Wrong Place, Wrong Time (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 1)

“Your license is gonzo no matter what,” Monty informed him, reading Vista’s mind and making quick work of his reticence. “But your jail time has yet to be determined. That depends on what crimes you’ve committed, and how much you’re willing to help us.”

“I had nothing to do with any murder.” Vista’s head jerked up, and his frightened gaze darted from Monty to Kearney and back again. “I’m a doctor. A scientist. Not a killer.”

Monty nodded. “I believe you. So tell me about your genetic research.”

Somewhat appeased, Vista hunched forward, gripping his knees as if to steady his nerves. “There was very little risk involved. Whatever risk existed, the subjects knew about it up front. They signed releases to that effect. It’s no different from what drug companies do when they’re testing a new product. The subjects in question were my control group.”

“Where did you find these subjects?”

“Through Roberto, the Piersons’ groom. He lives in Poughkeepsie, where there’s a large Mexican community. Many of them are illegals. They need jobs, money.”

“And you supplied both. What a guy.”

“I provided income for a service.”

“Tell us about that service. What type of drug did your subjects have tested on them?”

“No drug. Not in the way you mean. Drugs are detectable. Genetic enhancements aren’t.”

A lightbulb went off in Devon’s head. “You’re experimenting with gene therapy. Whatever you’re working on for Edward, it’s not just for his horses. It’s for James.”

“Exactly.” Vista looked pleased by Devon’s response. Clearly, he regarded her as the closest thing in the room to a colleague—one who should be excited and amazed by his accomplishment. “Gene therapy itself isn’t new. Nor is the attempt to utilize it in professional sports. But my research goes beyond that. It’s unique in its specificity and sophistication.”

“Go on.” Devon folded her arms across her breasts. She didn’t have to fake her curiosity.

Vista converged on it like a moth to a flame. “I’ve actually managed to genetically engineer skin cells—both equine and human—and reinject them to enhance the exact qualities necessary for a champion jumper.” Animatedly, he leaned toward Devon. “This produces both winning riders and winning mounts. In short, I’ve tailored gene therapy not just for professional sports, but for equestrian jumping.”

“How?” she demanded.

“As I said, I harvest then genetically manipulate the skin cells. Those cells are then reintroduced into the body—the horse’s cells through the hock, the human cells through the forebrain.” Vista indicated the back of his neck. “The procedure results in exactly the enhancements needed for both subjects: improved focus and concentration. Strengthened leg muscles. Decreased nervous tension. And heightened tactile sensitivity, which makes the rider more attuned to his horse and better able to convey instructions to it via his thighs and knees. As a result, a fine contender like Sunrise can become an Olympic winner rivaling Stolen Thunder. And a champion rider like James can become a legend.”

“And no drug test can detect the enhancements,” Devon concluded.

“Precisely.”

Monty let out a low whistle. “No wonder Edward was shelling out such big bucks for you—and from a secret account. Also why your heavy-duty lab is set up in your trailer as opposed to in his stables. Talk about protecting his ass and hanging yours out to dry.”

Vista’s pride vanished, supplanted by fear. “I haven’t hurt anyone.”

“I’d call using desperate illegal aliens as human guinea pigs a major violation of medical ethics, not to mention a criminal act.” Monty tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. “Did you help plan Frederick’s murder? Or just Philip Rhodes’s?”

“Neither!” Vista’s voice shot up as he took Monty’s bait. “Until the police dragged me over here, I had no idea my research was tied to those murders. I would never get mixed up in taking a human life.”

Monty wasn’t ready to drop the subject. “To your knowledge, was Edward part of his wife’s plan? Or did he only jump in afterward, to do damage control?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about James?”

Vista blew out a breath. “I never can tell what James doesn’t know and what he doesn’t want to know. He was aware of the research I was conducting. That much I’m sure of. It’s all I’m sure of.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” Under Monty’s rapid fire and blazing glare, Vista began sweating profusely. “I swear I’m telling the truth.”

Before Monty could respond, James Pierson appeared in the doorway, escorted by Tompkins. His face was haggard, his hair damp and clinging to his neck. Tension creased his forehead, and his skin was ashen. He looked beaten, as if he’d fought a painful war and lost.

“Can I talk to you?” he ask