Sabotage. Kit Wilkinson
papers on her desk. “Those are warrants to search your facility. And I’ll need a list of all your boarders and staff. Camillo’s friends, too.”
“Sure,” she said. “Whatever I can do.”
“Thank you. I didn’t expect you to be so compliant.” He walked to the doorway, stopped and looked back at her with a smirk. “Your father has taught you well.”
“What? To cooperate with the police?” She frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Believe me, Miss Gill, not everyone at the top of my suspect list is quite so agreeable.”
Emilie’s eyes went from the warrants to Detective Steele’s face. “You’re kidding. How could I be a suspect?”
“You had means and motive, and you were here alone. How could you not be?” He turned and left her office.
FOUR
Derrick swept into Emilie’s office at full speed and came to a screeching halt before her desk. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Emilie lifted her head and pulled the hair back from her face. She wondered how red and puffy her eyes must have been. “Of course I’m okay. How’d you get here so fast? I thought you had an appointment.” The natural timbre of her voice surprised her. She’d been anything but calm when speaking to her father and his lawyer about the disturbing conversation with Mr. Steele.
“I took care of my appointment with some phone calls. You didn’t sound so great on the phone. I thought I should come straight here.”
He’d been worried? Emilie wiggled uncomfortably in her seat and looked away. “Oh…I’m sorry. It was a bit confusing when you called, but I’m fine…uh…help yourself to some coffee.”
Derrick frowned as he made his way around the desk to the coffeemaker and helped himself.
“It might be strong,” she warned him. Two hours had passed since her conversation with Steele. Her father was on his way back home to look into things. Mr. Adams had promised to put in a call to the D.A. Still, Steele’s accusatory statement continued to rattle her already fragile nerves.
He sat across the desk from her and sipped the strong coffee in silence. Emilie studied the sharp, angular line of his clean-shaven jaw. Her stomach quivered as he caught her eyes. His brows came together slowly.
“So, I was right,” he said. “Something is wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”
“No.” She shook her head but realized it was futile to try and conceal the truth. “Okay. Yes.” She sighed. “The police came back this morning to investigate further. And there’s going to be an autopsy.”
“An autopsy?” Derrick sat up straight and focused on her, tilting his head slightly. “Why? I thought the beams fell from the rafters and killed him.”
“I guess they’re not sure.” She tried to look him in the eye, but she couldn’t bear the intensity of his gaze. She shifted her focus to the floor. “Let me take you to your apartment. I’m sure you have things to unpack.”
Derrick pressed his lips together and placed the coffee cup on the edge of her desk. “That’s it? That’s all they told you?”
Emilie felt nauseous. She didn’t want to talk about her conversation with Detective Steele. She didn’t want to think about the fact that someone might have killed Camillo. That she was a suspect. “No. That’s not all…. Camillo had been tied up and they are saying he had taken drugs…” She tried to swallow. “But—I—I can’t really—”
“He was tied up? So they think he was murdered?” His question sounded out in an incredulous tone.
She nodded. A rush of tears spilled from her eyes.
“Oh. Hey. Hey. I’m sorry, Emilie.” He stood and dusted his palms up and down the legs of his pants. “Really. I’m sorry. Of course, you don’t want to talk about it. You must be exhausted. I…uh…I should get to work.”
Emilie nodded again, trying to get her voice to function. “Gabe is here doing stalls and turnout. He can show you my tack. I wrote a workout program for you….” She searched her desk for the list she’d made. But through the wall of tears, she couldn’t find it. The more she searched, the more she confused the pages on her desk into a large mess.
Derrick placed his strong hands over hers, stopping them as they fumbled back and forth. “You need to go home. Get some rest. I can manage. Trust me.”
“No. I—I can’t. I have to—”
“Emilie, your friend just died. Go home,” he repeated, releasing her hands. “I’ll call you if I have a question.”
“I can’t. I have to call Mr. Winslow and reschedule. Actually, I need to reschedule the whole week. And we’re low on sweet feed. And I need to exercise—”
“I can do those things. All of them.” He walked behind her desk and rolled her chair back. “You’re so tired you can barely speak. Go home. Rest. I’ll drive you there.”
She looked into his steely eyes. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Rest here then.” He swung her chair toward the couch.
She stumbled the three feet to the sofa. “Okay. I’ll lie down. But I won’t be able to sleep.”
He grabbed a throw, tossed it at her and then walked to the door.
She pulled the blanket to her chest. “You’ll call Mr. Winslow?”
He looked back and nodded.
“And exercise my Grand Prix horses without getting yourself killed?” She wiped her cheeks.
“I used to ride bulls.” He gave her a half smile. “I think I can handle your ponies.”
“They’re not ponies. They’re—they’re finely tuned athletes.”
“I’ll be good to them. Rest.” The door clicked as he pulled it tight.
Emilie closed her eyes and listened to the fading click of his boots against the concrete as he strode away. Lying back, her sobs ceased but she couldn’t stop Steele’s questions from filling her mind.
Had Camillo been in love? Was that why he’d left? Did that relationship have something to do with his death? Obviously, the detective thought it was important. Emilie looked at Camillo’s photo on the wall.
You had a secret, she thought as sleep began to still her heavy heart. Did it get you killed?
Derrick found Gabe and cleared permission to ride Emilie’s horses with the police. He exercised Chelsea, Duchess and Bugs—three of Emilie’s four show jumpers, spectacular animals, bending and relaxing under the guidance of his leg and the touch of his soft hands. But he didn’t enjoy it as he should have, not with a million thoughts racing around his head. Knowing that Camillo Garcia might have been killed was quite a shock. What if Garcia’s death had been work related? Would he be next? And what about Camillo’s strange “arrangement” with Mr. Gill? He hoped the police would straighten this mess out quickly and not just for his own sake, for Emilie’s, too. Poor woman looked half-dead herself. Derrick pushed the many questions from his mind and forced his thoughts back to his tasks.
It had been months since he’d done so much riding in one day. At some point, his legs became as limp as cooked pasta. When he saw that Marco had thrown a shoe, he didn’t think about nailing it back on. Not only did his legs need a break, he wasn’t about to do anything to a horse worth a half-million dollars without permission.
Taking a seat on a large tack trunk, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket. He got Peter Winslow’s number from his uncle and made the call he’d promised.
“You have a minute, Peter?”
“Certainly.