Page 26 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
“The fire chief thinks the fire may have been set on purpose.”
No change in his expression. That’s why he gets paid the big bucks for acting. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“Who the hell did it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe no one. Could have just been an old house.”
“But you don’t think it was.”
There’s a bar in the restaurant. I wander there to pour myself a shot of whiskey, ignoring the throb of my leg. It’s worse after fucking Jane, but I wouldn’t take it back for anything.
Mateo follows me, waiting patiently for me to explain. It’s not amazing whiskey. It burns all the way down. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to take any chances with Paige or with Jane. Whoever did this, whatever their motives, they clearly don’t care about hurting the people near me.”
“Why do you assume you’re the target?”
“There were three people in that house. I’m definitely the biggest asshole.”
“I won’t argue with that.” He glances toward the stairs. “Jane?”
He means, maybe Jane set the fire. Part of me revolts at the mere suggestion. I want to snarl in her defense, but I force myself to remain calm. “She came in after me. She didn’t have to. Those aren’t the actions of someone who wants me dead. I could have breathed my last if she hadn’t been there.”
“You’re wrapped up in her pretty hard.”
“Am I?”
“She’s going to get hurt.”
“Don’t make me punch you in the face.” He means that I’m going to hurt her emotionally, although I’m well aware that she also might be physically hurt. She could have died in that fire just as easily as I could have. “She’s the nanny, and sure I have a soft spot for her. I also have a soft spot for the kitten Paige loves. It doesn’t mean anything.”
His look calls me a liar. “Then who do you think set the fire?”
“You’re going to think I’m insane.”
“I already think that.”
“Remember when we would party in LA? If I died back then, who got the money?”
“Your brother.”
“You know that, but what would everyone else think? We hadn’t spoken to each other in years. Everyone knew he stole my woman. Anyone would think I’d rather give the money to a random charity than him. Or maybe some stripper who showed me a good night.”
“So you die, your money disappears.” Awareness sharpens his gaze. “But now everyone would know that it goes to Paige. She’s an heiress basically.”
“And whoever has custody of her controls the money.”
“So who gets custody of her if you die?”
“That’s the thing. Joe Causey fought me for custody. He’s her uncle, technically. The estate was modest enough when her parents died, but now that it includes my money, it’s a goddamn fortune.”
“Fuck. Can you make it so someone else gets guardianship if you die?”
“Not really. I can name someone in my will, but it’s the courts who decide who gets her—and they’re going to choose family first. Especially since he’s local. And it gets worse. He’s the detective assigned to the case.”
“Are you telling me the person investigating the fire may be the person who set it?”
“I’m telling you it’s a possibility.”
He takes the bottle of whiskey and pours himself a drink. “This is insane.”
I gulp down the rest of what’s in my glass. “Yes.”
“Did you tell the higher ups about this?”
“Yes, but it’s a small department. There aren’t a surplus of people available to investigate. And the police chief is good friends with Joe Causey. They go fishing together.”
“This is fucked up.”
“All I’m saying is, if you have a minute before your next movie starts, I’d like it if you could stick around. Doesn’t hurt to have another person I trust around.”
“Sure, man. But you know, it could have been me. I could have wanted to get back at you after our argument.” His eyebrow rises. Maybe he thinks I’ll take a swing at him. Maybe he thinks I’m stupid.
“If you were trying to kill me, you missed your chance. Back when we were partying in LA, when I’d get so fucking wasted I didn’t know where I was, you were the beneficiary of my will.”
“Christ,” he says, holding his chest as if wounded. “I was an heiress and didn’t even know it.”
“Turns out you did have something in common with Isabella Bradley,” I say, naming the gorgeous young woman he once dated. She was heir to a massive hotel fortune. Tabloids had a field day snapping photos of them. No one knew that theirs was a fake relationship. A carefully orchestrated farce between a party girl who wanted guys to stop hitting on her and an actor who needed a break from the speculation to focus on his work.
Mateo gives me the middle finger.
I pick up a thick linen card with my name scrawled across in feminine handwriting. Beau Rochester. “What’s this?” I ask. “The bill?”
