Page 90 of Paternal Instincts
He motioned us into a formal living room off the entrance hallway, the type I doubted saw a lot of traffic and was likely off-limits to sticky-fingered grandchildren. “I’ll be right back.”
Without needing to converse, Aslan and I made eye contact.
Bess entered, a look of surprise widening her gray eyes. “Detectives.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” I said, finding a friendly smile.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“They’re fine,” Benedict snapped, walking in behind her and guiding his wife by the arm to sit. The towel had been replaced with a wad of gauze and medical tape.
Bess lowered meekly into a cushioned seat among decorative pillows that prevented her from sitting back or getting comfortable. She eyed her husband, noticing but not commenting on the injury.
Benedict chose to stand, arms awkwardly crossed to protect the swaddled hand. “Ask your questions.”
Aslan and I didn’t sit either, keeping a level playing field. My husband held a folder and brown paper bag containing the test kit tucked against his chest.
Uncomfortable in informal attire, I struggled to find my usual confidence and shifted my weight before beginning. “We have a lot to take care of this morning, so I’ll cut to the chase. We had our IT specialist run a financial background on you last night, and—”
“You what?” Benedict’s spine stiffened, and his features contorted. “That’s against the law.”
On cue, Aslan presented the warrant that gave us permission. “I assure you, Mr. Davis, we followed the legal channels.” He smirked in the cocky fashion Aslan had when dealing with douchebags.
Benedict glared at the signed warrant and back at me. “What does this have to do with my missing grandson?”
“That’s what we’re trying to sort out.” I glanced at Bess, who worried her hands, staring at the mouth of the hallway leading into an unknown part of the house. “Mr. Davis,” I turned back to Benedict. “Our IT specialist discovered an exorbitant amount of money being regularly deposited into a secret account belonging to your daughter-in-law. Although we have yet to confirm our suspicions, we believe that some, if not all, of the recent payments originated from NexGen. Can you explain this?”
Benedict’s temple throbbed as the man’s face turned puce. He clenched the fist of his uninjured hand, nostrils flaring. “You had no right—”
Aslan flapped the warrant in the air again, clearing his throat.
I waited.
Benedict did not scramble to cover up the claim. He did not dash a frantic look at his wife. He simply fumed.
Bess’s face, unlike her husband’s, drained of color. She sat motionless, staring into the middle distance, almost like she wished she could disappear.
When the silence had gone on too long, I spoke again. “Mr. Davis, you don’t seem to have a good relationship with Imogen. In fact, not ten minutes ago, you called her a whore. Help me understand why a man who loathes his son’s wife might pay her hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of… years. Honestly, we couldn’t even trace how far back this went.”
“This has no bearing on Crowley’s abduction,” the man shouted. “I refuse to discuss it.”
Bess startled at his raised tone.
I didn’t. “You see, from my perspective, I disagree. Crowley is eight years old. Have you been paying Imogen since his birth? Since before? What inspires a man to drain his retirement savings on a woman he doesn’t like?”
Benedict’s throat bobbed. Blood seeped through the gauze, staining the outside of the bandage crimson.
“What’s interesting,” Aslan said, cutting in, “is that we chatted with Nixon yesterday, and he knew nothing about this exchange of money.”
Bess redirected her attention to her husband. The profound worry in her eyes suggested she knew what this was about.
“Mrs. Davis,” I said, turning to the fretting wife. “What do you—”
“Leave her out of this,” Benedict snapped.
“Sweetie,” Bess said. “Your hand.”
“It’s fine.”
