'd asked for a call back as soon as possible, but she wasn't sure when that would happen, and she was dreading the next interrogation, especially if it was going to be done under the penetrating blue gaze of Agent Flynn MacKenzie.
The man was not only incredibly attractive, he also seemed to be unusually preoccupied with her and her mother. That was partly her fault. She'd let him see her tears earlier in the evening, and he thought those tears were a mystery he needed to unravel, particularly in light of what had happened. But her tears were completely irrelevant to Arthur's death. And her mother was innocent as well. She needed to make sure Flynn understood that.
Blowing out a sigh of frustration, she set down her coffee mug on the table in front of her and picked up a blank notepad and pen. She needed to start making plans about what needed to be done. Making calls to Arthur's family and friends was at the top of the list, although the news of his death was already online and on the local news broadcasts. However, there might be some people her mother would want her to contact personally. She just didn't know exactly who they would be.
Arthur had very little family. He'd lost his first wife and daughter in a tragic accident years ago. His parents were long dead, and he had one sister, but she lived in Australia, and, according to Arthur, they hadn't spoken in years. Still, she would need to get word to her of Arthur's passing. She had no idea about Arthur's other friends. Her mom would know many of them, but she'd only been in Arthur's life a little over a year and a half. What about his old friends from high school, from college, from the law firms where he'd worked before becoming a judge?
And would her mother know about Arthur's wishes for a funeral? Had they talked about death and funeral options in the short time they'd been together? It seemed unlikely. Arthur was only sixty-five, and her mother was sixty-two. They had been planning on years together.
She jotted down questions: Cremation or burial? Does he have a plot? Would he want a religious ceremony? He'd been raised Catholic, but he never went to Mass. Would he want one now?
Tapping her pen against the paper, she wrote down what she knew he would want for sure—a big, splashy, newsworthy funeral. He would want an obituary detailing the amazing achievements in his life. He would want press conferences about his murder. He would want the world to be desperate to find his killer. What else?
She set down her pen, unable to move beyond her questions. She couldn't plan a funeral without her mom's input, not for a man she barely knew and didn't like all that much. What she wanted to do was take her mother somewhere far away and save her from what was about to come. But her mother couldn't leave, and neither could she. They would have to see this through.
Needing more coffee, she got to her feet, then froze as the doorbell rang.
Every muscle in her body tensed. The aftermath was starting, and she didn't know if she was ready. But she had to be, because her mother certainly wasn't up for anything.
She walked out of the den and down the hall to the front door. Checking the peephole, she saw Flynn MacKenzie on the porch. He'd changed out of his tuxedo, but he looked just as attractive in gray slacks and a button-down shirt with light-blue stripes. His blond hair was slicked back, and at the moment a pair of aviator glasses hid his very blue eyes.
She drew in a quick breath, quite sure she wasn't ready for him. But the doorbell rang once more, and she knew he wasn't going anywhere. She turned the knob and opened the door.
"Ms. Harper," he said, removing his glasses.
"Agent MacKenzie. My mother is sleeping."
"Then you and I can talk." He gave her a smile that was probably meant to reassure her, but it sent a tingle down her spine that screamed caution. "May I come in?"
"Can I say no?"
"It would be better if you didn't."
She stepped back, and he walked into the house, his curious gaze sweeping the entry, probably noting the slick marble floors, the impressive artwork, and the massive chandelier.
Arthur Corbyn had not only been born into an incredibly wealthy family, he'd also inherited a great deal of money after his first wife passed away, tripling his net worth.
"We can go into the living room," she said, waving him through the archway into the very formal room that overlooked the gardens of the Pacific Palisades mansion. The ornate sofas were not to her taste. Nor were they very comfortable, making this room the perfect place to put someone she didn't want to stay long.
Flynn's gaze swept the room. "It's very much like I remember," he murmured. "Not exactly the same, but close enough."
"When was the last time you were here?"
"About ten years ago, I think." He walked over to the grand piano, pausing in front of several framed photographs.
His expression grew somber the longer he stood there, his profile hardening, his jaw setting into something that looked like anger.
"Do you want coffee?" she asked, feeling an inexplicable need to draw his attention away from the photographs of Arthur and his first family.
"What?" he asked sharply, giving her a sharp look that made her shiver.
"Coffee?" she repeated.
"Oh, no, thanks." He lifted his chin, his lips drawing into a taut line. "Did you like Arthur, Callie?"
She stiffened at the surprising question. "Of course. He was my mother's husband. She's devastated."
"But you're not," he said flatly. "Oh, and by the way, that wasn't a question."
She swallowed hard, not liking the look in his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. I need coffee."
She left him alone in the living room as she headed toward the kitchen. She didn't just need coffee; she needed to get her head together, because clearly his questions were going to be personal and probably a little terrifying.
Flynn let Callie go. He knew he'd rattled her, and maybe it would have been better to push her a little further, but he also knew he had to get a grip on his own emotions, so he didn't screw this case up before it got started.
Turning his gaze back to the photos, he felt a stabbing pain at the sight of Olivia's sweet face. The picture taken at her eighteenth birthday party had perfectly captured the optimism and innocence of the first girl he'd ever loved. The next day, she'd left on a graduation trip with her mother to Italy, Spain and France. A month later, she and her mother had died in a boating accident.
The agonizing grief had connected him and Arthur in a way that neither had expected, and for a few months, they'd leaned on each other to get through that terrible summer. But then it had been time for him to go to college. Arthur had encouraged him to do what he needed to do, to live his life in a way that would make Olivia proud.
He hadn't always done that, but he had found a way to go on. It had been fifteen years now since her death. He could hardly believe how much time had passed. He felt a little guilty that he hadn't thought about her all that much in recent years.
But she was in his head now. Her father was dead, and staring at her face, he knew she would want him to do everything he could to find her dad's killer.
That investigation had to start with Arthur's new wife and stepdaughter.
Callie had been reticent the night before. Her mother had been almost incoherent. He needed one of them to start talking. But since they weren’t inclined to do so at the moment, maybe he'd take a look around.<
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He turned away from the pictures and made his way down the hall. He hadn't been in this house in a long time, but he knew exactly where Arthur's study was. If there was a clue to be found, that would be the best place to find it.
Callie took her time making another pot of coffee. She was a little surprised that Flynn hadn't followed her into the kitchen. On the other hand, he was probably searching the house for clues. Maybe it had been a mistake to leave him alone in the living room, although she couldn't imagine what he would find there. She'd done her own research into Arthur when her mother had fallen madly in love on her first date with the man, and she'd found nothing negative. Although, her investigation had been amateurish at best.
She didn't know why she didn't trust Arthur. He'd always been perfectly polite, although a little too hands-on at times, but then he was an affectionate man. He liked to hug people, men as well as women. And he couldn't stop touching her mother. He was always holding her hand or putting his arm around her. Her mom had loved that.
Callie had never been a hugger or a toucher. She liked her personal space. She'd never dated anyone who had to hold her hand while she was eating dinner, and that was just fine with her. But she and her mother were very different people.
Her mom had an innocence, a naivete, a cluelessness about her that made her vulnerable to charmers and smooth talkers. Callie, on the other hand, was skeptical about everyone, always looking for what was wrong with them, instead of what was right with them. She couldn't help herself. After her father had died, she'd grown up in an unstable, unpredictable home, with lots of tears and raging emotions. Dealing with her mom's moods had made it almost impossible for her to have any of her own.
She felt a little like that now. With her mom falling apart, she had to be the one to hold it together. Which meant she really couldn't hide out in the kitchen any longer. She had to face Flynn. She had to tell him something that would make him look away from her and from her mom. But what on earth would that be?
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