“Excuse me, ma’am,” Grant said and the woman spun around, a gasp on her lips and her hand pressed to her heart.

“Fucking hell,” she hissed. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Grant tried to smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I take it that you’re trying to talk to Mr. Fischer?”

She snorted in a very unladylike way. “Give the man a gold star,” she said sarcastically, then narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

He nearly gave her his real name. Then he thought of all the pains Wes had taken to hide his identity. If this woman was a cohort of Richard’s and if Richard was somehow involved in Wes’s disappearance, Grant would follow his brother’s example. “Lin Jackson.” It was his father-in-law’s name, but it was the best he could do with a split second’s warning.

I’m an accountant, for God’s sake. Wes is the creative one. So sue me.

“Sergeant Lin Jackson,” he added when the woman gave him a “so what” look.

“Oh.” She nodded, appearing satisfied. “You’re just the person I need to talk to. That bastard has my diamond earrings.”

“Oh, dear. And you are . . . ?” He took out his phone and prepared to note the name.

“Dawn Daley.” She leaned in to watch him type it in. “D-a-l-e-y. Make sure you spell it right. I want those earrings. They were my mother’s.”

“He stole them?” Grant asked carefully.

“Yes!” Dawn grimaced. “Well, not exactly. I left them on the nightstand in his bedroom yesterday. When he kicked me out.”

“You live here, then.” Which was how she’d known the security code.

She grimaced again. “Well, no. I would have liked to, of course, because the house is a fucking mansion, but Richard Fischer is a fucking asshole.”

“I got the asshole part,” Grant said dryly. “So you were his houseguest.” This woman had been inside the house. She’d been with Richard. She could give him information. “How well do you know Mr. Fischer?” he asked.

She looked embarrassed. “Not well. I kind of met him Friday night.”

Friday night. The night of the poker game. Excellent. “On his boat?”

She nodded. “Paid a mint for that ticket, too. The Friday night cruise tickets are expensive, but I was hoping to meet him. I . . . work for the casino.” Another grimace. “I wait tables.”

So she’d wanted a leg up the corporate ladder and instead she’d gotten kicked down a few rungs. The lady had a bone to pick. Wes had often told him that this made otherwise hostile witnesses more cooperative.

“Why are Friday nights expensive?” he asked.

“Because the boat leaves the dock on Fridays. It can only carry a certain number of people. I guess they charge admission to make up for the losses.”

“Do you ever work on Fridays?”