LITMIR.BIZ

      My records?

      Layne pulled the keyboard out and searched the sliding tray shelf in the vain hope something had fallen out of the folder, but she didn’t find anything else and could have screamed.

      What kind of records, and which wire transfers?

      These notes might be the last thing Uncle Will had written and the police weren’t going to take it seriously without something substantive to go with it. But at least she could discuss the printer issue with them—surely it wouldn’t compromise their “open investigation” confidentiality rules to verify where the suicide note was found, and maybe it would make them take another look. In the meantime, she could try to figure out what the “records” were that Uncle Will had referenced. And the “everything else.”

      Exhilaration replaced the frustration simmering in Layne. She finally had something real to look for—if Uncle Will had believed he could prove his innocence, surely she could, as well.

      * * *

      “HERE YOU GO, MATT,” Gillian said on Friday afternoon.

      She handed him the copy of the Puget Sound Babbitt that he’d requested and hastily exited the office. It didn’t take long to learn the reason. Just above the table of contents was the headline: Who Is Peter Davidson of the Eisley Foundation?

      Hell.

      He flipped the magazine open and began reading.

      The article spoke of Peter’s marriage to Katrina Eisley, his recent altruism in donating time to his wife’s family’s charity organization, his investment acumen and his success in private business. It wasn’t negative, exactly, but it had a tone Matt distrusted.

      The author didn’t mention the incident at Hudson & Davidson, but Matt knew it could just be the first of several articles, the opening salvo in an attempt to criticize either Peter, or him through his stepfather. The press had been quick to question every step Matt had made at the Eisley Foundation.

      Or was he just being paranoid? And there was another question...did Layne McGraw and her aunt have anything to do with it? So far Connor’s background checks had shown that Layne was exactly what she claimed, a researcher for the regional news magazine, while her aunt was a graphic artist.

      It was possible they were simply trying to find out more about what had happened so they could deal with it better. Problem was, it could result in the whole mess being dragged out again in public.

      Matt’s jaw set.

      However much he disliked getting negative press these days, he probably deserved it. Pete didn’t. Hell, Pete had given him the job at Hudson & Davidson. And his mother had virtually become a recluse after her divorce from Matt’s father, so the media had no business arguing she was a “public figure” and not entitled to her privacy because of it. Not that Matt bought that crap about a person giving up the right to privacy simply by choosing a more public life.

      Matt had read the preliminary file Connor had put together on Layne. She had a degree in library science, owned a home in the university district and came from a highly successful family of professionals. No red flags. No reason to think she’d make trouble for the sake of making trouble. Yet that was part of the problem...if Layne didn’t have ulterior motives, she might sincerely wonder if her uncle was innocent. It didn’t mean she was right, but by stirring everything up, she could cause trouble with the best of intentions.

      Frowning, he picked up the phone and dialed Connor.

      “Yeah?” the security chief answered.

      “It’s me. Can you come up to my office?”

      “Be right there.”

      Spinning around in his chair, Matt looked out the window at Lake Union; it was raining, so the view was partially obscured. Despite the weather, he saw a crewing team on the water, rowing toward the docks. He envied them—the effort, the teamwork, the burn of muscles being used, it was cleaner and simpler than changing your ways and running a multibillion-dollar philanthropic foundation.

      Even as the thought formed, the door behind him opened. “What’s up, Matt?”

      Matt turned and slid the copy of the Babbitt across the desk. “There’s an article in there about my stepfather.”

      Connor raised an eyebrow. “Full of crap?”

      “Not exactly. More like damning with faint praise. I have no idea if Layne McGraw is behind it or not.”

      “Doubtful. It’s unlikely she’d want media attention on her uncle’s case.”

      “I agree.” Matt looked down at the magazine, wishing he could get Layne McGraw’s voice out of his head...the voice that questioned whether there might be more to the embezzlement case than what everyone believed. Anything was possible. “Connor, what do you know about the thefts at Hudson & Davidson?”

      “Not much. Mr. Davidson didn’t want me becoming involved with security issues at his company, before or after the thefts.”

      Matt’s nerves tightened. “Why?”

      “Ego, most likely. He’s wealthy, but it’s peanuts compared to Eisley money. Mind if I have a drink?” Without waiting for a response, Connor pressed a button on the wall and two heavy panel doors glided open, revealing the wet bar left from Gordon Eisley’s day. He poured himself a finger of whiskey before sitting and planting his feet on the office’s nineteenth-century mahogany desk.

      Matt smiled. Connor didn’t have any reverence for antiques. He’d probably driven Gordon crazy with his offhand ways and strong language. Gordon Eisley had worked hard and made an obscene amount of money, but he believed in a rigid code of how things should be done. He must have tolerated Connor because he had recognized there wasn’t anyone better to handle the family’s security needs. Not that Matt’s grandfather was playing an active role in his business affairs or the foundation these days; he’d finally decided to listen to his doctor and relax.

      “I’m getting rid of that bar,” Matt commented.

      “Too bad, it’s the only thing I like in this office. Besides the view.” Connor waved his glass as if in a toast. “I hand it to you Yanks—bourbon whiskey is a fine thing the Americans gave the world, and your grandfather stocked the best.”

      “Bourbon was never my drink, so I’ll take

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