The Final Victim(76)

Gib doesn't reply, but the answer is plain to see in a pair of fists that clench and unclench in his lap.

Then he looks up, but not at Tyler-and not in resignation. Gib's gaze shifts directly toward the window, where a slight breeze stirs sun-dappled boughs. "Why are you here, Mr. Hawthorne?"

Irritated by the indolent tone-or perhaps, by the realization that it echoes his own, and Gilbert's, in their own youthful era of entitlement-Tyler snaps, "Well, it's not because I have ESP, that's for damned sure. You heard what your cousin told the detectives in there, didn't you? She called me."

"No, I mean, why did you agree to come rushing right over here? You're Charlotte's lawyer, not mine."

"No, I'm not her lawyer, either. I'm your Grandaddy's lawyer." And his oldest, most faithful friend, dammit.

"As you may recall," Tyler can't resist adding with a tinge of sarcasm, "I represent his estate."

"Which he didn't leave to me."

"Which has nothing to do with this." Tyler deliberately inserts a significant pause before asking, "Does it?"

"No!" Gib raises a hand to thrust his blond cowlick farther away from his forehead, a gesture Tyler noted repeatedly in his office last week, as the tension mounted after the will was read.

But Gib's current level of stress doesn't necessarily mean he's guilty. Anybody would be uptight under these circumstances, Tyler acknowledges.

Nor has Gib Remington been formally accused of any crime… yet.

"Do you want me to leave?" Tyler asks, entirely poised to do so. "I'm not about to waste my time here, or yours."

"With any luck, this is going to turn out to be a waste of everyone's time," is the surly reply.

Tyler uncrosses his legs and begins to stand.

"Wait!"

The word is spoken sharply-almost desperately.

He looks at Gib to see a row of perfect teeth-professionally whitened, no doubt-descend over his lower lip and bite down, hard. When they lift, a bead of blood appears.

Then, for the first time, Gib Remington looks Tyler in the eye.

"Don't go," he says heavily. "I think I'm going to need you."

Charlotte leans in the doorway of Gib's room, arms folded across her middle in as laid-back a posture as she can manage. Inside, she's a mess, her thoughts racing with possibilities she never before would have willingly entertained.

She watches the detectives seize stacks of carefully folded clothing from his drawers, tossing them on the bed. They do the same with the contents of the small closet, not pausing to remove them from their hangers. Each garment is thoroughly examined, creases and pockets and shirt cuffs checked, before it is unceremoniously tossed to the floor.

Gib would be cringing, Charlotte thinks, if he could see this.

Hopefully cringing only because of what they're doing to his cherished wardrobe, and not trepidation over what they might discover.

She breathes an inner sigh of relief when half a dozen pairs of shoes are swept up from the closet floor, their soles scrutinized before they're tossed into a heap in the corner.

Gib's brown Italian-leather Dopp bag is emptied on the floor, with a cursory inspection of his toiletries. Charlotte doesn't miss the snorts and derisive comments from the macho cops about the many hair products "pretty boy" uses.

A more thorough perusal is made of the contents of Gib's matching leather jewelry case. Charlotte's pulse quickens, as she waits to see if the heirloom cufflink's missing partner will turn up.

It doesn't.

Furniture is pushed and pulled from place to place, draperies yanked from their rods, the rug rolled, lifted, propped upright in a corner. The bedding is removed, the mattress patted and probed, then slid away altogether and leaned against a wall.

Poor Grandaddy must be turning over in his grave,Charlotte thinks, shifting her weight but not her gaze as the men inspect the box spring. Thank goodness they're almost finished in here, and so far, nothing- 'There's a slit in this cover. Look at this!" Dorado plunges a hand through the box spring's gauzy lining and pulls something out.

In the immediate flurry of activity around the bed, Charlotte can't see the object, but whatever it is seems to be incriminating.

A swift, further probe into the hole in the box spring yields several other items as well.

Steeling herself in dread, she stands on her tiptoes to look over Williamson's imposing shoulder to see what the fuss is about.

In that instant, her worst fear materializes.

Lined up on the floor as a police photographer snaps pictures from every angle are a pair of muddy brown dress shoes and a rumpled, yet still-starched white dress shirt, one French cuff still studded with an unmistakable heirloom platinum cufflink-the other empty.

CHAPTER 13
"Here, Royce…" Leaving his left elbow in Aimee's capable grasp, Charlotte releases his right and scurries ahead to shove the coffee table away from the couch in the front parlor. "Sit right here."

Royce groans slightly as he lowers himself, with his wife and daughter's help, into the cushions. 'That's better."

Charlotte and Aimee exchange a worried glance. Maybe it is too soon for him to be home from the hospital, less than a week after his ordeal began. They both thought so, especially since the old elevator at Oakgate stopped working sometime this week. It would have come in handy, getting him to and from the second floor.