Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sandra Brown is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers--including most recently Smash Cut, Smoke Screen, Play Dirty, Ricochet, Chill Factor, White Hot, Hello, Darkness, The Crush, and Envy.  She is the recipient of the 2008 Thriller Master Award from International Thriller Writers, Inc. She and her husband live in Arlington, Texas.

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Smash Cut

Simon & Schuster

CREIGHTON WHEELER STORMED ACROSS THE BLUESTONE TERRACE, whipping off his sun visor and making a swipe at the sweat streaming down his face, then without breaking stride, angrily tossed the damp towel and visor onto a chaise. "This better be damn important. I was about to break his serve."

The housekeeper who'd summoned him from the tennis court was unfazed by his temper. "Don't you take that tone with me. It's your daddy wants to see you."

Her name was Ruby. Creighton didn't know her last name and had never bothered to ask, although she'd been in the family's employ since before he was born. Any time he got out of sorts with her, she reminded him that she'd wiped his butt and his nose, that both had been nasty, and that she hadn't enjoyed doing either. It rankled to think of her being that familiar with his person, even when he was a baby.

He brushed past her three-hundred-pound bulk and crossed the industrial-size kitchen to one of several refrigerators, yanking open the door.

"Right now, he said."

Ignoring her, Creighton got a can of Coke from the Sub-Zero, ripped off the tab, and took a long drink. He rolled the cold can across his forehead. "Take one of these out to Scott."

"Your tennis coach's legs ain't broke." She turned back to the counter and slapped her large hand on the hunk of beef she was preparing to go into the roasting pan.

Something ought to be done about her sass, Creighton thought as he pushed through the swinging door and made his way toward the front of the house, where his father had a study. The door was ajar. He paused outside it, then knocked once on the doorjamb with his Coke can, nudged the door open, and strolled in, twirling the tennis racquet against his shoulder. He looked every inch the aristocrat called away from a session of healthy exercise. It was a role he was perfectly suited to play.

Doug Wheeler was seated behind his desk, which was presidential in proportion but much more pretentious than anything inside the Oval Office. The desk was flanked by mahogany flagpoles, one for the Georgia state flag, the other for Old Glory. Ancestors glared from oil portraits hanging on opposite walls, which were paneled in stained cypress meant to last till the Second Coming.

"Scott's time is money, and the clock is ticking," Creighton said.

"I'm afraid this can't wait. Please sit down."

Creighton took a seat in one of the cordovan leather chairs facing his father's desk and propped his tennis racquet against it. "I didn't know you were here. Weren't you scheduled to play golf this afternoon?" He leaned forward and set his Coke can on the polished surface of the desk.

Frowning, Doug placed a coaster beneath the can so it wouldn't leave a moisture ring. "I dropped by here to change before going to the club," he said. "But something urgent -- "

"Don't tell me," Creighton interrupted. "The paper clip audit exposed an embezzlement. Damn those sneaky secretaries."

"Paul is dead."

Creighton's heart gave a bump. His smile collapsed. "What?"

Doug cleared his throat. "Your uncle was shot and killed in the Hotel Moultrie about an hour ago."

Creighton continued to stare at him, then finally released his breath. "Well, in the immortal words of Forrest Gump. Actually his mother. 'Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.' "

His father lurched to his feet. "Is that all you can say?"

"I think that says it fairly well."

Creighton had never seen his father cry. He wasn't crying now, but his eyes looked suspiciously moist and he was swallowing too often and too hard. In an attempt to hide the emotion about to overwhelm him, he stepped from behind his desk and moved to the wide window. He looked out over the grounds of the estate, where Mexican laborers were hand-picking weeds from colorful beds of impatiens and caladiums.

Quietly Creighton asked, "Did I hear you correctly, Father? Uncle Paul was shot?"

"In the forehead. Almost point-blank range. During an apparent holdup."

"A holdup? Like a robbery? At the Moultrie?"

"As unheard of as that seems."

Doug ran a hand through his hair, which was thick and gray like that of his brother -- now late brother -- who had been his senior by only eleven months. He and Paul went to the same barber and used the same tailor. Of almost identical height and weight, they were often mistaken for each other from the back. Their sibling relationship had been almost as close as that of twins.

"I don't know any details," Doug continued. "Julie was almost too distraught to speak."

"She was notified first?"

"Actually, she was with him when it happened."

"At the Hotel Moultrie. During the middle of a weekday."

Doug came around and gave his son a hard look. "She was almost hysterical. According to the policeman. Detective actually. He took the phone from her when she could no longer speak. He told me that she had insisted on calling and telling me herself. But she managed to get out only a few incoherent words before she began crying to the point that I could no longer understand her." He paused to clear his throat.

"The detective, Sanford I think he said his name was, seemed decent enough. He extended his condolences and told me I could come to the morgue if I...if I wanted to see Paul's body. There'll be an autopsy, of course."

Creighton looked away. "Christ."

"Yes," Doug said on a weighty sigh. "I can't come to terms with it either."

"Did they catch the guy?"

"Not yet."

"Where in the hotel?"

"The detective didn't say."

"One of the shops?"

"I don't know."

"Who would rob -- "

"I don't know," Doug snapped.

A taut silence followed. Doug's shoulders settled heavily on his tall frame. "I'm sorry, Creighton. I'm...not myself."

"Understandably. It's astonishing."

Doug massaged his forehead. "The detective said he would give me a full account when I get there." He glanced at the open door but made no move toward it, clearly reluctant to leave on that errand.

"What about Mother? Has she been told?"

"She was here when Julie called. Naturally she's upset, but there are arrangements that must be made. She's upstairs making preliminary calls." Doug went to the bar and poured himself a shot of bourbon. "Want one?"

"No thank you."

Doug tossed back the drink and picked up the decanter again. "As difficult as this tragedy is to absorb, there are practical matters that must be addressed."

Creighton braced himself. He disdained anything with the word practical attached to it.

"Tomorrow morning, I want you to go to the offices and make a personal statement to our personnel."

Inwardly Creighton groaned. He wanted nothing to do with their personnel, which amounted to several hundred people, each of whom held his uncle Paul in the highest esteem while most demonstrated nothing but contempt for him whenever he graced the corporate headquarters with his presence, which was as seldom as possible.

Wheeler Enterprises manufactured and sold building materials of some kind. Whoopee. Fascinating.

His father looked over his shoulder at him. Obviously a response was expected.

"Of course. What should I say?"

"I'll write something out tonight. I'll call for a companywide assembly in the auditorium on the third floor at ten o'clock. Deliver your statement, then perhaps a minute of silence should be observed."

Creighton nodded solemnly. "Most appropriate."

Doug downed the second drink, then...