Grayson imported the photographs he’d taken of Gigi’s key the night before to his laptop. Using his hand in the photo for scale, he calculated the key’s dimensions, double-checked those calculations, and used them, along with a ghost image of the key, to begin building a digital model. By the time the Haywood-Astyria’s personal concierge came to check on him midday, he was nearly done.
“Is there anything we can get you, sir?”
For a black-card guest at this establishment, that question didn’t refer only to hotel amenities. “I’m going to need a 3D printer,” Grayson replied. He didn’t have to provide a rationale for the request, so he did not. “Please.”
The concierge left. Grayson finished his work. Saving it, he made a second, nearly identical file, altering the key’s teeth just enough to render this one useless. Sorry, Gigi. Not allowing himself to wallow in that thought, he turned his attention to an equally unpleasant one. “What exactly does one wear to a high school party?”
Even when Grayson had been in high school, he hadn’t ever needed the answer to that question. His brothers had attended such parties occasionally, but Grayson had never seen the point. And if he had gone, he wouldn’t have wasted a single second deciding what to wear. A fine suit was like armor, and Grayson had been raised to walk into every room armed.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he needed to blend in. Unfortunately, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne knew nothing about blending. “Shorts?”
Thankfully, his phone rang before he could meditate too long on that possibility. “Zabrowski,” Grayson answered, sliding smoothly into business mode. “I trust you have answers for me.”
If you allow people to fail you, he could hear his grandfather lecturing,
they inevitably will. So don’t give them the option.
“I ran a basic background check on Kent Trowbridge,” the private investigator reported.
“Do I pay you,” Grayson said evenly, “for basic?”
“And then I fleshed it out,” Zabrowski said hurriedly. “As you’ve probably gathered, the guy’s a lawyer—and very connected. Comes from a whole family of lawyers. Or maybe dynasty is the better word.”
“I take it they’re financially… stable,” Grayson translated.
“Very. And interestingly for your purposes, the guy grew up alongside Acacia Grayson née Engstrom. The Trowbridge and Engstrom families go way back.”
Grayson filed that piece of information away. “Anything else?” “He’s widowed, one son.”
Grayson was well aware of the son. “And the Grayson family’s current financial situation?” The list of assignments he’d given Zabrowski after the conversation he’d overheard between Acacia and Trowbridge was lengthy.
The detective kept his reply short. “Not good.”
The muscles in Grayson’s jaw tightened. He’d kept Zabrowski on retainer to make sure that the girls were taken care of, and he had been given the distinct impression that finances were not an issue in the Grayson household—and never would be. “Explain.”
“When the Engstrom matriarch passed away the year before last, everything was left to Acacia and her daughters—in trusts.”
Grayson thought about Acacia saying that her parents were the ones who’d bankrolled her husband’s companies. “And?” He had no intention of letting Zabrowski off that easily.
“Outside of those trusts, all of Acacia Grayson’s assets were jointly held with her husband… who has since come under IRS and FBI investigation.”
Grayson had never allowed himself a temper, so he didn’t lose it. He didn’t say What the hell have I been paying your retainer for? He didn’t have to. “What kind of investigation?” he demanded with icy, unnatural calm.
That tone had put the fear of God and Hawthornes in better men than the detective. Grayson could practically hear him gulp.
“White collar, presumably,” Zabrowski managed. “Tax evasion, embezzlement, insider trading—your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do I pay you to guess?”
“Point is, the joint accounts are frozen.” Zabrowski rushed the words. “Some have already been seized. Someone’s keeping it out of the press, but
—”
“And the money left to Acacia in trust?” Grayson asked. Those funds would have been hers and hers alone, not subject to seizure based on her husband’s crimes unless she was implicated as well.
“Gone,” Zabrowski said.
Grayson felt his eyes narrow. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Do you know how many laws I had to break to even get this information?” Zabrowski shot back.
“Let’s assume none,” Grayson said in a tone meant to remind the private investigator that if laws had been broken, he couldn’t know about it. “Continue.”
If Zabrowski resented being given orders by a person less than half his age, he was wise enough not to show it. “Acacia Grayson’s trust was drained—presumably by her husband before he fled the country.”
Sheffield Grayson didn’t flee the country. “And the girls’ trusts?” Grayson asked.
“Intact and substantial,” Zabrowski assured him. “But the Engstroms must have had some reservations about their daughter and her husband, because neither were listed as trustees.”
Grayson processed that in an instant and wasted no time with his reply. “Allow me to guess: Kent Trowbridge.”
If the joint accounts were frozen and Acacia’s trust was gone, that almost certainly meant Acacia was using her daughters’ trusts to fund their living expenses—but as trustee, Trowbridge would have to sign off on those expenditures. Grayson thought back to the night before, to the way the lawyer had put his hand on Acacia’s shoulder, far too close to her neck.
“Keep digging,” he ordered Zabrowski. “I want a copy of the trust paperwork so I can read through the provisions myself.”
“I can’t just—”
“I am not interested in can’t.” Grayson lowered his voice. Making someone strain to hear you was one way of ensuring they were that much more motivated to listen. “I’ll also need the details of the IRS and FBI investigations—but don’t run afoul of either agency yourself.”
“That all?” Zabrowski clearly meant that sarcastically, but Grayson chose to take the question at face value.
“You’ll find a transfer in your account, twice the retainer I’ve been paying.” That was another power move: transferring the money before the other person had a chance to decline your offer. “And I’ll need a recommendation.” Grayson pivoted to an easier ask, one to make the man forget for a second or two how tall the rest of the order was. “Who do you have who can discreetly make keys?”
