Page 39 of One in a Million
“May I join you, Agent Rafferty?” The throaty voice broke into his reverie. Madeleine was smiling down at him. Without being invited, she took her seat on the bench. “My daughter mentioned you’d be wanting to interview me. I thought I’d make it easy for you. Is this a good time?”
“It’s fine.” His laptop and notes were inside the bungalow. He would leave them for now. He just wanted to get her talking.
“When Jasmine introduced us, I thought you were her boyfriend,” Madeleine said. “You strike me as just the kind of man she needs—strong, stable, and decent to the core.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sam said. “Jasmine’s a lovely woman, but I’m here in an official capacity with one job to do—arrest the person who murdered your ex-husband.”
“That’s what Jasmine told me, and I understand the rules. But what if I were to help you find Frank’s killer? You know, like we could be secret allies, and I could report to you. I already know who must’ve killed him. But we’ll need evidence. I can help you get that evidence.”
Sam had little doubt whom Madeleine had in mind. “I’m reserving judgment until I know more,” he said. “But if you’ve got new information, and it’s reliable, I’m all ears.”
Madeleine leaned back on the bench and crossed her long legs. “Allow me to share a story with you,” she said. “Mind you, this is just between the two of us. All right?”
“All right for now—unless I hear something that bears investigating.”
“I understand.” She fished a pack of Marlboros and a monogrammed silver lighter out of her shirt pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”
“It’s fine.”
She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and sighed with relief. “Thanks. I officially quit six months ago, but sometimes a lady needs a little pick-me-up. Only one, mind you. If I reach for another one, stop me.”
“Your story,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes.” Her laugh was charming. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward before she began.
“Frank and I didn’t have a perfect marriage. But it was good enough to keep us together. We had our children. We had the ranch. We had the horses and our shared goals. And we truly loved each other. Of course there were fights. We were two competitive, passionate people who liked to win. But we always settled things between us and moved on.”
To Sam, it was what she hadn’t said that was most telling. She’d mentioned love and shared goals. But not sex. He suspected that, as in many long-term marriages, the sizzle had faded.
“I was led to believe that you were a better rider than Frank,” he said.
“I was—on any given night and on any given horse. My scores and rankings tell the story. Frank hated it. But what was I to do, tone back my performance like a good little wife? That would have been a betrayal of everything I’d worked so hard for. How could I do that, even for the sake of my marriage?”
When Sam didn’t answer her question, she continued. “Finally it came to the biggest fight we’d ever had, hours before a big competition in Vegas. I said too much—accused him of putting his anger into jealousy instead of being a man and using it to fire his performance. I knew I’d wounded his male pride, but it was too late to take back what I’d said.
“When we got to the arena to prepare our horses, we were still barely on speaking terms. And there she was—this glamorous young showgirl in skintight jeans and a skimpy tank that left nothing to the imagination. She saw Frank’s pain, saw her chance, and she made her move, sidling up to him, asking questions, flattering him, touching him in subtle ways, and looking at him like he was God Almighty.”
Madeleine shook her head. “Frank put in his worst performance of the season that night. When he didn’t come back to the hotel afterward, I knew where he was. I was prepared to let it pass—he always came back with his tail between his legs, and I always forgave him. It’s what you do when you’re a family and there are children to think of.”
Sam didn’t necessarily go along with her view of things. He’d been faithful to Cynthia and had expected the same from her, until the ending proved him to be a naïve fool. So what did he know?
“This time, he didn’t come back,” she said. “A bellhop came to our room, collected his things, and took them away. At least our children weren’t there to witness it.
“Two days later, I spotted the woman at the arena, watching Frank work his horse. I backed her into a corner and let her have it. Frank was a married man with a family. She was destroying that family. If she had any decency at all, she would walk away now. I can still hear her reply. ‘This isn’t about your family,’ she said. ‘It’s about Frank and me. I plan to be here for him until he tells me to go— but he won’t do that because I’m giving him what he needs. So get used to it.’ ”
Madeleine’s gaze locked with Sam’s, intense, burning, and hypnotic in its power.
“I’ll never forget the look that little slut gave me. That was when I glimpsed the real Lila Smith—frigid, ruthless, and absolutely capable of murdering Frank in cold blood.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
Everything was bigger in Texas. If Sam hadn’t believed it before, he believed it now. Wearing a straw Stetson against the sun, he waited at the rear of the barbecue line, a good vantage point from which to study the crowd of several hundred who’d gathered for Frank’s memorial.
Some people he recognized. The governor had arrived by helicopter to give a brief tribute at the opening ceremony. He’d praised Frank as a true Texan whose work with performance horses had made great contributions to the sport. The head of the National Reining Cow Horse Association had also given a tribute, followed by Frank’s two children—all on their best public behavior. Thanks to the caterer who’d arranged the seating, the open-sided tent for shade, and the mouthwatering traditional pit barbecue served from a long plank table with bread, beans, and potato salad, everything had gone like clockwork.
Scanning the crowd, Sam picked out a number of celebrities—movie and country music stars, pro athletes, and glad-handing politicians. Frank must’ve had a lot of friends—or at least contacts who had something to gain by showing up. The press, filming shots for the ten o’clock news, would have no shortage of faces and sound bites to choose from.
But he wasn’t here to rubberneck, Sam reminded himself. The person responsible for Frank’s murder could be here, mingling with the crowd, in plain sight. Sam’s job was to piece together what he knew and to be alert for any signs of guilt.