Cavanaugh Vanguard. Marie Ferrarella

were just exiting that way. A third wall was entirely made of tempered glass, allowing afternoon sunlight to bathe the room while effectively keeping the heat at bay.

      Seated behind the oversize, highly polished mahogany desk, looking like an emperor presiding over his empire, was Winston Aurora.

      Winston Aurora was a man who would have easily taken command of any room he entered. Tanned and slender with distinguished-looking graying hair, he was dressed in a suit that would have easily cost a detective first grade a month’s salary—possibly more.

      If she hadn’t known better, Brianna would have said that the oldest of this generation’s three Aurora brothers looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly and into this library.

      Rising when he saw them entering, Winston came over to greet them. His smile was amiable and appeared to be completely genuine. He shook both their hands warmly, starting with hers.

      “My son and daughter just left,” he explained, noting the interest in Brianna’s eyes. “Forgive me,” Winston said in a deep, resonant voice that was quite pleasing to the ear. “I’ve lost track. Is it time for the police department’s widows and orphans fund-raiser already?” Even as he asked, he was taking a checkbook out of his inside breast pocket.

      Brianna put her hand up to stop the man from writing out a check. “We’re not here about that, sir, although my uncle said you’re always very generous when it comes to making donations to the fund.”

      “Your uncle,” Winston repeated. He raised an eyebrow, asking, “And that would be?”

      “Brian Cavanaugh,” Brianna responded. “He’s the—”

      “—chief of detectives, yes, I know,” Winston interjected. “I know Brian quite well. Are you here in Brian’s place?”

      Not answering the multibillionaire’s question directly, Brianna bent the truth a little and told Winston, “He said to say hello.”

      “Ah” was all Winston said, acknowledging what wasn’t being said. “Well, if you don’t want my donation for any of your worthy causes, how can I help you two fine young representatives of the Aurora police department?” Winston asked, looking from one detective to the other.

      Brianna glanced over her shoulder. The man who had brought them here was still standing just inside the library threshold like a silent, immovable sentry. While she wasn’t afraid of the head of security, the man’s presence did make her feel uneasy. “Could we talk alone?”

      “Rollins is privy to everything that concerns me. I pay him quite a bit to make sure that he is,” Winston said pointedly.

      “Then you can tell Rollins all about this after we leave, if you decide he needs to know,” Jackson quietly told the older man.

      Just a glimmer of displeasure passed over Winston Aurora’s smooth, amazingly unlined face. The next moment, the expression disappeared as if it had never existed.

      “Very well,” Winston agreed. “Rollins, step out, please. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

      Unlike his employer, Rollins made no attempt to mask his displeasure. Scowling, the man withdrew, closing the door behind him.

      “Better?” Winston asked Brianna once the door was closed. Whether it was because he thought she was in charge or because he preferred dealing with women was unclear. But his attention was directed to her.

      “Our thinking is that you might possibly wind up preferring it this way,” Brianna explained.

      Winston nodded, making no comment. “Sit, please,” he said, indicating the light gray sofa.

      Like the desk, the sofa was oversize. It could have accommodated six people without effort.

      When the detectives complied, Winston reseated himself behind the desk. For all the world he appeared like a benevolent ruler holding an audience with two of his subjects.

      “Now then, I know that Brian’s your uncle, but I’m afraid I didn’t get your name—or yours,” he added, nodding at Jackson.

      Brianna automatically reached for her wallet to show the man her credentials. “Detective Brianna Cavanaugh O’Bannon,” she answered, pulling out her wallet.

      “I’ll take you at your word,” Winston told her, waving away her wallet, but his brown eyes shifted toward Jackson expectantly.

      “Detective Jackson Muldare,” Jackson replied.

      Winston nodded. “Now that we all know one another, I’ll repeat my question. How can I help you?”

      “Mr. Aurora—” Brianna began.

      “Winston, please,” the billionaire corrected her. “‘Mr. Aurora’ makes me feel ancient.” He chuckled. “Please, continue. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

      Brianna obliged. Moving forward on her chair, she said, “You recently sold the Old Aurora Hotel.”

      “Yes, I did,” Winston replied, “and if you’ve come here to tell me that, you could have saved yourself a trip. I’m not quite the doddering old fool yet. I am aware of all of my financial dealings,” he assured her with a dry laugh.

      “When was the last time you were at the hotel?” Jackson asked, wanting to push this along. O’Bannon might be buying this charming act that Aurora was projecting, but he wasn’t sold on it—he thought Aurora seemed to be stalling.

      Why the man was stalling wasn’t clear yet, but Jackson intended to find that out as well.

      “You mean physically?” Winston questioned.

      Jackson looked at him, puzzled. “Is there any other way?”

      “Well, there’s Skyping,” Winston answered. “But I closed down the hotel before we could implement that form of communication.”

      “All right,” Jackson said, “when was the last time you were at the hotel in person or in spirit?”

      Winston paused, thinking. And then he shrugged. “I’m afraid I really can’t remember an exact date. Why? Is it important?” The billionaire turned to direct his question toward Brianna, since she was obviously the friendlier of the two, in the man’s estimation.

      “What my partner is attempting to do is establish a timeline, sir,” Brianna explained.

      Winston furrowed his brow. “Why?” Not waiting for either of the two detectives to answer that, he continued, “Is there something wrong, Detectives? Don’t tell me that the construction company forgot to get all the right permits.”

      Wanting to remain on the man’s good side, Brianna tactfully answered, “As far as we know, sir, all the permits are in place—”

      “Then I’m afraid that I don’t understand the reason for all this,” the billionaire confessed, waving his hand at both of them. “Just why is it that you’re here?”

      Brianna couldn’t quite decide if what she heard in Aurora’s voice was impatience or concern. For now, she let that go.

      “When the wrecking ball hit the rear wall, a body was dislodged,” she told the man, wanting to proceed slowly.

      “Several bodies,” Jackson interjected.

      Winston looked from one detective to the other, appearing completely caught off guard and speechless. When he finally managed to collect himself, Winston could only echo in hushed disbelief, “Bodies? Whose?”

      “That’s what we’re trying to ascertain, sir,” Brianna said.

      Winston grew pale right before her eyes. “Do you have any idea who—who killed them?” he asked, his voice almost failing him.

      “Another good question,” Jackson told him, his tone totally devoid of emotion.

      Exasperated