“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?”
CHAPTER 28
GRAYSON
The situation—Gigi, the key, the party, the search—had changed. That much was clear. Before, his objective had been to make sure that Gigi didn’t find her way into their father’s safe-deposit box. Now, however, he needed in that box himself.
Before the FBI realizes it exists. Grayson didn’t have a guess about what white-collar crimes his father might have committed, but he did know that the man had paid money to have Avery followed, stalked, attacked, and kidnapped. Assuming Sheffield Grayson had covered his tracks, that suggested the existence of offshore accounts or otherwise untraceable funds. If the FBI somehow managed to find a trail, however slim, of those transactions—or any other proof of Sheffield Grayson’s plot against the Hawthorne heiress—they might begin to view his disappearance through another lens.
They might start asking questions and pulling at threads that Grayson could not let unravel.
That in mind, Grayson picked up the small, discreet USB drive he’d taken from Sheffield Grayson’s study. He plugged an adapter into his laptop, but when he went to plug the drive into the adapter, he realized that it didn’t fit. Not a USB. It was slightly wider, slightly taller. He turned the end upward and examined it. Definitely not a USB. Grayson could make out what looked like small, wire-thin pegs inside. So what is it? He prodded at the casing, then set it down and reached into his pocket, withdrawing the index card he’d taken from Sheffield Grayson’s office.
A fake USB. An index card, cut down in size. Grayson felt like he was back at Hawthorne House, playing one of the old man’s Saturday morning games. A collection of objects would be laid out in front of Grayson and his brothers, but their purpose, their use, where to begin? Figuring that out was the challenge.
Sheffield Grayson is not the old man, and this is not a game. Grayson told himself that, but it did no good: He had to examine every inch of the card. There was a slight notch in one side and two on another, spaced about an inch apart.
Three notches in a white card. A fake USB drive. Before Grayson could puzzle over—and through—that, his phone rang, and Xander’s name flashed across the screen. Deciding to save himself the trouble—and the yodeling—of ignoring the call, Grayson picked up. “Hello.”