Wrong Place, Wrong Time

  “Go through the motions. Start liquidating. If this person is someone connected to you or your company, he’ll be paying attention, and it’ll appease him. Also, expect him to contact you late tomorrow to make sure everything’s set. I’ll prep you for that call. In the meantime, I’ve got Jenkins coming in at eight and Blake giving us access to your computer systems at eight thirty. I’ve got a day to dig around. I know what to look for. So does Jenkins. As for your family, I’ll make a few phone calls and arrange for added security to protect them. Stay calm. We’ll get the guy.”

  “We better. Before he gets someone else I love.”

  CHAPTER 15

  John Sherman, PI, was shaving in the bathroom of his apartment in Astoria, Queens, when his cell phone rang.

  He tossed down the razor, patted his face dry with a towel, and flipped open the phone. “Sherman.”

  “Boy, do you sound out of it. You must have just woken up. Work or a woman?”

  Sherman grunted. “Gimme a break, Monty. What woman would put up with my hours? I’m out of it because you dumped a whopping caseload on me. I spent all day yesterday on follow-up, and all night tailing that rich broad and her boyfriend to see if your hunch about them was right.”

  “And?” Monty queried. “Did you see anything?”

  “Just a few sex moves even I’ve never dreamed up. Unfortunately, now that I learned them, I don’t have time to try them out.”

  “Forget it, Sherman. The woman’s a contortionist. If you tried any of her moves, you’d be stuck in that position for life.”

  Another grunt. “You’re probably right. Anyway, I’m on them like tar. If they’re planning anything more than a screwing marathon, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Thanks. Listen, I know I left you with a full caseload. But before you head out now, do me one favor. Call the precinct. See who’s got time in their schedule for a security gig. It’s for Pierson, so the money’s good. Starts tonight. Ends when I solve this case.”

  “How many guys do you need?”

  “Plenty. There are four generations of Piersons to protect.”

  “I’ll get on it now, and call you back.”

  IT WAS 9 A.M., and already eighty degrees in Wellington.

  Soon thousands of people would be arriving at the winter festival, eager to watch the competitions, shop, or catch a glimpse of the rich and famous.

  James rolled over in his bed and plumped his pillow. No riding today. Not for him. He was a mess. The necessary arrangements had been made. Now it was just him, his family’s lavish Wellington hacienda, and the central air-conditioning. A welcome reprieve from crowds, kids, and pressure.

  Tonight, he’d call Devon. He’d be feeling better by then. His grandfather would be pissed as hell, but he’d get over it. No way she’d blow his concentration. If anything, she’d be a great picture to hold in his mind when he won.

  Frowning, he wondered if Blake had made any inroads with her by now. Well, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it from here.

  Actually, that wasn’t true.

  He reached for his cell phone and called FTD.

  “ANYTHING?” MONTY LEANED over Alfred Jenkins’s shoulder as the accountant studied the computer monitor. He’d been closeted in Frederick’s office for four hours now, poring over months and months of business records. And Monty had popped in three times already.

  “Still no red flags.” Jenkins shook his head. “The guy looks clean. He’s got some hefty corporate credit-card bills, but that’s not unusual. Especially if he was the kind of CEO who schmoozed people over expensive meals and high-priced wine.”

  “Great.” Monty grimaced.

  “Hey, I’m just getting started. There’s a lot of territory to cover here.”

  “In other words, chill out.” Monty stretched and headed for the door. “I’ll check in with you later.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure you will.”

  Monty stepped into the hall and practically collided with Philip Rhodes.

  “Oh…excuse me.” To say Rhodes was flustered would be a gross understatement. “I need a file from Frederick’s office. Is it off-limits?”

  “Only if it involves accessing his computer.” Monty kept his expression and tone nondescript. “I’ve got someone working there.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Just some routine accounting stuff. Go on in and get what you need.”

  Rhodes looked ill. “Thanks.”

  DEVON WAS RESTLESS.

  It was a little past noon. The hustle-bustle at Creature Comforts & Clinic had reached a midday, midweek lull. Devon’s morning appointments were finished, as was the surgery she’d performed on Rocky, a boxer with a disk problem. She’d checked her schedule, only to find that her afternoon was quiet.

  The truth was, she didn’t want to run into Blake when he came out of Chomper’s obedience class.

  She poked her head into Exam Room 3, where Dr. Joel Sedwell was finishing up with a long-haired tabby kitten who’d been abandoned and was now a permanent resident of the clinic.

  “Joel? Any problem if I run out for a few hours? I want to ride up to my mom’s house and check on the animals. If I leave now, I’ll be back in time for the late-day craziness.”

  “No problem.” Joel nodded, simultaneously scratching the kitten’s ears until it purred. “Any word from your mother?”

  “Nothing since she called my dad on Saturday.” Devon hated lying, especially to the senior partner she so admired and who’d given her the chance of a lifetime. But there was no choice. Her mother’s safety was at stake.

  “Get going,” Joel urged her. “That way you’ll avoid rush hour and be back before dark and before those winding roads become icy.”

  “Thanks.”

  Devon left the building. Before climbing into her car, she scanned the parking lot. No sign of Blake’s silver Jag. Maybe he’d already left for Manhattan.

  She turned her key in the ignition, pulled out of her parking spot, and drove around to the exit.

  She was just about to accelerate onto the road when she spotted Blake in her rearview mirror. He was walking through the parking lot, leading Chomper along by his leash.

  Puzzled, Devon stepped on her brake and waited, watching Blake stride purposefully toward the row of cars she’d just scrutinized. Had she missed his?

  He stopped beside a black Mercedes sedan, unlocking the door and opening it. He waited until Chomper had jumped in. Then he hopped into the driver’s seat and backed out of the spot.

  Something made Devon wait until she’d gotten a full view of the vehicle. When she did, her eyes widened in surprise. It didn’t make sense. But it required a proactive move on her part.

  Accelerating into traffic, Devon punched a few buttons on her cell phone, until she’d initiated a call to: “Monty’s cell.”

  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. H
e 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.”