With that resolve, she set down her mug of coffee on the table in front of her and picked up a blank notepad and pen. She needed to start making plans about what needed to be done. Making calls to Arthur's family and friends was at the top of the list, although the news of his death was already online and on the local news broadcasts. But there might be some people her mother would want her to contact personally. She just didn't know exactly who they would be.
Arthur had very little family. He'd lost his first wife and daughter in a tragic accident years ago. His parents were long dead, and he had one sister, but she lived in Australia, and, according to Arthur, they hadn't spoken in years. Still, she would need to get word to her of Arthur's passing. She had no idea about his other friends. Her mom would know many of them, but she'd only been in Arthur's life a little over a year and a half. What about his old friends from high school, from college, from the law firms where he'd worked before becoming a judge?
And would her mother know about Arthur's wishes for a funeral? Had they talked about death and funeral options in the short time they'd been together? It seemed unlikely. Arthur was only sixty-five, and her mother was sixty-two. They had been planning on years together.
She jotted down questions: Cremation or burial? Does he have a plot? Would he want a religious ceremony? He'd been raised Catholic, but he never went to mass. Would he want one now?
Tapping her pen against the paper, she wrote down what she knew he would want for sure—a big, splashy, newsworthy funeral. He would want an obituary detailing the amazing achievements in his life. He would want press conferences about his murder. He would want the world to be desperate to find his killer.
Sighing, she set down her pen. Right now, the last thing she wanted to do was plan his funeral. What she really wanted to do was take her mother somewhere far away and save her from what was about to come.
But her mother couldn't leave, and neither could she. They would have to see this through.
Needing more coffee, she got to her feet, then froze as the doorbell rang.
Every muscle in her body tensed. The aftermath was starting, and she didn't know if she was ready, but she had to be, because her mother certainly wasn't up for anything.
She walked out of the den and down the hall to the front door. Checking the peephole, she saw Flynn MacKenzie on the porch. He'd changed out of his tuxedo, but he looked just as attractive in gray slacks and a button-down shirt with light-blue stripes. His blond hair was slicked back, and at the moment a pair of aviator glasses hid his very blue eyes.
She drew in a quick breath, quite sure she wasn't ready for him. But the doorbell rang once more, and she knew he wasn't going anywhere. She turned the knob and opened the door.
"Ms. Harper," he said, removing his glasses.
"Agent MacKenzie. My mother is sleeping."
"Then you and I can talk." He gave her a smile that was probably meant to reassure her, but it sent a tingle down her spine that screamed caution. "May I come in?"
"Can I say no?"
"It would be better if you didn't."
She stepped back, and he walked into the house, his curious gaze sweeping the entry, probably noting the slick marbled floors, the impressive artwork, and the massive chandelier. Arthur Corbyn had not only been born into an incredibly wealthy family, he's also inherited a great deal of money after his first wife passed away, tripling his net worth. While he was extremely generous with his money, he also loved living in luxury. He had salt shakers in his kitchen cost more than the rent on Callie's apartment.
"We can go into the living room," she said, waving him through the archway into the very formal room that overlooked the gardens of the Pacific Palisades mansion. The ornate sofas were not to her taste. Nor were they very comfortable, making this room the perfect place to put someone she didn't want to stay particularly long.
Flynn walked across the room, his gaze sweeping the room. "It's very much like I remember," he murmured. "Not exactly the same but close enough."
"When was the last time you were here?"
"At least ten…twelve years ago." He paused in front of several framed photographs on the grand piano.
His expression grew more somber the longer he stood there, his profile growing hard, his jaw setting into something that looked like anger.
"Do you want coffee?" she asked, feeling an inexplicable need to draw his attention away from the photographs of Arthur and his first family.
"What?" he asked sharply, giving her a hard look that made her shiver.
"Coffee?" she repeated, wondering why he suddenly seemed so angry.
"Oh, no, thanks." He lifted his chin, his lips drawing into a taut line. "Did you like Arthur, Callie?"
She stiffened at the surprising question. "Of course. He was my mother's husband. She's devastated."
"But you're not," he said flatly. "Oh, and by the way, that wasn't a question."
She swallowed hard, not liking the look in his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. I need coffee." She left him alone in the living room as she headed toward the kitchen. She didn't just need coffee; she needed to get her head together, because clearly his questions were going to be personal and probably a little terrifying.
Flynn let Callie go. He knew he'd rattled her, and maybe it would have been better to push her a little further, but he also knew he had to get a grip on his own emotions, so he didn't screw this case up before it really got started.
Turning his gaze back to the photos, he felt a stabbing pain at the sight of Olivia's sweet face. The picture taken at her eighteenth birthday party had perfectly captured the optimism and innocence of the first girl he'd ever loved. The next day she'd left on a graduation trip with her mother to Italy, Spain and France. A month later, she and her mother had died in a boating accident.
The agonizing grief had connected him and Arthur in a way that neither had expected, and for a few months, they'd leaned on each other to get through that terrible summer. But then it had been time for him to go back to college. Arthur had encouraged him to do what he needed to do, to live his life in a way that would make Olivia proud.
He hadn't always done that, but he had found a way to go on. It had been fifteen years now. He could hardly believe how many years had passed, and she hadn't really crossed his mind much the past decade. He felt a little guilty at that thought.
But she was in his head now. Her father was dead, and staring at her face, he knew she would want him to do everything he could to find her dad's killer.
Callie had been reticent the night before, and her mother had also been almost incoherent. He needed one of them to start talking. But since they weren’t inclined to do so at the moment, maybe he'd take a look around.
He turned away from the pictures and made his way down the hall. He hadn't been in this house in a long time, but he knew exactly where Arthur's study was. If there was a clue to be found, that would be the best place to find it.
Callie took her time making another pot of coffee. She was a little surprised that Flynn hadn't followed her into the kitchen. On the other hand, he was probably searching the house for clues. Maybe it had been a mistake to leave him alone in the living room, although she couldn't imagine what he would find. She'd done her own research into Arthur when her mother had fallen madly in love on her first date with the man, and she'd found nothing negative. Although, her investigation had been amateurish at best.