Free Against the Storm1 by Kat Martin Page A

face. “Hey, Trace.” A little shorter, a little beefier, Mark had light brown hair and hazel eyes. Except for the cheap suits he wore and his overall rumpled appearance, he was a good-looking guy.
    “Under different circumstances I’d say it’s good to see you,” Mark said. “But your timing’s not great. I guess you must have heard—Hewitt Sommerset is dead. Looks like he killed himself.”
    “I don’t think that’s likely.”
    One of Sayers’s light brown eyebrows went up. “That right? I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”
    “Business acquaintances, mostly. Grew into a little more than that over the years. You and I need to talk.”
    The detective’s interest sharpened. “Okay.” Turning, he led Trace down a hall lined with expensive paintings in heavy gilded frames, and turned into one of the numerous parlors in the house, this one elegantly furnished with peach brocade sofas and dark green velvet drapes. There wasn’t so much as a piece of fringe out of place on the Persian rugs that covered the polished oak floors.
    “I guess you’ve talked to Hewitt’s son, Jason,” Trace said as Mark closed the door.
    “We talked to him. His reaction isn’t unexpected. No son wants to believe his father killed himself.”
    “When did it happen?”
    “Last night. Hewitt was supposed to be out of town, but something must have come up. Apparently he keeps his study door closed when he’s away. The body wasn’t found until this afternoon.”
    “How was it done?”
    “Thirty-eight caliber gunshot to the side of the head. The pistol is registered to Sommerset, who allegedly kept it in a drawer in his desk.”
    “But someone else could have pulled the trigger.”
    “There were no signs of a struggle.”
    “Maybe he was unconscious.”
    Sayers pondered that. “I suppose it’s possible. There weren’t any obvious wounds to suggest that.”
    “Maybe not. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been done some other way.”
    Sayers looked unconvinced. “Hewitt left a suicide note, Trace. We found it on his computer.”
    “Typed, then. Not handwritten.”
    “It’s the twenty-first century, my friend. Nobody writes notes by hand anymore.”
    It was a good point, one Trace silently conceded. Not that he believed for a minute that Hewitt had actually written it.
    “You need to find out where Parker Barrington was last night.”
    Sayers’s gaze narrowed. “Why is that?”
    “Parker was embezzling funds from the company. And not small change, either. Millions, Mark. Siphoning the money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”
    “Jesus. You got any proof?”
    “All you need. Hewitt came to me with his suspicions. We set up surveillance in Parker’s office. I took him the cold, hard evidence two days ago.”
    The detective’s eyes widened. “Two days ago? You’re not thinking Parker Barrington killed Sommerset to cover up the theft?”
    “Unless you can convince me otherwise, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
    Sayers glanced away, as if he wished he could look back to the time of the murder. “I’ll need to see what you’ve got.”
    “I’ll have it in your office first thing in the morning.”
    “And I thought this one was going to be easy.”
    Trace’s mouth edged up. “When are they ever easy?”
    Mark friend laid a hand on his shoulder, walked him out of the parlor and back down the hall. Trace flicked a last glance into the study as they passed, and continued toward the foyer, lit by a huge chandelier.
    “Have you talked to the daughter?” Trace asked.
    “She and Parker were here earlier. She was really shaken up. We let him take her home.”
    Trace made a mental note to go see her. Once the dirt on Parker was uncovered, Emily was going to need all the support she could get.
    Sayers stepped out on the wide front porch and Trace followed.
    “Besides murder and mayhem,” his friend said, “anything new and exciting going on in your life?”
    Trace thought of Maggie,