Page 47 of Power Games

One bullet shot between the eyes—someone proficient had been holding the gun.

Three knife wounds, suggesting a crime of passion; why would the murderer have needed to stab her, if he or she had a gun at hand? This was perhaps why, initially, Charles had been the first suspect. But Daniel Walton soon learned that there was very little passion between the victim and her widower.

At the time of the crime, the late Isabella Grant had been wearing a blue silk nightdress. Although no investigator pointed it out, trashy magazines certainly mentioned she couldn’t have planned to spend the night alone, if she was wearing a La Perla negligee and plenty of makeup.

Everything had pointed to a romantic date with her husband. That said, it wasn’t him.

Daniel sighed, pushing the folder away. He’d hoped for a clean-cut case but, three days into it, he could tell that this one wasn't going to be easy.

Grant was clean. Fucking pristine, actually; there wasn't a bit of dirt on him. Beside, as well as the testimony of Vanessa Fucking McNamara, former first daughter, and rising star, he'd been placed away from the scene by dozens of eyewitnesses. The hotel cameras showed him going in around one o’clock, with McNamara, and he didn't show him going out.

Daniel knew better than to think that clean meant innocent though. The man was worth money. Shitloads of money. He could have hired out the job. The precision of the bullet wound pointed to a pro, anyway.

Still, there were the three knife wounds.

"Darling?"

He lifted his head to see the beautiful olive-skinned goddess who'd made a honest man out of him in every way. Daniel hadn't been what one would call an upstanding citizen before he'd met Gabriella, but for her, he'd cleaned up his act, gotten his shit together, gotten a job. Fifteen years later, with two kids and a house half paid off, he thanked God every day for sending him a soulmate.

"Are you coming to bed?"

He sighed. "That case," he said, not finishing his sentence.

She smiled. "Oh well. It's not like I didn't know what I was getting into when I decided to marry a cop." She walked in and circled his desk, standing right behind him and massaging his shoulders.

She must have caught the name on the folder. "Grant, right? Poor man."

Daniel stiffened. "I don't know, Gabby. He was with someone else the night she was killed. I don't think they were close."

She snorted. "You could say that."

He frowned, looking up at her.

It was easy to forget that she was part of them—the elite. She spent most of her time with him, their friends, their children, but she still spoke to her family and old friends.

"You know them?"

She shrugged. "Not personally, but we're in the same circle. You hear things. Isabella was..."

Daniel lifted a brow.

"Let's just say that if she slept with half the guys the rumors attributed her, she was a busy lady. There were barely any rumors about Charles, though, except for a few whispers about him and Nessie. I said ‘poor man’ because his company's shares are dropping, and the press is dragging him through the mud about the Nessie thing."

Daniel frowned, grabbed a pencil and wrote down a short note at the corner of his file.

He'd approached this case like every other one that had landed on his desk, looking for a straightforward motive. But this wasn't a normal case. Isabella Grant had been married to a billionaire. These people were practically a different species. They could kill for money. Shares, investments, portfolios. He barely understood any of that.

So he asked someone who did. "Who stands to benefit from the drop of the shares?"

"The board, possibly, if they didn't like Charles as chairman. He might lose his place. But basically, just about everyone with enough cash to buy shares right now."

The list was too long. He sighed, and pushed the folder away.

"Right. They don't pay me for extra hours. Is that enchiladas I smell?"

He knew there was plenty of work left to do, but it could wait until morning. First thing, he'd visit Charles Grant. He had to apologize for treating him like a criminal when they met, because, honestly, he'd been pretty certain he'd found the murderer. Then, he could ask him questions about his company, his rivals, and what had happened with the board right after the murder.

Also, he'd have to ask about the missing knife.

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