“I didn’t get the impression this meeting was optional.”

The detective dropped a manila folder on the table and the corner of an eight-by-ten glossy slid out of one side. Without looking Hudson knew it was a crime scene photo he had no inclination to see. The news and media outlets had leaked enough of the gruesome scene.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have your attorney present?” she asked, taking a seat in the metal chair across from him.

“You’re not charging me with a crime, Detective Green, simply requesting my cooperation. And with the exception of perhaps a few unpaid parking tickets, I have nothing to hide.” Hudson smiled, but the word ‘motherfucker’ ricocheted inside his skull. Fact was, he didn’t want Chicago’s finest digging into his closet of skeletons.

“We’re questioning everyone.” The detective’s tone was a mix of suspicion and pissed-off frustration that was no doubt the result of having an unsolved murder on her desk.

“You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t.”

The navy suit and the heavy-on-the-starch white button-down she wore creased as she leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. “You seem like the type of guy who doesn’t thrive on bullshit, so I’ll cut to it. Where were you on November first?”

“I was in Wisconsin.”

“On business?” She pulled a pen out of the interior pocket of her jacket.

“No, I was visiting my brother at a rehabilitation facility.”

Green nodded. “Seems drug addiction runs in the family.” She flipped the folder open and began reading her handwritten notes. “Parents deceased. Mother OD’d, father—”

“I’m more than happy to cooperate,” Hudson interrupted. “But I have no interest in running through my family tree.”

She set the top sheet aside, revealing a more formal report below. “Your brother has quite a rap sheet. In and out of foster homes, ran away from one, short stint in juvie.”

“Teen rebellion.”

“Teen rebellion is blowing curfew, not taking a neighbor’s car for a joyride that ends in the lake.”

“Your point, Detective?”

She raised a brow. “Nothing stronger than the bond of siblings. But I digress. Did you spend the night or return to Chicago?”

“It’s rehab, not the Hilton.” Hudson’s gaze was rock-steady as he recalled the lady at the front desk of the facility. She’d been drillsergeant strict on protocol, insisting he sign in, wear a visitor badge, and surrender his phone. Being bossed around was not something he was accustomed to, but Nurse Ratched was now his alibi and he was thanking his lucky-fucking-stars he had a paper trail to prove it.

“But you own a home out there on,” she glanced at her notes, “Lake Geneva.”

“I own a cabin there, correct.”

She whistled through her teeth as she looked over the next piece of paper. “Judging by the real estate records, it’s a pretty luxurious cabin,” she said, accenting the last word. “What was the rush to get back to Chicago?”

“You’re right, Detective Green, circling bullshit isn’t my game. There were any number of issues requiring my attention that day. I run a company with numerous subsidiaries around the world. There is great responsibility that comes with that.”

“Your most recent venture being Ingram Media?”

“Correct again.”

“Quite the score for your portfolio.”

“No argument. I’m a businessman who seizes opportunities when presented.”

“But Richard Sinclair was standing between you and controlling interest of the company.”

“Hardly.” Leveling his stare, Hudson leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “I had no motive to kill Richard Sinclair, Detective. I’d been purchasing shares at an accelerated rate. It was only a matter of time until I secured the necessary percentage to gain a majority stake hold.”

Detective Green set the last page of notes aside, revealing the stack of crime scene photos. The first was a shot of Richard Sinclair, slumped over his desk, blood pooling on the leather top. “On October twenty-eighth you took a meeting with Mr. Sinclair?”

“Yes.”

“What was the nature of your business?”

“I offered him a lifeline.”

“To save his company? Why would a corporate raider like yourself propose striking a deal?”

“Sinclair’s company was going under. I met with him to make a generous offer that would pull Chicago’s most iconic company out of financial ruin.”

“What was the offer?”

“I would take ownership of the conglomerate with Ingram Media becoming a subsidiary of Chase Industries. Richard Sinclair would still run the day-to-day operations.” He leaned back in the chair. “In essence nothing would change, other than I would be his boss.”

“I’m assuming he wasn’t interested?”

Hudson smirked. “Pride commeth before the fall.”

“Meaning?”

“Richard didn’t want to work for me. He preferred to keep the business in the family. He was convinced he could salvage his company using the funds he’d secured from Julian Laurent.”

“And Mr. Laurent is his daughter’s fiancé?”

“Was.”

“My mistake.” She eyed him speculatively before making a notation in the margin of one of the pages. “So Sinclair cut off negotiations at that point?”

“I believe his exact words were ‘go fuck yourself.’” Hudson glanced at his black pearl-faced Rolex. “If you have no further questions, Detective, I have pressing business to attend to.” None of which involved him spending the afternoon under a spotlight while Chicago’s finest poked around in his past looking for trigger points.

“That’s all for now.” Detective Green gathered her notes and stuffed them back into the folder. As she stood, a uniformed officer opened the door from the outside. “I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”

Hudson shook the Detective’s outstretched hand, and just like that, he was out of there. But as he exited the interrogation room he could feel her watching him, and something in his gut told him he hadn’t heard the last from Detective Green.

Chapter Seven

Allie crossed her legs in the back of the limo and adjusted her black evening gown. With its square neckline and figure-skimming silhouette, the sleeveless, floor-length dress had always been one of her favorites. But tonight she’d chosen it simply for its color.

The ride from her Astor Place brownstone to the Art Institute was a short one, but the traffic moved at a crawl down Michigan Avenue, and the wait at each red light only gave her more time to think about the evening that lay ahead of her. She’d attended more charity events than she could count, as a guest and then more recently as part of the fund-raising team at the Ingram Foundation, but this was different. This time she was the only surviving member of the family and she was attending the event to accept a posthumous award on her late mother’s behalf.

As the limo rolled to a stop in front of the museum, it wasn’t the two bronze lions flanking the stone steps that caught her eye. It was the Chicago Symphony Orchestra on the opposite side of the street that drew her gaze. Light glowed in the soaring arched windows, and as she watched the patrons mingling in front of the glass, she felt a sense of peace unlike any she’d felt in weeks.

“I’ll have security back them up before I open the door,” her driver said, grounding her in the moment. It was just as well. There wasn’t time for a trip down memory lane. She had a press line to face¸ the first one since her parents’ murder. And judging by the photographers surrounding the limo, more than a few tabloid freelancers to deal with as well. She needed to keep her focus on that, not box seats and velvet curtains.