"The difference between a city and a highway. Eighteen-wheelers make one kind of racket. Manhattan taxis make another." Monty paused. "I'm a.s.suming you didn't tape the call?"

"I wasn't expecting it, so no. The letter came to my office. I a.s.sumed he'd continue to contact me there. If he had, I would have been ready for him."

"We'll put a wiretap on your home phone. Not that it'll do us much good. If he's using a voice scrambler, he's probably taking other precautions to make sure he can't be made. Like a convenience store cell phone with prepaid minutes, cash and carry."

Edward blew out a frustrated breath. "Twenty-four hours. d.a.m.n. There's no way I can liquidate two million in a.s.sets fast enough."

"Even if you could, you don't know if that'll make the extortionist shut up and go away. He could try shaking you down for more. Remember, once you pay him, you're his."

"So what do you suggest I do?"

"Go through the motions. Start liquidating. If this person is someone connected to you or your company, he'll be paying attention, and it'll appease him. Also, expect him to contact you late tomorrow to make sure everything's set. I'll prep you for that call. In the meantime, I've got Jenkins coming in at eight and Blake giving us access to your computer systems at eight thirty. I've got a day to dig around. I know what to look for. So does Jenkins. As for your family, I'll make a few phone calls and arrange for added security to protect them. Stay calm. We'll get the guy."

"We better. Before he gets someone else I love."

CHAPTER 15.

John Sherman, PI, was shaving in the bathroom of his apartment in Astoria, Queens, when his cell phone rang.

He tossed down the razor, patted his face dry with a towel, and flipped open the phone. "Sherman."

"Boy, do you sound out of it. You must have just woken up. Work or a woman?"

Sherman grunted. "Gimme a break, Monty. What woman would put up with my hours? I'm out of it because you dumped a whopping caseload on me. I spent all day yesterday on follow-up, and all night tailing that rich broad and her boyfriend to see if your hunch about them was right."

"And?" Monty queried. "Did you see anything?"

"Just a few s.e.x moves even I've never dreamed up. Unfortunately, now that I learned them, I don't have time to try them out."

"Forget it, Sherman. The woman's a contortionist. If you tried any of her moves, you'd be stuck in that position for life."

Another grunt. "You're probably right. Anyway, I'm on them like tar. If they're planning anything more than a s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g marathon, you'll be the first to know."

"Thanks. Listen, I know I left you with a full caseload. But before you head out now, do me one favor. Call the precinct. See who's got time in their schedule for a security gig. It's for Pierson, so the money's good. Starts tonight. Ends when I solve this case."

"How many guys do you need?"

"Plenty. There are four generations of Piersons to protect."

"I'll get on it now, and call you back."

IT WAS 9 A.M., and already eighty degrees in Wellington.

Soon thousands of people would be arriving at the winter festival, eager to watch the compet.i.tions, shop, or catch a glimpse of the rich and famous.

James rolled over in his bed and plumped his pillow. No riding today. Not for him. He was a mess. The necessary arrangements had been made. Now it was just him, his family's lavish Wellington hacienda, and the central air-conditioning. A welcome reprieve from crowds, kids, and pressure.

Tonight, he'd call Devon. He'd be feeling better by then. His grandfather would be p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l, but he'd get over it. No way she'd blow his concentration. If anything, she'd be a great picture to hold in his mind when he won.

Frowning, he wondered if Blake had made any inroads with her by now. Well, there wasn't a d.a.m.ned thing he could do about it from here.

Actually, that wasn't true.

He reached for his cell phone and called FTD.

"ANYTHING?" MONTY LEANED over Alfred Jenkins's shoulder as the accountant studied the computer monitor. He'd been closeted in Frederick's office for four hours now, poring over months and months of business records. And Monty had popped in three times already.

"Still no red flags." Jenkins shook his head. "The guy looks clean. He's got some hefty corporate credit-card bills, but that's not unusual. Especially if he was the kind of CEO who schmoozed people over expensive meals and high-priced wine."

"Great." Monty grimaced.

"Hey, I'm just getting started. There's a lot of territory to cover here."

"In other words, chill out." Monty stretched and headed for the door. "I'll check in with you later."

"Yeah. I'm sure you will."

Monty stepped into the hall and practically collided with Philip Rhodes.

"Oh...excuse me." To say Rhodes was fl.u.s.tered would be a gross understatement. "I need a file from Frederick's office. Is it off-limits?"

"Only if it involves accessing his computer." Monty kept his expression and tone nondescript. "I've got someone working there."

"Doing what?"

"Just some routine accounting stuff. Go on in and get what you need."

Rhodes looked ill. "Thanks."

DEVON WAS RESTLESS.

It was a little past noon. The hustle-bustle at Creature Comforts & Clinic had reached a midday, midweek lull. Devon's morning appointments were finished, as was the surgery she'd performed on Rocky, a boxer with a disk problem. She'd checked her schedule, only to find that her afternoon was quiet.

The truth was, she didn't want to run into Blake when he came out of Chomper's obedience cla.s.s.

She poked her head into Exam Room 3, where Dr. Joel Sedwell was finishing up with a long-haired tabby kitten who'd been abandoned and was now a permanent resident of the clinic.

"Joel? Any problem if I run out for a few hours? I want to ride up to my mom's house and check on the animals. If I leave now, I'll be back in time for the late-day craziness."

"No problem." Joel nodded, simultaneously scratching the kitten's ears until it purred. "Any word from your mother?"

"Nothing since she called my dad on Sat.u.r.day." Devon hated lying, especially to the senior partner she so admired and who'd given her the chance of a lifetime. But there was no choice. Her mother's safety was at stake.

"Get going," Joel urged her. "That way you'll avoid rush hour and be back before dark and before those winding roads become icy."

"Thanks."

Devon left the building. Before climbing into her car, she scanned the parking lot. No sign of Blake's silver Jag. Maybe he'd already left for Manhattan.

She turned her key in the ignition, pulled out of her parking spot, and drove around to the exit.

She was just about to accelerate onto the road when she spotted Blake in her rearview mirror. He was walking through the parking lot, leading Chomper along by his leash.

Puzzled, Devon stepped on her brake and waited, watching Blake stride purposefully toward the row of cars she'd just scrutinized. Had she missed his?

He stopped beside a black Mercedes sedan, unlocking the door and opening it. He waited until Chomper had jumped in. Then he hopped into the driver's seat and backed out of the spot.

Something made Devon wait until she'd gotten a full view of the vehicle. When she did, her eyes widened in surprise. It didn't make sense. But it required a proactive move on her part.

Accelerating into traffic, Devon punched a few b.u.t.tons on her cell phone, until she'd initiated a call to: "Monty's cell."

One ring. Two.

"Yeah?" Monty sounded distracted.

"Bad time?"

"Today's been one long bad time so far. What's up?"

"Just a question. Did the police release Frederick's car?"

"Doubtful. They'll probably keep it awhile. If a new lead turns up, they'll want to sweep it again for forensics. Why?"

"Because I'm confused. Last night when Blake picked me up, he was driving a silver Jag. But just now I saw him leave the clinic driving a black Mercedes S500 luxury sedan. If it's not Frederick's, whose is it?"

"I don't know. But I will. Thanks, honey." Monty paused. "Are you okay?"

"Sure," Devon returned lightly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because my gut tells me you have more than a professional interest in Blake Pierson."

"I'll get over it."

The words tasted like sandpaper on her tongue. Suspecting Blake of poking around to get information for his grandfather was one thing. Suspecting him of being involved in Frederick's death in a more hands-on way was quite another.

Just how used was she being?

"Don't jump to conclusions," Monty advised her. "Another trick of the trade."

"I'm not. I'm just steeling myself." Devon cleared her throat. "Anyway, just so you know, I'm headed up to Mom's place to check on the animals. I'll eyeball the Pierson farm when I cruise by."

"Drive safe. And, Dev, hang tough."

"I plan to."

MONTY DIDN'T WASTE time.

He went straight to his most cooperative source.

Alice Jeffers looked up from behind her desk as Monty approached. "Mr. Montgomery," she greeted him cordially. "How can I help you?"

"I'm on my way to examine the execs' cars. I want to make sure they're all safe and no one's tampered with them. Can you get me a list of who drives what?"

"Certainly." She frowned. "Did you want a list of personal cars as well as company cars?"

"I'd appreciate it, yes." Monty paused. "How many company cars are there?"

"About a dozen. Each of the top-level executives has one."

"And they're all Mercedes S500s." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes." Ms. Jeffers smiled. "That's Edward Pierson's car of choice."

"I'm sure it is."

"WHAT THE h.e.l.l are you babbling about?" Edward stared blankly at Monty.

"Your company cars. Why didn't you tell me there are a dozen of them that are identical to Frederick's?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Did you give that information to the police?"

Edward's shoulders lifted in a puzzled shrug. "Maybe. I don't know. Why?"

"Because the tire treads found at the crime scene belonged to a Mercedes S500. We all a.s.sumed they came from Frederick's car."

"Yeah, well, they must have. There was only one set of tire treads in the driveway."

"True. But there was also a set of treads in the alcove off the road. What if those were made by another car - more specifically, another S500?"

Edward went very still. "Then someone I trust at Pierson & Company would be a murderer."

THE INTERMEDIATE-LEVEL compet.i.tion at the Gold Coast Cla.s.sic started right on time.

The International Arena at the Palm Beach Equestrian Club was full, thousands of spectators filling the stands. Antic.i.p.ation hovered in the air and rippled through the crowd.

Bill Granger, a groom at the Pierson stables, eagerly waited his turn. He was a good rider, especially on Future, Edward's prize six-year-old stallion. Future was a winner; Bill had no doubt he'd ama.s.s a sterling record over time - even if he wasn't the Olympic champion that Stolen Thunder was. Bill knew this horse. He had heart, and he had grit. That was something Bill and Future had in common.

They were a good team. Bill knew Future's abilities like the back of his hand. He exercised the stallion every day, and dreamed about getting a chance to compete.