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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.
