Horse of a Different Killer (10 page)

“Not all of them.”

“You're talking about Logan.” I didn't phrase it as a question because I knew the answer. “Really? A guy nicknamed
the Ghost
eludes capture and she thinks that's somehow my fault?”

“She also knows Logan contacted you after he got away.”

I wanted to defend myself. Point out that Logan, AKA the Ghost, was tying up loose ends under Sartori's orders, which involved me only situationally. But something else popped into my head.

“Let me get this straight. Boyle, a woman who was judged harshly because of her
association
with her guilty partner, is ready to vilify me because of my . . .
association
, however remote, with Logan? Am I the only one who gets the irony here?”

“I hear you,” Kai said, and I realized my voice had been rising steadily. I forced a slow breath and reminded myself not to kill the messenger.

I frowned at my wineglass and set it on the counter.

“The thing is,” Kai said, “Tammy stuck by her partner until the end. She was a hundred percent convinced he couldn't possibly be involved.”

“And she thinks you're blinded by my charm?” I'd meant it sarcastically. Just about everyone who meets me finds me lacking in the charm department.

But Kai's gaze held enough heat to burn the house down around us as it locked on to mine. “Something like that.”

I cleared my throat. “What about Jake?”

“Jake is playing it close to the vest.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning even though he expressed his belief that you're not the Mafia type, he wasn't as”—Kai paused, giving me a wry half smile—“vehement as I was.”

“I get where she's coming from, Kai. But I'm still going to look for Heart.”

“I'm not saying you should back off. In fact, I think you should look for him. The truth is, Jake and Tammy are going to be focused on solving Ortega's murder. A missing horse is going to be put on the back burner.”

Though I appreciated his honesty, it didn't make me feel much better.

“The owner of R-n-R wasn't around today but I'm going to head back tomorrow and talk to him and see what I can find out from the horses.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen and said, “I've got to go. Let me know what happens after you talk to Mister Ed.”

“Their names are Scout and Lucy,” I told him as I walked him out.

“Of course they are,” he said, turning as we reached the front door. He leaned down to brush a kiss first on my cheek then on my jawline. He stopped and pulled in a deep breath. The sensation sent a shiver of electricity down my side. “Just so we're clear—I like the way you smell.”

And he was gone.

I don't know how long I stood there, weak-kneed and flushed, but a knock at the door had me snatching it open. I half expected to see Kai, but that was just wine and desire fogging my brain. I must have looked a little crazed because the pizza delivery guy took a step back when he saw me.

The pizza smelled good, not that I was terribly hungry, having filled up a little too much on wine and not enough Kai.

I shared a slice with Moss anyway and tried to process what Kai had told me.

Not that he liked the way I smelled, though I replayed his words over and over with a goofy smile on my face as I headed to the bathroom to finally take my shower.

I understood Boyle's suspicions, but still didn't think it gave her the right to dismiss the fact that Heart was missing.

Suddenly, I remembered I hadn't listened to the last message Ortega had left me, the one from the day before—the morning he was killed.

I stared at his number on my voice mail for a few moments, then tapped the screen to play the message.

Ortega's voice filled the room, echoing off the marble and glass.

“Grace, I know what you must think of me, and I deserve it. But, please, call me as soon as you can. This isn't just about me, it's about Emma.”

It was a stunning, mild, November morning. Waves glittered as they swept over the beach. The rising sun turned the wet sand along the water's edge into a wide ribbon of glowing, orange light.

I should have taken more than a millisecond to admire the sight, but my head ached from too much wine and my shoes seemed to be lined with lead.

The beautiful weather was not lost on the rest of the population, however, and there was a plethora of people and dogs out and about. I looped Moss's leash around my wrist and gripped it tightly. Distracted or not, today was not the day to have him running loose.

Usually, my sister was up and annoying me as early as possible. But Emma had still been asleep when Moss and I had left for our run. Her delayed start to the day meant two things: no pre-run coffee for me—I couldn't convince Moss to wait while I got a pot going—and I still hadn't had a chance to discuss Ortega's message.

It nagged at me like a sore hangnail.

What could he have meant? He and Emma were no longer connected—Wes had seen to that. The divorce had severed every tie. They didn't co-own property or a business. How could anything Ortega was involved in pertain to Emma?

I'd wanted to call as soon as I'd heard the message but rather than interrupt her date with Hugh, I'd decided to leave her a note in the kitchen.

E—Need to talk re: Ortega!!!

Adding plenty of exclamation points and underlines for emphasis.

I also needed to talk to her about a dozen other things, not the least of which was what happened at Ortega's murder scene.

Looking forward to coffee, ibuprofen, and an overdue conversation with my sister, I turned Moss toward home.

The pit bull came out of nowhere.

A blur of muscle and smooth, fawn-colored fur, he hit Moss square in the side. The blow caught us both off guard. Moss stumbled but recovered quickly. He spun with a growl.

Reflexively, I opened my mind completely and hurled it into the fray. Stupid.

A wave of pure joy hit me. Energetic enough to make me stagger sideways, the emotion inspired a fit of near-psychotic-sounding giggles to erupt from my throat.

“Zeke!” A young teenager sprinted over the dunes toward us. “He won't hurt—” He stopped, eyes widening.

I wasn't sure whether it was the sight of a wolf tackling his dog or the sound of my deranged laughter, but the kid looked like he was about to faint.

“It's fine,” I said with effort, still winded from the run and buzzed from the joy-zap. “Just playing.”

And play they did. Though in a limited way, because I, unlike the kid, still held Moss's leash.

“Okay, enough,” I told the dogs, feeling like Officer Unfriendly of the Fun Police. They stopped with reluctance. I bent, picked up Zeke's sand-coated leash, and held it out to the kid.

I could hardly give him much grief, having just been given the slip by my own dog the day before. Still . . .

“You need to be careful,” I warned the kid.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“There are people who would panic if a pit bull tackled their dog, even if Zeke just wants to play. Panicked people can be dangerous.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what bothered me most about the message I'd gotten from Ortega: He hadn't just sounded upset, he'd sounded desperate.

What would make a guy like Ortega, who lived to control everything and everyone around him, lose his cool?

Could it have something to do with his murder?

The buzz I'd gotten from the pit bull had worn off by the time I climbed the steps to the condo. I stepped through the front door and stopped to pull in a deep breath.

Coffee.

Emma was up and had put a pot on for me.

“Is she a great sister or what?”

I freed Moss from his leash and followed him into the kitchen. He stood, loudly lapping up water as I poured a cup of coffee.

As I raised the mug to savor the first, rejuvenating sip, I saw the note I'd left for my sister on the counter. Below my writing, she'd drawn a smiley face followed by the words
Sorry, had to run. Talk later—E
.

“Really, Em?” I asked aloud.

Had she not read my note?

Aggravated at my sister's sparse reply, I tried calling her, but got her voice mail. I decided not to leave a message. I was going to have to head to my first appointment soon and wouldn't have much time to discuss the Ortega situation in detail. I pushed the issue to the back of my mind and headed to take a shower.

After our walk, I'd needed a caffeine boost to remain ambulatory, Moss, in contrast, seemed indefatigable. I was still toweling off when he started dancing around me asking to go for a ride.

Once upon a time, Moss had often joined me on errands and appointments with clients. He loved to ride in Bluebell and acted not only as a deterrent to theft but as backup on the rare occasions I'd ventured into areas where it was needed.

Things changed the night Emma had brought the kitten home. Voodoo had been worn-out, malnourished, and frightened. Moss had taken one sniff of the kitten and morphed into a helicopter parent. He'd been hovering less and less, as Voodoo had gained strength and it was obvious my dog wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Today, he was revving to go.

“Need a break, huh, big guy?”

Go. Ride!

I was hesitant to leave Voodoo alone for very long. Her claws were small but could shred a roll of toilet paper with no problem. I hated to imagine the damage she could do to the couch if deprived of her playmate for an extended period.

I decided to let Moss ride along to my first appointment, which happened to be with a woman and her cat who lived in Marsh Landing, which wasn't far.

Moss would get his ride and a break from kitty-sitting duty and I could swing back by the condo to drop him off and check on the kitten before I headed to R-n-R to talk to Boomer.

I grabbed Moss's leash and we headed out the door.

Marsh Landing is a luxe country club neighborhood which, like most, had a guard posted at the gate. In order to gain entrance, you had to be on the list and know where you were going. The homes were expensive. Many of them, especially those along the water, were mini-mansions. Mrs. Hurwitz's place was no exception.

Leaving the windows partway down to catch the cool marsh breezes, I left Moss in Bluebell with some water and a kiss on the head. My client opened the door and ushered me into the living room.

“The vet said he was fine, but I can tell. Something just isn't right with him.”

I nodded and studied the “him” in question.

Her cat, Sir Thomas T. Lipton III, or just Thomas for short, was a handsome orange tabby with bright, golden eyes and a long, triangular face. He gave me a cursory glance then closed his eyes to nap. When she'd made her appointment, Mrs. Hurwitz had explained that Thomas had started “acting crazy” a few weeks before. He'd destroyed a set of curtains and was meowing to be let outside—something he had never been allowed to do.

“You said he's always been an inside cat. Has he escaped lately?” Sometimes a taste of the outside world inspired a rebellious streak.

“No. He hasn't gotten out in years.”

“Can we bring him to the window where he damaged the curtains? I'd like to observe his behavior.” And ask him what the problem was.

Luckily, I could say things like “observe” and “watch for his reaction” to cover the fact that I was having a mental conversation with an animal.

As soon as we made it to the window, Thomas became fixated on the thick, wooden plantation blinds, leaping up to claw at them with an obsessive intensity.

“See? He's gone crazy,” Mrs. Hurwitz said.

I opened the blinds and peeked outside. A squirrel chided me from a tree less than ten feet away, its tail waving as it called out a warning to its kits.

Bingo.

I glanced down at Thomas.

Squirrel!

I had to grin. Squirrel, indeed. A whole family of them.

Hearing the chattering of the young squirrels as they raced around the tree had flipped the hunting switch in the typically lazy house cat. Interestingly enough, after speaking with him for a few minutes, he revealed what he really wanted was a way to watch the squirrels.

I explained my “theory” to Mrs. Hurwitz and suggested Thomas's cat tree be moved to the window and for the blinds in the upstairs bedroom to be kept open. I also invited her to call in a couple of days if he hadn't calmed down.

All in all, the session had taken only about thirty minutes, putting Moss and me back home in less than an hour.

With slight trepidation, I scanned the condo for Voodoo, searching for any sign of destruction as I headed to where she slept in my bedroom.

Apparently, the kitten hadn't moved.

She blinked squinty, sleepy eyes at me when I turned on the lights, spread her tiny mouth into a tiny yawn, and went back to sleep.

Emma arrived just as I was pouring coffee into a to-go mug.

“Where have you been?” I asked, snapping the lid onto the cup.

“Running a few errands. Why, what's wrong?”

“I have three hundred things I need to talk to you about.”

“Really? Three hundred?”

“Okay, more like five, but that's not the point.”

“Sorry,” she said with good-natured sarcasm. “I had to pick up a new iPad to use while the cops have my stuff.” She held up the slim, white box.

“You could've just used my laptop.”

“Windows?” She made a face. “No, this Mac girl will stick with what she knows.”

She opened the box, lifted the new tablet out, and plugged it in to charge.

“Listen, Tony left me a message. He said it was about you.” I fished my phone out of my purse and played it for her.

“Well?” I asked when she didn't offer a comment.

“Well, what?”

“What the hell is he talking about, Em?”

“I have no idea. If I had to guess, I'd say he didn't like that you hadn't returned his calls.” She lifted a shoulder. “He knew you'd respond if he mentioned me.”

“Don't you think he sounded a little desperate?”

“Tony was good at manipulating people.”

True enough. “What about the time stamp? He called me the morning he died. And the last thing on his computer was a newspaper article about me.”

“How do you know that?”

I explained Jasmine's phone call and subsequent request for my help finding Heart. I went over everything that happened at Ortega's house, including my run-in with Boyle. I also told her Kai's story about Boyle's suspicions of my involvement with Sartori.

“Well,” Emma mused, “you can't blame Boyle for drawing a connection between you and Sartori. She's right.”

“Come on, Em. I've only met the guy once.”

“After you saved his daughter. Even if you forget about Logan and his weird gift—or whatever you want to call it—look at it from her perspective. A month ago, Sartori's daughter, Brooke, runs away. You inexplicably decide the girl's in danger and start looking for her.”

“But—”

“I know.” Emma held up a defensive hand. “You had intel from a tiger who knew Brooke had been kidnapped. But I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you haven't told Boyle about your ability.”

I made a face.

“Right. Bottom line here is this—you risked your own neck to find Brooke and, ultimately, saved her life.”

“Yeah, well, I had help,” I said, giving her a pointed glance.

Emma waved away the comment along with her involvement in the girl's rescue.

“I'm trying to point out that in Boyle's mind, what you did makes you and Sartori allies.”

I wanted to scoff, but it actually made sense. Especially considering Boyle's history with Sartori and her partner's betrayal.

“And,” I said, hesitating before jumping in with what I wanted to ask, “there was something about the way Kai defended her. He called her Tammy.”