Wrong Place, Wrong Time (20 page)

One ring. Two.

“Yeah?” Monty sounded distracted.

“Bad time?”

“Today’s been one long bad time so far. What’s up?”

“Just a question. Did the police release Frederick’s car?”

“Doubtful. They’ll probably keep it awhile. If a new lead turns up, they’ll want to sweep it again for forensics. Why?”

“Because I’m confused. Last night when Blake picked me up, he was driving a silver Jag. But just now I saw him leave the clinic driving a black Mercedes S500 luxury sedan. If it’s not Frederick’s, whose is it?”

“I don’t know. But I will. Thanks, honey.” Monty paused. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” Devon returned lightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because my gut tells me you have more than a professional interest in Blake Pierson.”

“I’ll get over it.”

The words tasted like sandpaper on her tongue. Suspecting Blake of poking around to get information for his grandfather was one thing. Suspecting him of being involved in Frederick’s death in a more hands-on way was quite another.

Just how used was she being?

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Monty advised her. “Another trick of the trade.”

“I’m not. I’m just steeling myself.” Devon cleared her throat. “Anyway, just so you know, I’m headed up to Mom’s place to check on the animals. I’ll eyeball the Pierson farm when I cruise by.”

“Drive safe. And, Dev, hang tough.”

“I plan to.”

MONTY DIDN’T WASTE time.

He went straight to his most cooperative source.

Alice Jeffers looked up from behind her desk as Monty approached. “Mr. Montgomery,” she greeted him cordially. “How can I help you?”

“I’m on my way to examine the execs’ cars. I want to make sure they’re all safe and no one’s tampered with them. Can you get me a list of who drives what?”

“Certainly.” She frowned. “Did you want a list of personal cars as well as company cars?”

“I’d appreciate it, yes.” Monty paused. “How many company cars are there?”

“About a dozen. Each of the top-level executives has one.”

“And they’re all Mercedes S500s.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” Ms. Jeffers smiled. “That’s Edward Pierson’s car of choice.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“WHAT THE HELL are you babbling about?” Edward stared blankly at Monty.

“Your company cars. Why didn’t you tell me there are a dozen of them that are identical to Frederick’s?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Did you give that information to the police?”

Edward’s shoulders lifted in a puzzled shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know. Why?”

“Because the tire treads found at the crime scene belonged to a Mercedes S500. We all assumed they came from Frederick’s car.”

“Yeah, well, they must have. There was only one set of tire treads in the driveway.”

“True. But there was also a set of treads in the alcove off the road. What if those were made by another car — more specifically, another S500?”

Edward went very still. “Then someone I trust at Pierson & Company would be a murderer.”

THE INTERMEDIATE-LEVEL competition at the Gold Coast Classic started right on time.

The International Arena at the Palm Beach Equestrian Club was full, thousands of spectators filling the stands. Anticipation hovered in the air and rippled through the crowd.

Bill Granger, a groom at the Pierson stables, eagerly waited his turn. He was a good rider, especially on Future, Edward’s prize six-year-old stallion. Future was a winner; Bill had no doubt he’d amass a sterling record over time — even if he wasn’t the Olympic champion that Stolen Thunder was. Bill knew this horse. He had heart, and he had grit. That was something Bill and Future had in common.

They were a good team. Bill knew Future’s abilities like the back of his hand. He exercised the stallion every day, and dreamed about getting a chance to compete.

His day had finally come.

He felt bad that James was sick. But he’d do him and Mr. Pierson proud. He’d place in this competition. He just had to stay focused.

His fingers brushed the saddle pad on Future’s back — just once for good luck. It was something he always saw James do, and he understood why. The saddle pad represented a win. It brandished the colors of the Pierson stable: white with a blue border and, in the center, a red emblem of two stallions, squared off and facing each other. James called the saddle pad his lucky charm.

Bill was counting on that luck extending to him.

He dragged an arm across his forehead. Damn, the sun was strong today. Maybe that’s why he felt dizzy. Or maybe it was because he was so pumped up. Either way, it wouldn’t affect him. He wouldn’t let it.

With pride, he rode Future out of the warm-up ring, under the overpass, and into the arena. They were announced. He urged the stallion into a trot, leading him down the center of the ring, then around, pausing only when they reached the jury box so he could tip his cap to the judges.

The time bell sounded.

Bill urged Future into a left lead canter. The first jump was a single fence and low. Horse and rider took it beautifully, timing and all. But Bill’s head was woozy. And it was getting worse.

He pushed Future on the second jump. He could feel the pacing error starting from six strides away. Not a huge error, but enough for Future to overjump the double fence. That would cost them points. And the third jump, coming up fast, was the dolphin jump — high, blue gray, with the figure of a dolphin on either end. Well known as a major challenge.

By the time they reached it, Bill was sweating profusely. He could hardly think past the buzzing in his head. Little black spots were dancing before his eyes.

He saw the dolphins. They flickered in and out of his vision, obscured by those damned black spots. He hunkered down as he and Future approached the fence. He felt Future gather his legs beneath him. He felt the momentum of going up and over. And he felt the ground rush up at him.

Then he felt nothing at all.

DEVON FINISHED UP at her mother’s house, pleased to see that all the animals were in great shape. They’d been fed, their pens and stalls cleaned, and the horses had been exercised. Reading the note that was taped to the barn door, Devon realized she owed the great care the animals had received to the Piersons’ groom, Roberto.

She decided to stop next door to thank him personally.

Maneuvering her car down the winding driveway, Devon admitted to herself that she had two reasons for this visit. One, to thank Roberto, and two, to see if any of the Piersons were around so she could talk to them.

To her surprise, Dr. Vista’s truck was parked near the stables. It was hard to miss — the truck was a giant Suburban with an extra-wide trailer hitched to its rear.

Devon hesitated. The genetic consultant hadn’t been too thrilled the last time she showed up here; he seemed to regard her as some kind of competition. Maybe she’d thank Roberto another time.

She was about to pull away when the stable door opened and Vista walked out. Collar turned up against the cold, he took a few steps toward his truck. Then he spotted Devon.

He walked over to her car, and she rolled down the window.

“Dr. Montgomery,” he greeted her, no sign of his earlier tension present. “This is a surprise.”

“Hello, Dr. Vista.” She had no idea why she felt compelled to explain herself. But she did. “I dashed out of work to ride up and check on my mom’s barn. Roberto’s obviously been caring for all its occupants. I stopped by here to thank him.”

An understanding nod. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that. I didn’t see him in the stables. That doesn’t mean he isn’t around. He could be exercising one of the horses in the indoor arena.”

“I’m due back at my clinic anyway. I’ll just jot down a quick note and tape it to the inside of the stable door. That way, Roberto will find it.”

“Good idea.” Vista gave a wave of his hand and stepped away from the car. “I’m heading out myself. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

Devon watched him drive away, the truck and trailer crunching heavily in the snow. His progress was slow. No surprise, given the Suburban’s cumbersome weight. Vista must have some serious medical equipment stored in there.

Pulling out a sheet of paper, Devon scribbled a note to Roberto.

MONTY STOPPED BY Philip Rhodes’s office late in the day. Ms. Jeffers had already gone home, but Rhodes was still there.

With a purposeful knock, Monty swung open the door and walked in, not giving Rhodes a chance to school his features. The man’s head jerked up, and he stared at Monty as if expecting him to slap on cuffs and lead him away.

“Did you find the file you were looking for in Frederick’s office?” Monty asked.

“What? Oh, yes. It was on the top shelf of his credenza.” Rhodes was flushed, and he loosened his collar as he spoke. “I also talked to that Jenkins guy. He said he’s a forensic accountant.”

“Yup. Best in the business. He’s sweeping all the financial records to see if Frederick was in any trouble.”

No response.

“By the way,” Monty continued. “I checked out your company car. It was clean.”

“Clean?”

“Yeah, you know — not tampered with.”

Rhodes half rose from his chair. “Were you expecting that it had been?”

A shrug. “Don’t know. Then again, I didn’t know you had a Mercedes S500, either. Were you aware that was the make of the only tire treads found at the crime scene?”

“I assumed as much. Frederick drove the same make and model.”

“Just like all the other execs. Quite a coincidence.” Monty flattened his palms on the desk and looked Rhodes straight in the eye. “I understand the cabin Frederick died in belonged to one of your suppliers. A Gary Bolten, president of Paper and Plastics Limited.”

“That’s right.” Rhodes didn’t avert his gaze, but a vein throbbed at his temple. “Gary loaned the cabin to Frederick for the weekend.”

“So he said. Apparently, he thought Frederick could use some R&R. Any idea who conveyed that idea to him?”

Rhodes’s pupils dilated. “Obviously, you already know the answer to that. So let’s cut to the chase. What is it you’re accusing me of?”

“Just curious why you never mentioned that fact, to me or the police. Too insignificant? Or too incriminating?”

“Too misleading. It was an innocent gesture of friendship, meant with the best of intentions. I never anticipated — ” Rhodes broke off. “I have nothing more to say.”

“And I have nothing more to ask.” Monty turned. “Night, Rhodes.”

Monty was halfway down the hall when Frederick’s bulldozer of a secretary, Marjorie Evans, rushed up to him.

“Mr. Montgomery.” She didn’t look like a bulldozer now. She looked frazzled and panicky. “Wait!”

He stopped in his tracks. “What’s up?”

“Edward Pierson needs you in his office right away. There’s been an accident.”

Edward was pacing behind his desk, his complexion ashen.

“Ms. Evans found me,” Monty announced, walking in and shutting the door behind him. “She said there’d been an accident.”

“Yes.” Edward stopped, taking a gulp of water. “At Wellington. During today’s competition.”

“Was James injured?”

“No. He wouldn’t have been, even if he’d been riding. What he
would
have been is disqualified.”

Monty frowned. “Explain.”

Edward leaned heavily against his desk. “James was scheduled to ride my stallion Future in the intermediate level of today’s event. He called me this morning and said he was sick — too sick to even get out of bed, much less compete. So I pulled a few strings, got a doctor’s note and permission to sub in another rider — Bill Granger, one of my grooms. He was the logical choice. He’s a damned good rider. He exercises Future every day. He and Future make a great team. The switch should have been no big deal.”

“But?”

“At the third jump, Granger collapsed and fell off Future. He’s in the hospital now. I’m waiting to hear how bad his injuries are.”

Monty’s eyes narrowed. “What was the cause of his collapse — pressure? Heat?”

“Neither.” Edward took another gulp of water. “The drug testing turned up positive for hydrochlorothiazide. That’s a diuretic.”

“Yeah, it’s taken for high blood pressure.”

“That’s the thing. Granger doesn’t have high blood pressure. Just the opposite. His pressure’s low.”

“Which explains why he collapsed. So why did he take the stuff?”

“He didn’t. Someone must have slipped it in his water or his coffee. And whoever did it thought he was sabotaging James.”

“Why? Does James have low blood pressure, too?”

“No. That’s why I said he wouldn’t have been hurt if he’d been in the saddle. But injury wasn’t what the SOB who did this had in mind. Disqualification was.”

“You lost me.”

“Diuretics are categorized as masking agents. If a rider’s taking any other drug — performance enhancing, narcotic, you name it — diuretics can flush them out of the system faster.”

“Which would keep them from showing up in a drug test.”

“You got it. So if James had been riding today, and if he’d been subjected to a routine drug test, he’d be out. And not just out of this competition. We could kiss the Beijing Olympics good-bye.”

“So whoever did this didn’t find out about the substitute rider in time,” Monty mused aloud.

“Exactly.” Edward set down his glass with a thud. “Granger better be okay. He’s been with me for years. He’s as decent and loyal as they come.”

Monty folded his arms across his chest. “You obviously think that whoever’s blackmailing you is behind this.”

“What else is there to think?”

A shrug. “It’s a stretch that so many unrelated disasters could happen to one family all at the same time; I’ll give you that. But if the events are related, this extortionist’s tactics are bizarre. Why wouldn’t he wait until your twenty-four-hour deadline had passed before he acted?”

“The same reason he didn’t wait last time. He murdered Frederick before giving me instructions on how to turn over the money.”