“No. That’s why I said he wouldn’t have been hurt if he’d been in the saddle. But injury wasn’t what the SOB who did this had in mind. Disqualification was.”
“You lost me.”
“Diuretics are categorized as masking agents. If a rider’s taking any other drug—performance enhancing, narcotic, you name it—diuretics can flush them out of the system faster.”
“Which would keep them from showing up in a drug test.”
“You got it. So if James had been riding today, and if he’d been subjected to a routine drug test, he’d be out. And not just out of this competition. We could kiss the Beijing Olympics good-bye.”
“So whoever did this didn’t find out about the substitute rider in time,” Monty mused aloud.
“Exactly.” Edward set down his glass with a thud. “Granger better be okay. He’s been with me for years. He’s as decent and loyal as they come.”
Monty folded his arms across his chest. “You obviously think that whoever’s blackmailing you is behind this.”
“What else is there to think?”
A shrug. “It’s a stretch that so many unrelated disasters could happen to one family all at the same time; I’ll give you that. But if the events are related, this extortionist’s tactics are bizarre. Why wouldn’t he wait until your twenty-four-hour deadline had passed before he acted?”
“The same reason he didn’t wait last time. He murdered Frederick before giving me instructions on how to turn over the money.”
“Exactly. And, like I told you Sunday, that’s weird, too. The sequence of events doesn’t fit.” A pause. “Unless money’s just part of what this guy’s after. Maybe he’s got another motivation, like revenge.”
The phone rang.
Edward jumped on it. “Yes?” His entire body sagged with relief. “That’s great news. Tell him to take it easy and not to worry about anything, including expenses. Get him a private nurse. Keep me updated. Oh, and put an extra guard on James. Make sure you two check every drop of food or liquid that goes into his mouth.”
He hung up. “Granger’s okay,” he informed Monty. “He’s got some ugly gashes, a broken wrist, and bruised ribs. The hospital’s keeping him overnight for observation, just in case there’s any sign of concussion. Otherwise, he’s fine.”
“And James?”
“Hmm?”
“You said James was sick. What’s wrong?”
“Oh.” Edward snapped back to himself. “He’s got some twenty-four-hour stomach bug. He was bent over the toilet all night.”
“And now?”
“Now he’s just shaken. He knows that diuretic was meant for him.” Edward massaged his temples. “I’ve got to calm him down, or he’ll lose it before Sunday’s Grand Prix.”
Monty didn’t reply. He just continued scrutinizing Edward, his expression pensive.
DEVON COULDN’T WAIT to get home.
She’d returned to the clinic at four fifteen, just in time for the late-day chaos. The nonstop activity had been good for her. It kept her from thinking. Because when she thought, she thought about Blake. Not about the wonderful time they’d had last night, but about the car she’d seen him driving this afternoon. What did it mean, and how did it factor into Frederick’s murder?
Blake had an alibi. Sort of. He’d been at the farm all weekend. On the other hand, he could have slipped out without anyone noticing, driven up to the cabin, committed the crime, then driven back and—
No. She wasn’t letting herself go there. Not without grounds. As of now, there was no motive. There wasn’t even basis for suspicion—just something that might very well be a fluke. Monty would find out what the story was with the second Mercedes. Once she heard it, she’d decide how to play things with Blake.
In the meantime, she was beat.
She left work at seven fifteen. It was dark. Cold. On tap for tonight was checking in with Monty, eating a Lean Cuisine, and hitting the sheets.
It didn’t happen that way.
Within minutes of veering off the main drag, Devon got the disturbing sense she was being followed. She checked her rearview mirror repeatedly, but she saw nothing suspicious. Easing from the single-lane road onto the shoulder, she slowed down to a crawl and let the thin smattering of cars pass her. Not a single driver gave her a second look.