“Why does Stanley Grant think his sister is in danger?” Max wondered out loud.
“Grant could be guilty. Of murder, embezzlement, any number of things. But what if he has a partner, or he knows about a major crime, other than Victoria’s murder. I know I’m speculating but from our research we know that Grant cares about his sister and her family. My guess is that yes, he’d try to make sure they’re safe before he makes a deal with the prosecution. If he knows something juicy, he might get wit sec. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Something strange is going on, and Stanley Grant is at the center of it.”
“I don’t see where you’re going with this. He confessed to killing Victoria. Guilty or innocent, he knew enough about the murder that the police were confident they had the right person.”
“It’s the embezzlement after the murder that is the red flag. If he’s guilty, why would he lie to the police about his motive? Maybe he asked her for the money and she refused and he killed her … why not just say so? But he lied about his motive, because the money wasn’t taken from their accounts until four days after she was killed. What this means for his sister I have no idea. But the only reason he would be scared about his sister’s safety is if he knows of a bigger threat.”
It was plausible, but Max needed more facts. Theories were fine to play around with, but they needed concrete details to fill in the blanks. “I’ll ask him. I can help Grant—and he knows it. It’s why he’s willing to talk to me. He’ll tell the truth or I’ll walk. I have better things to do with my life than be jerked around by a possible killer.”
Sean smiled. “I expect nothing less from you.” He drained his orange juice and glanced at his watch. “After you talk to Grant, could you do me a favor? I ordered up records from the county archive. They’re under my name, at the archive building across the street from the courthouse. If I’m sitting on Marie Richards this morning, I can’t pick them up.”
“That I can do. What records?”
“Property and corporation papers on Victoria’s real estate company—the one she co-owned with Grant and Corta. Plus their individual property records and LLCs. We know that Victoria’s family has her shares of the company in a trust, but what about Grant? Who gets his portion of the company? Many LLCs have provisions if one of the principals is incarcerated, including giving up the shares to the remaining partners. But mostly, I want to track their land deals. Land is a terrific way to cover up a criminal enterprise or to launder money. Not to mention running scams. My brother worked a case once where some bastard killed an old lady to buy her property in probate because she refused to sell.”
“I’ll admit, while I understand finance better than the average person, I have very little interest in white collar crime. I’ll leave that to you.”
Yet Sean was right. When dealing with a multi-million-dollar company that handled major land transactions for important people, maybe there was something hidden in those records—something worth lying for, something worth killing for.
Max couldn’t wait to talk to Stanley Grant.
* * *
Sean called Lucy as he drove to Marie Richards’s house. “Thanks for taking Jesse to school this morning.”
“I’m happy to do it, though I didn’t expect Max’s investigation to be twenty-four/seven.”
“I don’t think she sleeps. I might be on bodyguard duty temporarily, I’ll let you know for certain.”
“Is there a threat to Max?”
Now Lucy sounded worried, which was the last thing Sean wanted.
“No. At least, nothing that I’m aware of.” With the reporter, he could never be certain who might want to do her harm. “It’s complicated, I’ll explain tonight. Jess has soccer practice and a ride home, so don’t be worried if you don’t hear from me today. I’ll check in when I can. Are you at work?”
“Just got here. Nate and I are meeting with a PI that Denise Albright’s family hired, then we have a full day of interviews and follow-up.”
“Don’t forget to eat.”
“I’m with Nate. He likes regular meals.”
“He doesn’t care if it’s an energy bar or steak dinner. Who’s the PI?”
He heard the shuffling of paper. “King Investigations.”
“They’re good. It’s a family operation—Miranda King, her son, and daughter-in-law. I’ve consulted with them on security issues. Miranda’s old-school, Rico is more like me. It’s a good balance.”
“Why am I not surprised that we’ve been here less than two years and you know more people than I do?”
“I’m a social butterfly,” he teased. “Seriously, they’re good. Their bread and butter is insurance scams, but their heart is in missing persons. I upgraded their computer security last year, as a favor for RCK. We’ve passed them some work over the years, helped a time or two on missing persons cases that turned into hostage situations south of the border.”
“I’ll drop your name.”
“Do that, they love me.”
Lucy laughed, and Sean smiled. She was so focused on her work that sometimes she forgot to breathe. “Call me if you need anything, I gotta go,” Sean said. “Be safe.”
“You too.”
* * *
Sean was fifty-fifty that Marie would be at home this morning but was pleased when he saw her older Explorer parked at the end of her long, narrow driveway. He had to play this situation carefully. He didn’t want to spook her, but he needed to make her understand that this photo—if she recognized the house—was at a minimum odd and suspicious but most likely a threat.
He’d circled the block twice, didn’t see anything out of place—no one acting suspicious or sitting in a car watching him or the house. As he walked up to her door, he looked behind him and to the sides. Clear.
He knocked. It was seven thirty—if she was going to school, she would have left already.
He heard footsteps in the house, then nothing, then more footsteps. Marie said through the closed door, “Who is it?”
“Sean Rogan, private investigator. I’m here about your brother.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. Off my porch or I’ll call the police!”
“Ms. Richards, I work with Maxine Revere from Maximum Exposure. She’s here in San Antonio at the request of your brother.” Slight fib. “He plans on talking to her this morning but asked Max to check on you and your boys. He’s concerned about your safety.”
Silence. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“I can slip my card through the mail slot. You can verify my identity and my credentials.”
“Show me the card.”
He pulled out his sleek RCK business card. Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid Protective Services had printed expensive and ultra-professional business cards, simple and effective, on quality glossy card stock. Not a guarantee that anyone would take him seriously, but combined with his official ID—not a badge, but official enough for most people—it usually worked.
He slid the card through the mail slot, then held his ID up to the peephole.