“Yep.”
“The wife know about them?”
“Don’t know, but I’ve got the team lookin’ into his and the wife’s email accounts and phone records.”
“That was fast.”
“Maybe. But I’m with you,” Reese stated. “The wife instantly puts up a wall of lawyers. People only do that if they’ve got somethin’ to hide.”
“Or somethin’ to protect,” Brantley added.
*
Reese wasn’t exactly sure what to think about Annie Hawkins, the wife of the missing Cedric Hawkins, but he knew one thing for sure: the woman could stand to lose a good twenty pounds.
Of fucking diamonds.
For the past ten minutes he’d been standing here, doing his best to figure out how she managed to walk around with all that sparkly shit weighing her down. Rings, earrings, necklaces, bracelets. Hell, she even had some on her shoes. Her shoes, for fuck’s sake.
He’d bet money she had back problems. If not from the diamonds, surely the needle-thin heels were causing her discomfort. Granted, the five-inch spiked stilettos did make her legs look fantastic. A fact she was well aware of as she did her best impression of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct from her perch in what could only be described as a throne. In her foyer.
Probably would’ve been sexy if it weren’t for the distraction of all that damn glittering shit on her fingers, wrists, and ears.
“Mrs. Hawkins, when was the last time you saw your husband?” Brantley asked.
The bottle-blonde batted her fake lashes at Brantley, her bright white teeth looking all the brighter thanks to the fire-engine-red lipstick.
And fine, Reese would go so far as to say Annie Hawkins was a beautiful woman, if not a little too skinny. Her makeup was flawless, and he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she said it was air-brushed on. And her hair… Reese wondered how much money she spent monthly to get it to shine the way it did.
He also wondered if she owned stock in a jewelry store because … diamonds.
“My client has already spoken to the police once today,” the well-dressed man at her side said.
Peter Singleton was his name, and evidently he was Mrs. Hawkins’s legal counsel. Or personal gigolo, maybe. It could go either way.
“We’re not with the police,” Brantley told him.
Reese looked around, checking out the grand foyer, which was as far as they’d made it into the house. Then again, this was as far as he needed to go to figure out the Hawkinses were loaded. And if anyone ever said money could buy taste, they obviously hadn’t met these people. He’d never seen anyone attempt a modern version of Old-World chic mixed with a little bit of Renaissance before, and seeing it now, he knew why.
“Like she told them, my client does not know where her husband is or who might’ve taken him.”
“So you’re tellin’ me, your husband’s not only missin’, he’s been kidnapped?” Brantley asked, his drawl growing thicker with his frustration.
“No, of course not,” the lawyer answered for her. “She’s not saying that.”
“But you are?”
“No. Not at all.” The gigolo lawyer sighed. “I’m simply saying, my client does not know where her husband is.”
“Does your client not have a voice?” Brantley said, that familiar edge getting more intense.
Reese had to give him credit. He’d made it this far before losing his cool.
Ten minutes here and the wife hadn’t uttered a single word. Of course, she was doing a hell of a lot of talking with her eyes as she openly ogled Brantley, something Reese found himself more than a little bothered by although he knew Brantley hadn’t given her a passing glance.
“Of course she does,” Lawyer Pete said, his tone flat, clearly uninterested in being helpful.
One thing Reese knew the snappy dresser was interested in: banging the sparkly Mrs. Hawkins. And Reese didn’t even need to be a detective to figure that out. Those two had knocked boots in the last hour, if he had to guess.
Which had him wondering whether the diamond queen of Lakeway bothered to take off the bling or if they somehow managed to maneuver around it.
Brantley glanced between Mrs. Hawkins and her gigolo lawyer. “Exactly why is he here?” he asked the wife.
Yeah. Reese could tell Brantley was growing more and more irritated, and it was only a matter of time before they were tossed out on their asses.
“I’m here at the request of my client,” Peter said, motioning to the woman still planted in that throne thing.
“For legal representation or comfort? Because I don’t quite understand why you’d be needed unless Mrs. Hawkins is responsible for her husband’s disappearance?” Brantley turned his stern gaze on the wife. “Is that the case, Mrs. Hawkins?”
“She’s been here all morning,” the lawyer stated.
“I’m assumin’ you’re her alibi?”
“My client doesn’t need an alibi. She’s not responsible for her husband’s disappearance.”
This douche was a lawyer? Really? Did he not know the definition of alibi because, yeah, she did need one.
Brantley chuckled, but there was no amusement in the sound. “Is she at least worried that he’s suddenly vanished? Because I’m gettin’ the feelin’ that’s not the case.”
Reese knew if he let Brantley continue, they were going to be booted out of the house, and that was the last thing they needed if they hoped to find Cedric Hawkins.
Passing Tesha’s leash off to Brantley, he smiled. “Would you mind takin’ her out for a minute?”
Brantley’s blue-gray eyes narrowed on his face, and Reese did his best to mask his expression.
With a heavy sigh, Brantley turned and strolled out, the door being opened by the older gentleman who could’ve passed for a stone statue if it weren’t for the fact he blinked on occasion.
Reese turned his attention to Mrs. Hawkins, ignoring the stick-in-the-ass lawyer. “Mrs. Hawkins, your husband’s secretary called the police this mornin’ when he didn’t show up for work. Considering what’s happened with his business partners, she’s worried, as I’m sure you are.”
Finally, there was a spark of … something … in the woman as she waved a glittering hand in a dismissive manner. “My husband didn’t come home last night.”
“Is that usual for him?”
“Yes. He prefers his office to”—she pulled a Vanna White, motioning down her own body like it was a brand new car—“this.”
“Did he let you know he wasn’t comin’ home?”
She slowly pushed to her feet, balancing on those stilts, then stepped toward him, her gaze appreciative as it ran down his full length and then back up. “He did not. We don’t have that sort of marriage.”
“What sort do you have?”
“The open kind,” she said, her smile widening as she stepped even closer.
The lawyer had the decency to clear his throat, something the statuesque blonde ignored.
“Do you know if he’s seein’ someone else?”
“Many someones, I’m sure.” Her smile widened and her eyelashes fluttered. “That’s why they call it an open marriage.”