Page 24 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Selina Sanchez hadn’t gotten where she was by sitting around and waiting for others to do things for her.

Or by asking for permission to do them herself.

She was a champion gymnast with an athletic scholarship. She was also an A student, mastering tough subjects like organic chemistry and advanced calculus using what she called her “mental muscle.”

She was an intellect who’d begun to crack the Da Vinci code of her father’s supposed suicide note.

And now was playing ace investigator, pursuing the case her sister would not.

Selina was sitting in the office of her father’s former business partner, in Whittier, a suburb of LA.

Dapper, sixty-year-old, balding, solidly built Carl Overton—who always wore dark three-piece suits—looked at her with dismay. “Someone’s stalking you? One of your dad’s former clients?”

“I think so.” A hedge that sort of defused the lie. “I’ve gotten messages about how Dad ruined their lives with his bad investments. And now they want to ruin my life.”

“What does your sister say? Or the police?”

She scoffed and tried to remind herself to be a talented—that is, understated—actor playing her part in the role she’d created. “They don’t care. There’s no proof a crime was committed. They can’t devote resources until something actually happens.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that. Domestic abuse and stalking. The police need concrete evidence before they do anything.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Get financial statements from back then. See who lost money in the bad fund, and how much.”

“Well, I’m sorry, honey. But I have a fiduciary responsibility. I could lose my license, and get sued, by revealing confidential client details without a subpoena. If I were served with papers, I’d have cover for turning over sensitive information.”

She countered: “But I don’t think there’s enough evidence for that. Just some phone calls I’ve gotten. Some mean comments on social media. Posted from anonymous accounts.”

“Well, I can’t give you records. I’d get in really hot water.” A wan smile. “As hot as the tea your dad used to drink.”

She plastered on a smile that matched his. Hiding the fresh surge of anger that someone had killed her father.

And Carmen’s refusal to do anything about it. She was certain her hard-charging sister could finagle a subpoena if she really wanted to, with only the thinnest of evidence.

“Well, Mr. Overton, what about just a list of names? Then I could go online and see if any of them had records. Previous stalking. Abuse. Anything violent.”

Or had a history of goddamn money laundering.

Which, of course, she did not add.

Carl Overton had been like an uncle to her and Carmen.

Not immediate-family close, but he’d always treated them kindly and been generous with presents at birthdays and around holidays.

He’d put together the funeral reception, which was held at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city—and was attended by CEOs of major companies and even some Los Angeles city officials.

It appeared he really did want to help but could not quite reconcile the legal and ethical issues.

She tried another approach to push him over those hurdles. “It’s like what happened with that guy, Bernie Madoff. He lost all his clients’ money, and they came after his family, even if they hadn’t done anything wrong. There was a TV special on him.”

He nodded in understanding, but clearly still wasn’t convinced.

Selina sat forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if government regulators lurked nearby. “You know, my dad probably still has some of his own files in the effects Carmen and I have.”

Though they had nothing to do with his work. His financial advisory files had all disappeared—and she now knew why.

But she continued, “And if anybody asked, well, I could just tell people that I found them there. On his old laptop at home.”

Would he understand that she was giving him cover?

“Probably,” he said uncertainly.

“And they’d never know.” She waved a hand at his computer. Finishing the sentence with a silent “where any files you gave me came from.”

“Hm.” His dark eyes swiveled from her to the computer and back again.

Her older sister had taught her that when you were interrogating a suspect, silence could be your friend. Shut up until they feel compelled to fill the awkward pauses.

Overton hesitated for a long minute and then, apparently coming to a decision, began typing on his keyboard. “It’ll take a while. And there’ll be gaps. Roberto’s clients all moved on—those who still have money to invest, anyway.” He grimaced. “Sorry. That came out badly.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s simply the truth.”

He turned to his computer.

Overton had been referring to the bum investment her father had persuaded people to sink their money into. Normally he wouldn’t have counseled such a lopsided portfolio, but this fund had been vastly outperforming the market for several years.

Roberto had done nothing illegal, and he wasn’t the only adviser who’d been stung by the choice.

The disaster could be traced to the fickleness of the stock market—and by the stroke of terrible coincidence that the three largest companies in the portfolio had all suffered financial disasters simultaneously.

Two went bankrupt and the government sued the third for unfair trade practices.

But that knowledge had been of zero comfort to those who had lost their life savings and were too old to earn it back.

Yet the tragedy now worked to Selina’s advantage, creating the basis for the fiction that a resentful stalker had targeted her. A fiction that Overton had apparently bought.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He gave her a curt nod in response.

She got to her feet. “Is the bathroom still in the hallway?”

“That’s right. The code is one two three eight.”

After leaving his office she walked down the corridor, passed by the restroom and continued toward the door to what had been her father’s office, now sealed off from Overton’s but accessible from here.

Was it occupied? What would she say to whoever was inside?

If it was empty, would the door be locked?

Didn’t matter.

Locked or not, she would get in.

She reached the closed door and looked at the sign above it.

Storage

Of course, no one else had wanted to work in a space that had seen such tragedy.

She twisted the knob. Locked. But it was a simple mechanism and, after making sure no one was around, she removed a flexible plastic rectangle—a sporting goods store loyalty card—from her wallet.

Using an old burglar’s trick her sister had casually mentioned to her years ago, she kept working the card against the dead bolt until it was pushed from the hole in the frame.

The door swung open. After casting another furtive glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind her.

Gone were the pair of black leather chairs she and her sister would lounge in, playing video games or reading books on the Saturdays and Sundays Roberto came in to get work done and not have to be concerned about client visits.

Gone were the modern desk and sleek credenza.

Gone were the empty file boxes the girls had stacked to build fortresses.

Gone, the family pictures that were everywhere, from walls, to filing cabinets to credenza, to desk.

Ah, the desk, she thought, blinking back tears. The desk with the dent in the front that Carmen said looked like a belly button, making Selina dissolve into giggles.

The desk where Roberto had been forced to write the note, a copy of which burned in her pocket.

My goddesses . . .

And the anger returned, nearly blinding her.

Slowly, she turned to face the window.

After a steadying breath, she walked toward it.

Her fingers, suddenly cold and nerveless, fumbled to release the latches.

She grasped the metal hooks at the bottom of the sash, but it was stuck.

After a considerable amount of tugging and cursing, the lower pane slowly squeaked up.

A cool breeze blew over her sweat-damp skin, raising goose pimples.

Swallowing the bile creeping up the back of her throat, she bent and leaned her upper body out. Her gaze traveled to the parking lot far below. Carmen had gotten the entire police file, which contained the crime scene photos, Selina was sure. But her sister had sent her only the note.

Just as well. She didn’t want to see her father’s body bloody and broken.

But now, she did have to see the place where he died.

What had he been thinking as he sailed through the air?

Had he been conscious or, as Carmen believed, had the killer knocked him out after he wrote the note?

Although, privately, Selina wondered whether her sister had told her that to spare her the horror of imagining their father’s last moments of sheer terror as he plummeted to his death.

And how had he been coerced to write it? Carmen had shared her theory that someone must have threatened the only thing he cared about more than life itself—his daughters.

Who the hell was the killer?

Carmen said Jake Heron and a friend had discovered that it was a professional hit man. What had he looked like? Was his voice high or low? Did he feel any remorse?

But, most importantly, who hired him?

A creak behind her. She whirled around.

Carl Overton was staring at her. His gaze traveled to the open window, then returned to her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He must have heard the pane squeak.

She realized he’d closed the door behind him and swallowed the lump in her throat. “I had to see.”

He gave no reaction. His expression hardened a fraction, and for a moment it was as if he didn’t believe her—about what she was doing here in the first place and what she wanted the names for.

And worse, that he resented her mission altogether.

“How did you get in? The storage room is supposed to be locked.” He walked toward her, and she stepped back, nearer to the window.

Before he reached her, a noise from the hallway drew Overton’s attention, stopping him in his tracks. The door opened and a member of the cleaning crew stepped inside. She glanced at the two of them, then began to empty a waste bin.

Overton moved past Selina, then closed and locked the window. He gave her a meaningful look. “My office.”

He left. She followed.

Inside, he returned to his desk and said, “I didn’t know what dates you wanted for the client list.”

Was this the reason he’d gone to find her? Wasn’t it obvious? He clearly knew when Roberto died and who his clients were at the time.

She gave it some thought and said, “For the twelve months leading up to his death?”

A slow nod. He resumed typing. Several sheets hissed from the laser printer beside the desk.

He handed them to her.

And for the first time, a thought occurred. Yes, Roberto had invested badly—but only he and his clients had suffered. Was Overton wholly innocent of the decision? The men had very likely discussed the fund. What had the senior partner’s opinion of it been?

And why had Overton not invested in the fund too?

She decided that maybe he had, but didn’t recommend that his own clients put all their savings into it.

She scoffed to herself. This investigator stuff was making her suspicious of everyone .

Overton regarded her carefully before saying, “I wish you all the best with your mission.”

“My mission?” she asked softly.

“Finding your stalker, of course.”

“Oh, sure. Thank you.”