Horse of a Different Killer (6 page)

Her hair was wavy and wind tossed, matching the horse's thick mane.

“A Friesian?” I asked, referring to the breed.

She smiled with a nod. “Beautiful, isn't he?”

“Very. He's your horse?”

“What makes you say that?”

I tilted my head toward the enormous photo. “You can tell by the way he's looking at you.”

Worry lines pinched her brow as she gazed at the image. “Heart. That's his name, and what he is to me. Especially now.” She paused then looked at me, eyes bright with tears. “He's missing.”

“Missing? You mean Heart's been stolen?”

“Not quite.”

“I'm not following.”

“Right, sorry.” She rubbed her forehead with shaking fingers. “I don't know where to begin. You see, Heart isn't mine. Though I think he was going to be.”

I waited, hoping she would say something that made sense.

“Tony was going to buy him for me. In fact, I think he already had.”

Mary approached and handed us our drinks. Jasmine looked up at the older woman, her face strained and hopeful. “You think so as well, don't you, Mary?”

“Yes,” she said gently. Turning to me, Mary added, “I heard Mr. Ortega talking about arranging for shipment of something from Morocco and speaking to someone about a horse trailer.”

“Morocco?” I looked from Jasmine to Mary. If they were trying to clarify, it wasn't working.

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning, dear.” Mary patted Jasmine on the shoulder. “Should I get the note?”

“Yes, thank you,” Jasmine said and watched the older woman walk away. “I don't know what I would do without her. So odd. When I first arrived, I found Mary to be quite cold toward me. Things can change so quickly.”

I didn't think Jasmine expected a comment, so I waited, figuring the note, Morocco, and everything else would factor into the story once it began. Jasmine let out a measured breath and took a sip of her tea. After what seemed like an hour, she finally spoke. Her British accent made her sound more pulled together than she probably was.

“I expect you already know I'm a model. A month or so ago I was hired to do a photo shoot on location at the estate of Nicolas LaPointe outside Casablanca.”

“LaPointe as in LaPointe and Company that makes watches and jewelry.” I glanced at the ad, noticing for the first time the company's logo, a set of crossed spears, at the bottom of the page.

Even I had heard of Nicolas LaPointe. Eccentric in the way that only the obscenely wealthy can afford to be. Last I'd heard, he'd bought an island and was populating it with rare and endangered species of birds.

“Mr. LaPointe collects cars, art, horses—things he finds beautiful. He wanted to include both his cars and his horses in the shoot to celebrate the company's hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary.”

“Okay,” I said, following so far. “So you went to Morocco for a photo shoot.”

“We shot the commercial first. It took weeks. Heart and I bonded immediately. I've ridden horses most of my life, which was one reason I got the job.”

“They let you wear that jewelry while riding on a horse?” I'd have been afraid I'd lose an earring to the Sahara desert.

“No. Those are copies. We took photos of the real pieces in the studio with perfect lighting and a number of armed guards. They merge the two images together in postproduction.” A smile ghosted her lips, giving me a glimpse of the radiant woman under the mask of grief. “You'd be amazed at what they can do with Photoshop.”

I bet.

She took a sip of her tea. “The day after Tony arrived, it happened.”

“Tony? He was with you?”

She nodded. “He always popped in to see me if I was going to be on location for a while. We would never have seen each other otherwise.”

Tears pooled in her eyes and I tried to steer her away from a breakdown by asking a question I already knew the answer to. “Is that where the picture of you and Heart was taken—Morocco?”

She looked at the photo again, though her eyes seemed to lose focus as she immersed herself in the memory.

“It was the first day of the still shoot. We'd set up at the far side of the estate, near some hillside ruins. That shot was taken not long before it hit.”

“Before what hit?”

“A storm, unlike anything I'd ever seen. It came out of nowhere. The wind and dust. The lightning and sand . . . a
haboob
it's called.”

“A sandstorm?”

“A very sudden and violent sandstorm,” she amended and turned back to me. “There were two other models working, but I was the only one who knew how to ride. The concept of the ad was to focus on the jewelry, no other accessories or adornments. So there was no saddle, no bridle, or even reins.”

“You're telling me you were left sitting bareback on a horse during a sandstorm? Where was Heart's trainer?”

“There was nothing he could do. Just as the storm hit, one of the large lights was blown over. The bloody thing exploded.

“Heart bolted. I managed to hang on, but within seconds it became almost impossible to see. Heart was panicked—running back and forth, blinded and confused.”

“That sounds kind of . . . terrifying.”

“It was. Until I began talking to him. I had my arms around his neck, holding on as tightly as I could, and when he heard my voice, he started to calm down. It was as if he'd forgotten I was there then suddenly understood he wasn't alone.” She paused. A brittle smile danced over her features. “I managed to lead him to the shelter of a cluster of palms and we weathered the storm together.”

“You were able to lead him? With what?” I asked, dubious. Unless Jasmine was the only other person I'd met with the ability to communicate with animals telepathically, I was gonna have a hard time believing her story.

“The dress I was wearing was layer upon layer of black chiffon. I tore one layer off and used it as a blindfold. Once his eyes were covered, he was fine. But ever since then, he's been terrified of storms. If he has a blindfold he'll stay calm. If he doesn't . . .”

“You're afraid he might hurt himself or someone else.”

“I'm sure of it. Three days after the first storm it happened again—though we had more warning. By the time we were able to calm him, Heart had injured two people, including Yosef, and had a gash on his side as long as my forearm.”

“Yosef?”

“Yosef Kalil. He was Heart's trainer. Very experienced.”

Over a thousand pounds of panicking horse was nothing to sneeze at. I'd seen how seriously a horse could injure itself, even in the relative safety of a stall.

“You're worried that whoever has him may not know about his phobia,” I surmised.

“Precisely.”

“Have you told the police about this?”

“Yes. But I'm afraid they don't seem to care about Heart as much as I do. And, more to the point, I have no proof that he's here in the U.S.”

“You don't?”

“No, but”—she raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug—“I believe he's here, Grace. A fortnight ago, not long after I first arrived, I heard Tony on the phone talking to someone about a horse. I asked him about it, but he just teased that I'd have to wait and see. I knew he was planning a big surprise, but decided not to dig and spoil it. Then he—” She broke off, her gaze drifting toward the office.

Thankfully, Mary arrived to distract Jasmine. “I found this in the trash this morning,” she said, handing me a piece of paper torn from a notepad.

Scrawled on it were the letters
R n R brd stab
.

I looked a question at Mary, then Jasmine.

“It's Mr. Ortega's writing,” Mary said. “I've gotten good at deciphering his notes. I think it's the name of a boarding stable.”

“R and R,” I said, studying the note. “But that doesn't mean Heart's there. He could still be in Morocco.”

“He's not. I wasn't able to reach Mr. LaPointe's assistant, but I spoke to one of Heart's former trainers,” Jasmine said. “He confirmed that Heart had been sold and was being sent to America.”

“And you think someone stole him after he arrived?”

She shook her head. “I'm not sure. That or, more likely, there's been a mix-up. And now with Tony gone—” She swallowed hard. Mary offered to get her another cup of tea but Jasmine declined. Her fingers clutched the ceramic so hard I wouldn't have been surprised to see it shatter.

With a sad nod and a parting glance to me, Mary went back to doing whatever house managers did.

“Is Heart a valuable horse, monetarily?” I asked.

“To me, he means the world. But no, in terms of money . . .” Jasmine shook her head. “He's a gelding. And though he's gentle with a good temperament, he has no extensive training nor pedigree.”

“So you want what, exactly, from me?”

She lifted a shoulder as if to say it was obvious. “I'd like you to help find him. I'll pay you, of course.”

Finally, I just couldn't stand it anymore.

“Okay, I have to bring up the elephant in the room,” I said.

“Which is?”

“The fact that the person accusing my sister of murder is asking me for help.”

She balked at my words. “You're mistaken. I never accused your sister of murder. I simply told the police what I saw.”

“Which was what?”

“Mac and I came into the house and Tony was . . .” Her gaze slid toward the office then snapped back to me.

“Mac?” I prompted, hoping to prevent a tearful breakdown. “Is he your driver?”

“Yes. His last name is MacEntire, so he asks to be called Mac. And before you ask why I would need a driver, I grew up in England and I've never been great at driving on the wrong side of the road, so Tony suggested it.”

Handy, too, to keep tabs on the little lady and keep her dependent.

“Did you and Mac come in the front door? Or through the garage?”

“The garage.”

“What about Mary, where was she?”

“She had that morning off.”

“And you didn't hear anything when you got home? A scream? A gunshot? An argument?”

“No. Nothing. He was just—” She wiped away a tear, then lowered her head, pressing her trembling lips together.

I took a moment to regard the lovely young woman quietly crumbling in front of me and wondered if she knew how lucky she was.

Unlike Emma, Jasmine would never have to see the ugly side of Tony Ortega. The true side.

We sat in silence for a few minutes as she gathered herself. I wanted to offer comfort but couldn't. Honestly, Anthony Ortega's death was probably the best thing that could have happened to her.

When she finally lifted her face she said, “Please, Miss Wilde. Help me find Heart. I believe you're the only one who can.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because of Tony. Mary told me he'd been trying to reach you. She said you work with animals. And there's this—” She stood and motioned toward the office. I followed her to the desk and waited as she turned the computer's monitor to face us then hit the space key to turn it on.

The screen blinked to life. On it was a copy of an article from the
Times Union
website. The headline read:
Woman Catches Killer
.

It was about me.

I stared at the accompanying photograph. My arm was in a sling, and even Emma's expertly applied makeup couldn't hide the bruises on my face. I looked pitiful.

Of course, I remembered when the photo was taken. It's not every day the governor gives you a $100,000 reward for helping solve the murder of his son.

“And, what? You read this article and thought because I'd helped with one crime I would be able to help with another one?”

“I didn't look this up. Tony did. I saw it this morning.”

We both stared at the photo.

“I checked the browser's history. This was the last thing he pulled up on the computer before he died,” she said.

“And why do you think that would be?” someone asked from the doorway.

I turned to see Detective Boyle strolling into the room. Charlie shuffled in a moment later, his eyes were fixed on a spot on the designer rug a few feet from toes of his shoes.

“Detective.” I showed her my teeth in a way that could never be mistaken for a smile. “What a nice surprise.”

“Likewise, Miss Wilde.”

Mary hurried into the room, her stance stiff and defiant as a posturing rooster. “I am so sorry, ma'am,” she said to Jasmine. “Apparently these officers decided to show themselves in.”

“The door was open,” Boyle said.

Mary slid her an indignant glare. “I very much doubt it.”

I remembered something—the woman cleaning the front door.

“You bullied your way in,” I said to Boyle.

The detective looked at me, brows raised with feigned concern. “What was that?”

“You saw my truck parked in the drive and wanted to eavesdrop, so you intimidated the poor cleaning girl into letting you in.”

Boyle gave Charlie a do-you-believe-this? look, but he didn't commiserate. Instead, he said, “Sorry, ma'am. We have a warrant for Mr. Ortega's computer and other data-storage devices.”

“Certainly,” Jasmine said. “Whatever you need. Mary?”

Mary gave Charlie a once-over. “Do you have a list?”

Boyle handed her the warrant, then turned back to me. “You didn't answer my question. Why would Mr. Ortega be looking at a photo of you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Of course you don't. I'll ask this then: What are you doing here?”

“I asked Grace to come.” Jasmine stepped forward; she towered over Boyle, and me, for that matter. “I've retained her services, hopefully.”

“As an animal . . . behaviorist?” She screwed up her face in an expression that was both disparaging and dismissive.