“What about Mr. Davidson?”
“I know he’s related to you and that he’s now on staff here.”
“While our staff isn’t of public concern since we are a family-endowed foundation,” Matt said carefully, “Mr. Davidson’s salary is one dollar annually. Basically, he’s donating his valuable time.”
“Uh...sure. But as I said, my questions are about his financial management firm. As I’m sure you recall, his partner was accused of embezzling from the business seven months ago.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. He and his stepfather had worked with the Carrollton District Attorney and outside auditors to clean up the mess at Hudson & Davidson. Not only that, Peter had personally assured every single client they wouldn’t suffer any loss because of the thefts. His stepfather had come out of the whole thing squeaky clean, though the betrayal of his friend and business partner had deeply wounded him. Matt had even remained at the firm longer than he’d planned to help sort everything out.
“Again, I have nothing to say. It’s time for you to leave, Ms. McGraw.”
Frustration and another less-defined emotion were visible on Layne McGraw’s face. “Please, you worked there when the thefts occurred and you’re related to Peter Davidson, so I hoped you would be able to get me in to see him or tell me more about the case against his partner. The police and D.A.’s office have refused to release any information and Mr. Davidson is harder to see than the governor.”
“I’m sorry, that isn’t my problem. This is a private office and you’ve been asked to leave.”
“Please, I didn’t start this right. Let me tell you why I’m asking. Mr. Hudson was my—”
“I’m not interested,” he interrupted.
“Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like?”
Something in her quiet question troubled Matt, but he pushed it away. “We know what happened.” He lifted the receiver on his phone and gestured with it. “Now, shall I call security and have you escorted out, or will you go on your own?”
“No, I’ll go.”
When she was gone, Matt dialed the number of his security chief. “Connor, a young woman just left my office. Her name is Layne McGraw. Slim, dark hair, not too tall, wearing a green shirt. Will you make sure she exits the building and doesn’t bother anyone else?”
“Right.”
The phone clicked off without a goodbye, which was Connor’s style. He was a blunt, transplanted Irishman who’d been the Eisley family and corporate security chief for fifteen years. Matt had gotten to know him quite well during his wild college days—Connor had expressed his opinion of spoiled rich kids on a regular basis, particularly when bailing him out of trouble. If Matt’s father had been more like Connor, Matt probably wouldn’t have wasted so many years playing.
Swiveling in his chair, he looked at the view the McGraw woman had admired. Unlike most of his half brothers and sisters, he’d thrown himself into their father’s playboy lifestyle. But at least he didn’t have a bevy of former wives and children and girlfriends strewn around the world like good old S. S. Hollister. He’d taken his share of lovers, but he’d always been careful to keep things casual, only dating sophisticated women who had as little interest in domesticity as he did himself.
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. He might not have been as notorious as his father, but he’d done his best to have fun and duck responsibility for a long time. And now that he wanted to do something important, his former stupidity was getting in the way.
He leaned back for a moment, thinking about everything that had happened over the past few years.
First his oldest brother had gotten married. Admittedly, it had only caused a small blip on Matt’s radar, mostly because he’d believed Aaron was just as cynical about marriage as he was himself. But then Matt’s closest childhood friend had called with the news that he had Lou Gehrig’s disease, and ALS was virtually a death sentence.
Matt remembered how he’d hung up after the call and stared at the cast on his leg, broken in a stupid, reckless accident. There was nothing stupid or reckless about Terry—he’d simply gotten sick and there was nothing anyone could do about it. So Matt had hobbled to the wall and punched it so hard he’d cracked two bones in his hand.
He flexed his fingers.
Maybe it was a good thing he’d had a broken hand in addition to his tibia. Being injured had made him slow down, forcing him to deal with the reality of his best friend’s illness, instead of throwing himself into parties or another extreme sport to forget that Terry could die soon. And gradually, Matt had begun thinking about his grandfather’s philanthropic foundation. The Eisley Foundation funded medical research, and if he became the director, he could push a project to help find a cure for ALS. Even if it didn’t help Terry, it could help other people with the disease.
His grandfather had been hard to convince. Gordon Eisley had finally agreed that if Matt could hold an outside position for a year, he would retire and hand over the reins. During that time they’d worked together every Saturday, with Gordon showing him the ropes. It turned out that for the past decade his grandfather had done little more than review requests for money and sign checks, rather than actively overseeing the foundation’s projects.
Matt intended to be far more involved.
* * *
LAYNE DROVE TO her aunt’s home in Carrollton, Washington, and parked in the driveway. For almost a week she’d spent every free moment in her uncle’s office and wasn’t any closer to discovering answers than before she’d started.
She’d found nothing to either support her uncle’s innocence or to suggest his guilt, and it had quickly become evident that she needed more information on the supposed crime to even know where to look. With the police and District Attorney’s office refusing to cooperate, speaking with Peter Davidson had seemed necessary; when he’d proved elusive, she’d given Matt Hollister a shot.
Sighing, she got out and went inside. Normally Aunt Dee worked at home doing commercial art for a greeting card company and other freelance contracts, but today she was on duty at the gallery where some of her paintings were for sale.
Going into her uncle’s home office, Layne sat in his leather executive chair and felt the familiar rush of grief. Tears had streamed down her face the first evening she’d spent there. The room still smelled like Uncle Will, with a hint of the pipe tobacco he’d smoked once in a while, and the dark roast coffee he’d drunk by the gallon. Or maybe it was just her imagination, wanting to feel closer to him.
She tried pushing the sliding keyboard tray farther under the desk, but it caught on the cord and wouldn’t go all the way. With a sigh, she left it alone, turning again to the boxes Uncle Will’s partner had sent over from the company. Aunt Dee hadn’t exaggerated...there was a large pile against one wall, filled with everything imaginable. Layne had only catalogued the contents of a few, but the careless way they’d been packed infuriated her—things thrown in, papers crumpled and items broken, as if drawers had been upended and surfaces hastily swept off.
It was thoughtless and cruel, because no matter what the firm had believed about William Hudson, his wife shouldn’t have been subjected to something so unpleasant after his death. Thank goodness Aunt Dee hadn’t had time to look in the boxes or it would have upset her terribly.
Layne pressed her lips together; she’d completely blown the meeting with Matthew Hollister. However briefly, he’d worked for Hudson & Davidson and could have given her information about how they operated and facts about how the embezzling occurred, but instead she’d gotten nervous. And it certainly hadn’t helped when he’d learned she worked for the Babbitt.
Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse.