Challenging Matt. Julianna Morris

it would mean someone had gotten in and killed Uncle Will in his home office. If that had happened, it was mostly likely someone he’d known well...someone he’d trusted. Someone like Peter Davidson, the partner with whom he’d shared the business. The friend who’d turned his back on his old buddy as soon as the suspicion of embezzlement was raised and was now trying to get away with all the proceeds from selling the company.

      It appeared Peter Davidson had emerged from the scandal with a spotless reputation. But what if he was involved? It could mean he was a thief and potential murderer.

      Damn.

      Layne got up and pulled on a robe, deciding she might as well get some work done since she was too restless to lie still.

      Sleep these days was elusive. Her uncle had kept meticulous records and documentation on everything, but his company records were in terrible shape thanks to the way they’d been packed, and most of the home records were boxed and stored in the upstairs storage room next to the master bedroom suite. No doubt Uncle Will could have put his hands on whatever he wanted, but she didn’t know what she was looking for and she couldn’t ignore a single scrap of paper in case it was important.

      Sitting at her uncle’s desk, Layne read through her notes and the logs she had made of what she’d found. It all seemed innocuous. The personal items that weren’t damaged she had set aside for her aunt—others needed fixing and some were damaged beyond repair.

      At the moment it was nearly impossible to make any progress without knowing what she was investigating. The police department claimed they couldn’t release anything because it was an open case and had to be kept confidential. The excuses might be valid if they were treating it as an ongoing investigation. But they weren’t, and she suspected somebody with influence was blocking her access.

      And who could that influential person be?

      Peter Davidson?

      If so, it was no wonder Aunt Dee hadn’t gotten anywhere. The authorities probably didn’t realize the way they were acting was enough by itself to make her question if they had something to hide. The few newspaper articles about the scandal were no help; they were vague and talked about missing money at Hudson & Davidson, but it had all happened so quickly and with Uncle Will dead, they’d shifted to fresh stories.

      Layne pressed a finger to her temple as she read an unfinished memo Uncle Will had scribbled a few days before everything fell apart. There was no address or salutation, so the intended recipient was a mystery.

      Come on, she urged her tired brain, trying to determine if there was any significant meaning in the bold, strong lines of her uncle’s handwriting. But there was nothing she could see, and she put it on the stack to read another time when her head was clearer.

      Tucking her legs under her, she leaned back in the comfortable executive-style chair and closed her eyes. Talk to me, Uncle Will, she pleaded silently. If you’re here in the house the way Aunt Dee seems to think, you must have a reason.

      * * *

      IT WAS JUST after 5:00 a.m. Sunday when Connor O’Brian parked across the street from the Hudson home in Carrollton, Washington, his gaze sweeping up and down the neighborhood.

      He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t on alert, watching for the next threat to come his way, whether it was a gang of Dublin street brats when he was ten, or a group of mercenaries when he was working in covert ops. Working with half of the alphabet soup intelligence agencies in the world had educated him in more ways than one.

      After his father’s death his family had moved to Dublin, and with his mother working several jobs, he’d gotten into more trouble than he cared to think about. It had taken several close calls with the law and a new stepfather with iron nerves to keep him out of more serious trouble. And he’d never even thanked Grady for any of it.

      Connor massaged a jagged scar above his knee that had almost ended his career when he was twenty-two. Maybe it would have been better if it had; now his memories were a maze of scars...deaths that ought to have been prevented, friends lost and innocence destroyed. Espionage was a hard road once you’d started down it. Working for the Eisleys had come as a welcome break. Instead of international intrigue, he now dealt with ordinary intrigue. The motivations were often the same, but the scale was smaller. But then, one person’s life was just as important to them as another, so maybe scale was moot.

      The rising sun showed details of the house—large and comfortable, in an affluent neighborhood—and he snapped several pictures. His staff was already doing a full background sweep on Layne McGraw and Dorothy Hudson, except there were things you couldn’t learn about people from a security report. He had his own methods, somewhat unorthodox, for getting a read on a situation.

      A faint whine came from the passenger seat of the Jeep.

      “Not yet, boy,” he said to the large rottweiler.

      Finnster whined again, his gaze fixed on the house opposite the Jeep. He was smart; he knew his master was watching that house. There were few men that Connor trusted as much as the highly trained dog.

      Finn was the closest thing he had to family in the United States. Everyone else was in Ireland. His stepfather had died of heart failure earlier that spring and his mother had moved back to Dún Laoghaire to be close to her daughter. As a rule, Connor spared little energy on sentimentality, but he regretted Grady’s passing more than he cared to think about. He’d always thought they’d have more time to know each other better.

      Catching a flash of his reflection in the rearview mirror made Connor’s mouth twist in a humorless smile. Time? He was fifty-four now, and Grady had been nearly eighty. When were they supposed to become closer—on his rare, brief visits back home?

      Still, his lost opportunities with Grady were the reason he didn’t want Matt to trash his relationship with Peter Davidson unnecessarily. He didn’t personally like Davidson—wealthy men sometimes took detours around moral issues and Peter was too polished for his taste—but he was a prize compared to S. S. Hollister. Connor snorted. Now, there was a man he had absolutely no use for...and for a long time it had looked as if Matthew would become just like his father.

      Connor focused his camera on the classic Mustang parked in the driveway. It was the same car he’d seen Layne McGraw driving when she left the Eisley Foundation building. Something about her name had bothered him from the beginning, so he’d pulled his file on Peter Davidson after Matt’s visit to his house and found a reference to her in Hudson’s obituary, which was included with Davidson’s file.

      William Hudson is survived by his beloved wife, Dorothy; nieces Layne, Stephanie and Jeannette McGraw; and nephew Jeremy McGraw...

      The obit didn’t discuss William Hudson’s suicide, or that he’d been facing arrest and indictment for embezzling.

      The rottweiler whined again.

      “Patience, my friend,” Connor murmured, watching for signs of waking in the household, perhaps a curtain moving or a light coming on.

      Ah...or miniblinds being opened.

      Finnster nudged Connor’s elbow.

      “All right. Let’s see how they react to you.”

      He checked the microphone on Finn’s collar to be sure it was secure, tested the receiver in his ear, then let the dog out of the Jeep and tossed him a folded newspaper. He made a gesture with fingers, giving the command. The rottweiler drifted across the street and dropped the paper on the driveway before running to the front door, scratching and barking. When it opened, he pivoted and dashed back to the newspaper.

      Layne McGraw followed, yawning. She put her hands on her hips and grinned at Finn. “What are you doing, making all that fuss out here? It’s Sunday morning—don’t you know people are catching up on their sleep?”

      Finn nosed the newspaper forward a few inches. The newspaper routine was a maneuver they’d used more than once—how someone acted with a dog was revealing. Besides, Finnster was a good judge of character; his approval could be measured