Page 73 of One in a Million
“I don’t want to leave her. I’ll call the house and have some supper sent down.”
Roper was already out of hearing. He unsaddled the stallion, removed the leg wraps, brushed and curried his coat, and put him in his stall with oats and water. He was closing the gate when he saw a tall figure walking toward him. It was Sam.
Roper had spoken with the FBI agent earlier and told him about Cruiser. Had he discovered anything new? Roper strode along the row of stalls to meet him.
“Jackpot.” Sam was grinning. “I tracked down Cruiser, arrested him, and took him to the police station—he even had the cash on him. Once he’d been cuffed, strip searched, dressed in jail duds, and stood up for a mug shot, the young hooligan was so scared that he would have ratted out his own mother.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“He didn’t know the name, but he gave us a description of the man who hired and paid him. Red hair, wearing a suit, and driving a Mercedes. Does that ring a bell?”
The question required no answer. “Now what? Are you going to arrest Darrin?” Roper asked.
“Eventually. But I’ve got bigger fish to catch. From what I’ve seen of Darrin, I believe he was acting under orders. I need to arrest the person behind those orders, and I can’t do that without solid evidence. That’s why I’m asking you to give me the time and space to finish my job here, and to do it without asking questions. Are you willing to do that?”
“I’ll try to be patient. But he almost killed Lila. That’s attempted murder.”
“Just a few more days. Maybe less. That’s all I’m asking. And you don’t talk to anybody about this. Not even Lila. All right?”
“All right.” Roper sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I hope so, too.” With a nod, Sam walked away.
* * *
Back in the bungalow, Sam placed a call to Nick. It was after hours, and his old mentor would probably be at home in his solitary apartment. But Sam had spent enough time playing with pieces of this bewildering puzzle. Now that they were beginning to fit together, it was time to move.
“This had better be good news, Sam.” Nick sounded as if he’d been roused from a nap.
“It might be,” Sam said. “I may be getting close to a breakthrough. But I need a response to the request I made after Frank’s memorial.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“I need a record of any and all connections between Madeleine Culhane and Louis Divino. Phone calls, texts, bank records, any communication that can be traced—especially her bank records, any big withdrawals around the time of Frank’s death.”
“So, you’re thinking it was a paid hit.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. But before I can make an arrest, I’ll need evidence to back it up.”
“I remember now,” Nick said. “I passed your request on to our research person. She’s sharp, doesn’t usually let things fall through the cracks. I’ll ask her about it first thing tomorrow and get back to you. Oh—and what about that hypodermic you turned over to the crime lab? Any word on that?”
“It wasn’t the murder weapon. No sign that it had ever been used. And no prints on it. I’m guessing it was a plant, and not a very convincing one.”
Ending the call, he sat in the fading light examining his thoughts. With the door closed, the air in the room was close. The porch would be cooler. But if he were to go outside, Jasmine might see it as an invitation to join him. And this was no time to be with her—not while he was waiting for the proof he needed to destroy her family.
Last night, their lovemaking had crossed the line between casual sex and real emotion. He loved her. He wanted her—not just in his bed but in his life. And he sensed that she felt the same.
But their situation was impossible. His relationship with her had been a breach of ethics from the beginning. And if he succeeded in putting her brother and mother behind bars, Jasmine would have every reason to hate him.
Was he right about Madeleine? His gut instinct, which he’d always trusted, told him that she’d orchestrated both Frank’s murder and the so-called accident with Lila’s car.
Cruiser had admitted to tampering with the brakes and described Darrin as the man who’d hired and paid him. But Darrin had always pushed for a legal solution to the dispute over the ranch. And he struck Sam as too spineless to have come up with the plot and carried it out on his own. He would almost certainly have been acting under orders—his mother’s orders.
Tying Madeleine to her ex-husband’s murder was more of a stretch. The hit had appeared professional, and she was friends with a known mobster. But that was just circumstantial evidence. Hopefully, one way or the other, the information Sam had requested from Nick would give him solid proof.
But even if Sam’s instincts proved right, one question remained. How had the killer known Frank would be in the stable? Had Frank been lured there, perhaps by a phone call, or had the hit man simply shadowed him, waiting to catch him alone—or even forced him into the stall at gunpoint? That mystery had yet to be solved.
* * *