Amelia reminded Kerri far too much of herself at that age.

  Recently Tori had gone out of her way to be nothing like her mother. Kerri wondered why her own daughter suddenly believed she was the enemy in all things. Adolescence was proving far harder than Kerri had anticipated, particularly since the divorce. She desperately needed to find a way to bridge this abrupt gap between her and Tori.

  She opened the text from her niece. Don’t forget to order the cake for mom and dad’s anniversary! Love you!

  Oh hell. Kerri had forgotten about the cake. There was still plenty of time since the party wasn’t until a week from Saturday. But she couldn’t let it slip her mind again.

  Doing that now!

  Kerri hit send and tossed her phone onto the seat. She decided to drop by the bakery before going to her next stop. Otherwise she would absolutely forget again.

  “You know, Devlin,” Falco said. “You could take care of things like that with a simple phone call if you’d just let me drive.”

  “Reading my texts?” She rolled away from the Abbott home and shot her new partner a dubious glance.

  She ignored the shouts from reporters and the panning of cameras as they rolled past the media blockade.

  “What else am I going to do?”

  She thought about it for a moment. He was right. She could save some time. “Got your pad and pen handy?”

  He reached into his pocket. “What am I doing? Making a list?”

  “Yes. Ten people. White cake with white buttercream frosting. Happy Anniversary, Diana and Robby. The words should be in yellow—that’s my sister’s favorite color. I need to pick it up before noon on Saturday the sixteenth. It’s Dreamcakes over on Oxmoor Road. I’m sure you can find the number.”

  She had used that bakery for every cake she’d ordered since her daughter was born. Her sister loved the place too.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Falco flashed a fake smile.

  Maybe he would learn not to stick his nose into her personal business in the future.

  3

  11:30 a.m.

  Abbott Options

  First Avenue South

  Kerri parked in the lot at Abbott Options. The LT had called to say that the chief of police himself had gone to Ben Abbott’s parents and made the notification, which was frustrating. But that part wasn’t nearly as frustrating as the idea that the chief insisted the Abbotts were not to be bothered until tomorrow. In other words, Kerri couldn’t interview them today. It was ludicrous. Just because the Abbotts were rich and powerful didn’t give them special treatment in a homicide case.

  Except that, apparently, it did. Damn it. Every surviving member of the man’s family, every close friend or business associate, had to be scrutinized. No one could be set aside or overlooked. Everyone acquainted with the victim or victims was a potential suspect at this stage. She reminded herself to breathe and stared at the home of Ben Abbott’s internationally famous business operation. The sleek concrete-and-steel building that housed Abbott Options was a close neighbor to Birmingham’s iconic Sloss Furnaces. The building was relatively new, built by an interior design company only a couple of years ago. According to Falco’s internet search, Abbott had flown to Birmingham early last year and made the company an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they had promptly vacated the premises. Just another indication that Ben Abbott was a man unafraid to go after what he wanted—even when it wasn’t on the market.

  “Oh, man, Devlin,” Falco said as she parked. “There’s like a rooftop party room made of glass for celebrating milestones and wining and dining customers.” He thrust his phone in front of her. “Check out that view of the city’s skyline.” He tapped the screen. “The one of Sloss is killer too. No wonder the guy wanted this place.”

  “Nice views,” Kerri agreed. “Did you find anything that suggested bad blood between Abbott and the previous owners?”

  Falco shook his head. “In fact, the wife of the previous owner and our missing vic worked on a big fundraising project together last Christmas. You know, one of those charities that helps make sure all kids get a visit from Santa.”

  “Add them to our interview list just the same.”

  “Already done.”

  “Thanks.” Surveying the minimalist approach to landscaping and the modern architecture of the property, Kerri scooted from behind the wheel. “This is a drastic change from the Abbott home.”

  “I think maybe the crime scene is just temporary lodging. I sent a text to a friend of mine in property records to find out if the dead guy owns any other properties. Abbott recently purchased a residence over on Whisper Lake Circle. My contact says he filed all the paperwork for tearing down the existing house. Since the property is restricted to residential, seems to me he’s planning to build a new house.”

  Might not be significant, but it was worth checking out. “We should take a drive there next. Have a look around. Talk to his contractor.” She met Falco at the front of the Wagoneer. “Did your contact know the name of his contractor?”

  “She sure did.” Falco grinned, gave her a wink. “Creaseman and Collier.”

  Before she could respond, he said, “Added them to the interview list too.”

  Maybe she had misjudged the man’s ability and work ethic. In this instance she had no problem at all being wrong.

  Inside, a marble reception desk sat amid the steel, glass, and concrete. A young man, midtwenties maybe, rose from his ultramodern transparent chair as they approached. His gray tight-fitting suit and crisp white shirt were a sharp contrast to the narrow bright-fuchsia tie that completed the ensemble.

  “Good morning. My name is Brent. Welcome to Abbott Options. How may I assist you?” He looked from Kerri to Falco and back.

  Kerri showed her credentials. “I’m Detective Devlin; this is Detective Falco. We need to speak with whoever is in charge this morning.”

  Brent blinked as if he needed a moment to process the request or, more likely, the fact that they were cops. “Certainly.” He picked up the phone and pressed a series of buttons, then announced, “I’m sending Detectives Devlin and Falco from our esteemed BPD to your office.”

  He placed the handset back into the cradle and gestured to his right. “The elevator will take you to the fourth floor. Marcella Gibbons will be waiting there for you.”

  “Thanks.” Kerri strode across the sleek concrete floor to the single elevator.

  When she and Falco paused in front of it, the doors opened automatically. Interesting. They stepped into the gleaming steel box. State of the art—what else would she have expected?

  “I guess we don’t have to tell it where to take us,” Falco murmured.

  He was right. There was no control panel or visible speaker. Just sleek stainless steel walls that shone to a mirror finish.

  “Looks that way.”

  The elevator lifted and a few seconds later glided to a stop. The doors slid open, and a tall slender woman waited in the corridor.

  “Hello, I’m Marcella Gibbons, Mr. Abbott’s personal assistant. Please follow me.”

  Kerri and Falco exchanged a look and followed the woman, who was a bit older than the man who’d sent them up, but she was still young. Thirty, maybe. Also like the employee downstairs, she wore slim-fitting attire—in this case a dress—that was somehow still modest with a knee-length hemline, three-quarter sleeves, and a higher neckline. The dress was black, as was her hair, which she wore short and neatly styled in a no-nonsense bob. Her shoes were practical flats, also in black.

  There was carpet on this level, but the color was very near to that of the concrete in the lobby. The offices they passed were walled with glass, giving new meaning to transparency. So far everyone they’d seen seated at a desk was twenty- or thirtyish. All were stylishly dressed and appeared very busy.

  When they reached the end of the corridor, double glass doors slid open to what appeared to be a conference room. Gibbons moved through the open doors and gestured to the long glass table. “Please sit wherever you’d like.”

  Falco followed Kerri inside, and they sat in the first chairs they encountered. The chairs, too, were transparent, like sitting on air.

  “Would you like water or coffee?” Gibbons asked. “Hot tea, perhaps?”

  “No thank you,” Kerri said. Falco declined as well.

  Gibbons used a remote to darken the glass walls, giving them privacy from the rest of the floor. Then she settled into the chair at the head of the table.

  “How may I help you, Detectives? I assume this visit is related to the public disagreement that Mr. Abbott had with Mr. Thompson. Mr. Abbott isn’t here at the moment, but I’ll answer your questions as best I can. I was with him when the debacle occurred.”

  Falco deferred to Kerri with a glance. This was the thing she had meant when she’d been irritated about not being able to make the notification to Abbott’s parents. Whenever the police showed up, most people immediately blurted whatever incident they believed might be relevant to the visit. It was a defensive instinct of sorts. If there was more than one possibility, they always—always—went with the least offense.

  “Why don’t you tell us your version of what happened,” Kerri suggested, as if they had one damned clue what she was talking about, “and we’ll go from there, Ms. Gibbons.”

  “Certainly.” She sat a little straighter. “Mr. Abbott purchased a property on Whisper Lake Circle with the intention of removing the current older home along with any other buildings or patios within the property’s boundaries. His ultimate goal is to build a new, state-of-the-art smart home. When Mr. Thompson learned of the property’s transfer, he and Mr. Abbott had a disagreement.”

  Kerri, like anyone else who lived in Birmingham, recognized the Thompson name. “Are we talking about the Mr. Theodore Thompson running for the Senate or his father, T. R., the one running for governor?”

  “The son, Theo.” Her voice sounded the same, but the woman’s face clearly expressed her distaste for the man.

  “Did your boss buy the place from Thompson?” Falco asked.

  “No.” Gibbons folded one hand atop the other on the table. “The house was built by the parents of Mr. Thompson’s wife. After her mother passed away some years ago, Mrs. Thompson opted to sell the property. The problem arose when Mr. and Mrs. Thompson learned that Mr. Abbott had bought out the current owners and intended to remove the existing home. Apparently, Mrs. Thompson was disturbed by the plan and wanted to reacquire the property.”

  “When and where did this disagreement take place?” Kerri asked.

  “It was at the Giving Gala last week. Mrs. Abbott wasn’t feeling well, so I attended the event with Ben—Mr. Abbott—in her stead. Mr. Thompson approached him on the veranda outside the ballroom and demanded that he sell the property to him rather than destroy it. Mr. Abbott refused, and the exchange grew quite heated. Mr. Thompson threatened to take legal action to stop the work, and then he stormed off. I don’t think very many of the other guests saw or heard the exchange, but it was quite uncomfortable for several minutes.”

  “Have Mr. Abbott and Mr. Thompson had disagreements before? Business or personal?” Chances were, Kerri realized, the two families knew each other well. Theo Thompson was five or more years older than Ben Abbott, but their fathers were about the same age. It was highly doubtful that the two didn’t know each other. If nothing else, they certainly traveled in the same social circles.

  Gibbons shook her head adamantly. “Not at all. Mr. Abbott is a peacemaker. Everyone loves him. Mr. Thompson is quite a bit older than him, but the two families, the Abbotts and the Thompsons, have known each other for decades,” she said, confirming Kerri’s conclusion.

  “My impression,” Gibbons went on, “was that Mr. Thompson had been drinking excessively that evening and lost control of himself. Considering his run for his father’s Senate seat, I’m surprised he behaved so badly about this, particularly in public. Has he taken some sort of legal step? Is that why you’re here? He did threaten to do so, and we’re fully prepared to react in kind.”

  Falco looked up from his cell. Kerri suspected he’d already googled the event to see if there was anything in the news about the disagreement between the two men. He prompted, “Mr. Thompson believes your boss bullied the owners into selling the property.”

  The woman’s cheeks darkened. “He did say something to that effect, but the statement is entirely inaccurate. Mr. Abbott wanted the property, and he simply approached the owner and offered a price he couldn’t refuse. There was absolutely no pressure or intimidation.”

  “You mean, like ten times its current value?” Falco turned the screen of his cell toward Kerri and mouthed the word wow. “He has a habit of doing that, doesn’t he?”

  “Is there a law against paying more than a property is worth?” Gibbons demanded, obviously taken aback. “Mr. Abbott would never do anything illegal. As far as Mr. Thompson’s reaction to his plans, the man is being completely unreasonable. If he and his wife felt some sentimental attachment to the property, why did they sell it in the first place? I’m certain the true issue lies with the wife.”

  “Ms. Gibbons,” Kerri said, softening her voice, “we’re not here about the exchange you described or the purchase of any property. If there has been any sort of legal step taken against Mr. Abbott, we’re unaware.”

  Her concern mounting, Gibbons looked from Kerri to Falco and back. “I don’t understand.”

  “Did Mr. Abbott have any early appointments this morning?” Kerri asked. “Or maybe something last evening? Outside the office, I mean.” Once she gave the woman the news, logical answers might be difficult to garner.

  Gibbons shook her head. “His final meeting of the day was at six last evening. A conference call with the San Francisco office. He was supposed to be in at nine this morning, but he hasn’t made it yet. I’ve called, but there’s no answer.” Her eyes widened. “Is everything all right? Mrs. Abbott is expecting and—”

  “Does he do this often?” Kerri asked, drawing her attention back to the more pressing questions. “Come in late or do some business or personal errand before coming to the office without letting you know?”

  She stared at Kerri, uncertainty creeping into her gaze. “No. Never. He’s completely anal about punctuality and staying on top of things. He always keeps me informed.” Her face furrowed with confusion. “What’s this about?”

  “Ms. Gibbons, I’m sorry to tell you this, but early this morning Ben Abbott was murdered in his home, as was his mother-in-law. His wife, Sela, is missing.”

  Shock claimed the other woman’s face before she burst into tears.

  Kerri gave her a moment to gather her composure before going on. “We need several things this morning. First, a list of any ongoing issues Mr. Abbott or his wife might have been dealing with, professional or otherwise. The names of any staff members who had access to their home or who might have had more than a business relationship with them.”

  “A clear picture,” Falco chimed in, “of your own relationship with Mr. Abbott.”

  Gibbon’s face froze; then her jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I cannot stress enough,” Kerri pressed, “how important it is that we know everything there is to know about this family. The smallest thing could help us find the person who did this horrible thing.”

  Gibbons managed a tight nod. “Whatever you need. But I don’t see how this is possible.”

  “What do you mean?” Kerri asked.

  “How could this happen? Mr. Abbott has no enemies. Everyone loves him.”

  Maybe, Kerri kept to herself. Except for the person who put a bullet in his head.

  4

  12:00 p.m.

  York, Hammond & Goldman Law Firm

  North Twentieth Street

  The oldest and most prestigious law firm in the state. Theo Thompson stood outside the historic limestone building, the names engraved there and what they represented failing for the first time to give him comfort. How would he ever survive the shit storm that was coming? He’d spent the entire morning in meetings with his most influential supporters. They were all grumbling that his numbers weren’t hitting the gold standard his father had set decades ago. His numbers were rising, damn it. But not fast enough to make those vultures happy. What was worse, he had this Abbott business to deal with. The bastard had threatened to go public. He hadn’t come right out and said as much, but he’d repeatedly insinuated that he had proof of his allegations.

  The part that terrified Theo the most was the idea that Abbott might just be telling the truth.

  As if that in and of itself wasn’t enough, his wife was warning that she intended to be done with him if Theo lost his run for his father’s Senate seat. She wanted to be First Lady of the state one day, and he had better not screw up her chance. He closed his eyes and shook his head. How could he have ever loved that heartless bitch?

  A weariness gushed out of him on a breath. He hadn’t ever really loved her. Their marriage had basically been arranged when they were in high school. It was expected that the only Thompson heir would marry the older of the two Baldwin girls.

  Here they were twenty-five years later, and Theo at times pondered if the price he’d paid had been worth it.

  Not once in his life had he felt this helpless. His chest was ready to explode. But, like everything else in his life, he had no choice. Her family’s support was as imperative to furthering his career as the other supporters with whom he’d met this morning. If he didn’t work out this situation with Abbott, all would be lost. He would have failed, dropped the ball on the family legacy.

  He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Collecting his resolve, he pushed through the gold entry doors and crossed the marble-floored lobby. The receptionist looked up and smiled. She was young and beautiful, of course. York, Hammond & Goldman didn’t employ ugly people. Only the most talented and the most beautiful.