Page 64 of One in a Million
“I found this in Lila’s car,” he said. “Open it and tell me what you see.”
Roper picked up the envelope and dumped the three photos on the desk. His jaw tightened as he arranged them in a line. Sam kept silent as the other man studied them, turning one over to check the date stamp.
“Frank never told me anything about his personal life,” Roper said. “I assumed that he was faithful to Lila—or at least that it was none of my business. You say you found these in Lila’s car?”
“I’m assuming she had them taken to use against Frank in a possible divorce. But of course, all that changed when he was killed.”
“Are you implying that Lila might have killed him? I can’t believe she’d do that. It’s not who she is.”
“I’m not saying she did or she didn’t. I believe that people are innocent until proven guilty. But that’s not why I’m here. I’d like you to look at the woman in these photos and tell me whether she could be your sister.”
Shock flashed across Roper’s face. He took a few moments to examine the photos, then shook his head. “No. That’s not Cheyenne. Even without seeing her face, I’m sure of it.”
“How do you know? I’ve met your sister. The build and hair are similar here. And I’ve heard the story of how Frank wanted to train her, so there’s at least a past connection.”
“But Cheyenne turned him down. She didn’t even like him. As far as I know, they haven’t been in touch since then. Then there’s this. Look closely.” Roper shoved one of the photos toward Sam. “The woman has her hand on Frank’s shoulder. Look at those long, fake nails and those rings. Cheyenne handles horses. She works with her hands. And even when she’s not competing, she dresses like a cowgirl. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a nail salon—and she’d never wear anything like those fancy, glittery rings. I don’t keep track of her schedule, but she was probably out on the circuit when these photos were taken.”
“So who’s the woman? Do you recognize her?”
Roper shook his head. “I don’t recall ever meeting her or even seeing her. If she was at Frank’s memorial, I didn’t notice—not that she would’ve been invited.”
“Would Lila know her?”
“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask her.”
Sam gathered the pictures and slipped them back into the envelope. So another piece of the puzzle had presented itself—a mystery woman who might or might not have been involved in Frank’s murder.
Back in the bungalow, he used his phone to shoot the clearest picture, front and back to include the date and the name of the photographer. He texted the images to Nick with a brief message. Maybe the detective who took the photos would have some idea who the woman was.
A glance at the clock told him there was enough time left in the day to drive to Willow Bend, drop the hypodermic off at the police lab, and maybe even visit Lila in the clinic before Roper came to drive her home.
Lila wouldn’t be glad to see him. And Roper wouldn’t appreciate his calling on her when she needed rest. But he wasn’t here to make friends—so far that approach had gotten him nowhere. He was here to solve a murder case. It was time he pulled the pieces together, did his job, and got back to Abilene.
As for Jasmine, Sam told himself, he meant no more to her than some cowboy she’d picked up in a bar for a one-night stand. Maybe if he thought of her that way, he’d be able to put that night behind him and do what needed to be done.
* * *
Lila supposed she could count herself lucky to be alive. The accident had left her with an aching head and a battered body from being jerked against the seat belt while the car was rolling. But the drugs the doctor had given her had dulled the pain to a tolerable level. Now all she wanted was to get her life back. That was going to take time—time she didn’t have.
Now, dressed and checked out, she sat on a couch in the empty waiting room, thumbing through a tattered copy ofPeoplemagazine and trying not to watch the clock. Roper had said he would try to be here early. But things tended to come up at work. She knew better than to expect him anytime soon, and she didn’t want to bother him with a phone call.
She glanced up as the outside door opened. A tall figure stood backlit by the late-afternoon sun. For an instant her pulse quickened. But when the man stepped into the waiting room and walked toward her, she saw that it was Sam.
“Don’t get up,” he said as she started to rise. “I saw Roper earlier. He still plans on driving you home. But I was in town on an errand and needed to show you something. May I join you?”
Feeling a prickle of apprehension, she moved over to make room for him on the couch. The FBI agent was on the side of the law; the warning she’d given Roper still stood. Sam Rafferty was a man who played his cards close to his vest. She could never be sure of his intent.
“I took a look at your car,” he said. “You’re lucky to be in one piece. How are you feeling?”
“Sore. I’ll heal, but I loved that car. As soon as I can arrange things with the dealer and the insurance company, I plan to get another one like it.”
“Has anyone told you that the brakes were tampered with?”
She gasped. The details of the events leading up to the accident were still foggy. She forced herself to concentrate. “It does explain why I couldn’t stop for that goat. I had to swerve to keep from hitting it. That was when I rolled. I thought maybe I’d panicked and stomped on the gas pedal instead of the brake.” She took a sharp breath, feeling the stress on her bruised body. “But you’re saying somebody damaged my brakes—that they were trying to kill me?”
“Take a look.” He found the picture on his phone and held it for her to see. “From the looks of the loosened seal, I’d guess that somebody wanted you on the freeway before the fluid ran out. If your brakes had failed at eighty miles an hour, you could’ve been killed and taken others with you. If my theory is right, that fool goat might have saved your life.”
He closed his phone. “So my question is, who would have access to your car, and who would hate you enough to want you dead?”