Snow Blind

by Cassie Miles

  “Do you remember,” Brady asked, “what Andrea said about her cousin having the old man wrapped around her finger?”

  She nodded. “That makes me think their relationship wasn’t strictly business.”

  “Was Westfield married?”

  “His third wife died four years ago.”

  If Lauren Robbins was aiming to be the next Mrs. Virgil P. Westfield, that would be a whole other motive for murder. No matter how vigorous Mr. Westfield was, the man was ninety-two years old. His heirs wouldn’t be happy if he married again.

  “How about kids?” Brady asked. “Did he have children?”

  “Never had any of his own. His greatest love was for his cats. He always had five or six running around the mansion, and he built an incredible cat condo that went up two stories. They were all strays.” She remembered a pleasant afternoon with the old man while he discussed a property sale with Damien. They drank tea and the cats had cream in matching saucers. “He used to say that the cats were his real family.”

  “What’s going to happen to his inheritance?”

  “He has a nephew who works for the family foundation and is his primary heir. But there’s a big chunk of change set aside for a cat shelter.”

  Brady grinned. “That’s a man who goes his own way. I like that.”

  “I liked him, too.”

  A stillness crept into the room. Her sweater seemed too warm. Her clothing too confining. She couldn’t keep her gaze from drifting toward the king-size bed, which seemed even bigger and more dominating. She wished they could lie beside each other, not necessarily to do anything else. Yeah, sure, who was she trying to kid? She wanted the whole experience with Brady.

  He moved away from the dresser. “I should be going.”

  Silently, she begged him to stay. Could she ask that of him? What if he said no? Not knowing what to say, she stammered, “I g-g-guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He was at the door. His hand rested on the knob. “As soon as I leave, flip the latch on the door. Don’t let anybody else in the room. Promise me.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He opened the door. “Pleasant dreams.”

  As she watched the door close behind him, the air went out of her body, and she deflated like a leftover balloon at a party. Was it too late for her to run down the hall and tackle him before he got into the elevator? She bounced to her feet but didn’t take a step. She wasn’t going to chase him down. She’d missed her chance for tonight.

  Following his instruction, she flipped the latch on her door, protecting herself from accidental intrusions by maids and purposeful assaults from ninjas. Nobody would come after her in the hotel, would they? Jacobson had surveillance everywhere. She was safe.

  On the way to the bathroom, she peeled off her sweater. Underneath, she wore a thermal T-shirt, and she got rid of that, too. What she needed was a nice long soak in the tub, and then she’d fall into that giant bed. Stripped down to her underwear, she heard a knock on the door to her room. Her heart leaped. Was it Brady coming back? She could only hope that he’d gotten down to his SUV, realized that he needed to spend the night with her and returned.

  She grabbed an oversize terry-cloth robe from a hook in the bathroom and dashed to the door. On her tiptoes, she peeked through the fish-eye.

  It was Sam Moreno.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Panic bubbled up inside her. Sasha’s fingertips rested on the door. Only this thin barrier separated her from a man who might have plotted two murders. And now he was coming for her. When he knocked again, she jumped backward and clutched the front of her bathrobe.

  “Sasha, it’s me, Sam Moreno. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “This isn’t...” She heard the tremor in her voice and started over. She didn’t want him to know she was scared. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “It’s important.”

  The logical side of her brain—the left side—told her that she was overreacting. She didn’t know that he was the killer. She had no compelling reason to believe that he was guilty. But she’d be a fool to invite him into her room. If they stood in the hallway, Jacobson’s surveillance camera would be watching and Moreno wouldn’t dare try anything.

  She grabbed her cell phone and held it so Moreno would see that she was in constant contact with others. As she opened the door, her heart beat extra fast. She couldn’t help thinking of how quickly the man in black had killed Lauren Robbins. One slash of his knife, and she was dead.

  Sasha stepped into the hallway. “What’s wrong, Mr. Moreno?”

  His clothing wasn’t all black for a change. He wore a dark rust-colored turtleneck under a black thermal vest. His olive complexion was ruddier than usual, making his dark eyes bright. Though he was a very good-looking man, he wasn’t very masculine. His smile was almost too pretty. She reminded herself not to be charmed by that smile. She’d seen Moreno in action at one of his seminars and had been amazed at his charisma. People wanted to believe him, especially when he told them that they were empowered and could have anything they dreamed of.

  “May I come into your room?” he asked.

  “I’d be more comfortable here,” she said. Her left hand had a death grip on the front of her robe, and she held up the cell phone in her right. “You said this was important.”

  “I came to you as soon as I heard the name of the murder victim,” he said. “I knew Lauren Robbins.”

  His timing surprised her. Since she and Brady had received confirmation on the victim’s identity a couple of hours ago, it seemed as if everybody else should know. “How did you hear about this?”

  “When we got back to the hotel, one of my assistants told me that the sheriff was questioning Reinhardt. That’s when I heard Lauren’s name. I came looking for you immediately.”

  “Why me?” She glanced down the hallway. Though she saw no sign of the surveillance camera, she knew it was there.

  “I’ll be truthful with you.” His lightly accented voice held a practiced ring of sincerity. In the self-help business, everything was based on trust. “Damien Loughlin is the lawyer, but you’re the person who really gets things done. Isn’t that right?”

  His question had a double edge. Of course, she wanted to be respected as a proactive person, but she knew better than to criticize her boss. “Is there something you wanted to tell me about Lauren Robbins?”

  “I want you on my side.” There was the disarming piece of honesty, accompanied by his smile. “Lauren was handling a real-estate transaction for me at Jim Birch’s dude ranch. Earlier today you and Brady were there.”

  His smile and the persuasive tone of his voice were working their magic. She felt her fear begin to ebb. “If you know anything about the murder, you should talk to the police. And I’m certain that Damien would want to be present when you do.”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  Echoing the words she’d read in every detective novel, she said, “Everybody is a suspect.”

  “Rest assured that I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m here to help the investigation. That’s all.” He held out both hands with the palms up to indicate he had nothing to hide. “I knew Lauren well. She was a strong woman, tough and perhaps too ambitious. Her dream of wealth clouded her other perceptions and made it difficult for her to find peace.”

  In his description, she recognized several of his catchphrases. “I’ll pass that along.”

  “You remind me of her,” he said, “in a good way.”

  She knew that he was dangling a carrot in front of her nose. Thousands of people were his followers and hung on his every word. Why shouldn’t she get a free reading? “How so?”

  “You have ambitions, Sasha. And you must honor those ambitions. If you conceive it, you can achieve it. And you’re also a caretaker. I’d guess
you came from a big family with four or five siblings. Are you the youngest?”

  “Yes.” For half a second, she wondered how he had known about her family. Then she realized that personal information wasn’t hard to come by on the internet.

  “You like the balance offered by a legal career,” he said, “but you don’t like the restrictions of law. You’re more suited to a profession like mediation.”

  He was accurate. She felt herself being drawn in.

  Moreno continued, “Don’t worry if you lose the job with Damien. You’re the type of person who finds opportunities. With your optimism and enthusiasm, you’ll be hired again.” He paused. “I could help you. I could be your mentor.”

  He reached toward her and made contact with the bare flesh of her hand holding the phone. His touch was warm and meant to be soothing. He wanted her to trust him. That was what this conversation was about. He wanted her to be on his side.

  But she pulled her hand away. She’d seen him in action and knew his routine too well. Sasha wasn’t suited for the role of minion. She didn’t look good in all black. “I appreciate that you came forth with this information, and I’ll pass it on to Damien.”

  Down the hall, the elevator opened. She saw Grant Jacobson striding toward them and almost cheered.

  Jacobson greeted Moreno and turned to her. “Step inside with me, Sasha. We have something to discuss.”

  Relief swept through her. She bid Moreno good-night, went into her room with Jacobson, closed the door and leaned her back against it. “Thank you.”

  He glared. “Didn’t Brady tell you not to open the door for anyone?”

  She nodded. “But I knew you’d be watching. That’s why I didn’t let him into the room.”

  “You can’t take chances like that. It’s not safe.”

  “I won’t do it again.”

  There was nothing soft or comforting about his presence. Jacobson didn’t lead by gently convincing his followers; he demanded respect. And she had no intention of disobeying him. She thanked him again, and he left.

  After she showered and changed into a soft cotton nightshirt, she snuggled between the sheets and turned out the light. Lying in the dark, her mind ping-ponged from one thought to another. She remembered the moments of tension and considered the web of complications that stretched from the murder of Lauren Robbins to the suspicious death of Virgil P. Westfield. Were they connected? Or not? Connected? Or not?

  And she thought of Brady. Her memory conjured a precise picture of his wide shoulders, narrow hips and long legs. He was totally masculine, from the crown of his cowboy hat to the soles of his boots. The hazel color of his eyes darkened when he was thinking and shimmered when he laughed. And when he kissed her... She sank into the remembrance of his kiss, and she held that moment in her mind. When she slept, she would dream of him.

  * * *

  BRADY WOKE AT the break of dawn. The light was different today; there was more shadow and less sun. A storm was coming.

  Farmers and ranchers had the habit of checking the weather before they did anything else. He was no exception to that rule. Looking out his bedroom window, he watched the clouds fill up the sky. Though he was no longer a cowboy responsible for winter chores, the snowy days were vastly different from the brilliant, sunny ones they’d been having. For a deputy, the snow meant more traffic accidents and a greater likelihood of hikers being lost in the backcountry.

  He glanced back at his bed, extralong so his feet didn’t hang off the end, and wished she was there. He understood why she’d turned him down when he asked her to come home with him. Spending the night with him wouldn’t be appropriate for either one of them. His only assignment today would be protecting Sasha. Though he was glad, he had hoped to be more involved in the investigation. Last night Sheriff McKinley had told him that the Colorado Bureau of Investigation was taking over. It made sense. The CBI had the facilities and the trained personnel for autopsy and forensics. With the proper warrants, they could search the financial records of the suspects to find out if they had made payments to hired killers.

  Still, Brady hated to give up jurisdiction. Stepping back and letting the big boys take over felt like failure. This was his county, his case. As a lawman, he wanted to see the investigation through to the end.

  Usually, he made his own coffee in the morning. But he knew Dooley would be having the investors over for a meeting in a couple of hours. There might be some special tasty baked goods in the kitchen of the big house that was down the hill, about a hundred yards away from his two-bedroom log cabin.

  He got dressed and sauntered along the shoveled path leading to the big house. As soon as he opened the back door, he was hit by the aroma of cinnamon and melted butter mingled with the smell of freshly ground coffee.

  Clare and Louise, the women who did most of the cooking on the ranch, gave him a quick greeting and shoved him toward the dining room, where the table was filled with plates of cinnamon rolls and muffins, as well as regular breakfast foods—platters of bright yellow scrambled eggs, bacon and hash-brown potatoes. Five or six cowboys sat around the table, eating and drinking from steaming mugs of coffee. Chitchat was at a minimum. This was a working ranch, and they were already on the job.

  Brady followed the same protocol. When he sat, the guy on his left nudged his shoulder. “I heard you found a dead body.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Somebody got murdered at that fancy hotel.”

  “Yeah.”

  The cowboy across the table leaned back in his chair. “I bet McKinley is pulling his mustache out.”

  “Pretty much,” Brady said.

  “How about you? Are you playing detective?”

  Brady sipped his coffee. “The CBI is stepping in to take over.”

  “That’s a damn shame.” Dooley appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. “We don’t need a bunch of CBI agents in suits to come prancing around and solving our problems.”

  Brady loved his great-uncle, the patriarch of their family, and he agreed with him. They weren’t the sort of people who gave up. “We’ve got no choice. The state investigators have trained experts and fancy electronic investigation equipment. With our budget, we can barely afford gas for the vehicles. The sheriff’s department needs help.”

  “I think we need a new sheriff,” one of the cowboys said. “Somebody like you, Brady.”

  Why did everyone keep saying that? Running for sheriff was a heavy responsibility and a long-term commitment for someone his age. “You just want a free pass on parking tickets.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “It doesn’t take a budget to solve a crime.” Dooley hitched his thumb in his belt. “You need what we used to call poker sense. If you want to find a liar, look him straight in the eye. If he blinks, he’s got something to hide.”

  “And how does that work in a court of law?”

  “You got to trust your gut,” Dooley said. “You’ve met all these suspects, Brady. Now you go with your gut. Ask yourself who did it, and you’re going to get a reply. And you’ll probably be right.”

  The name that popped in his head was Lloyd Reinhardt. He didn’t know why, didn’t have a shred of proof, but somehow his subconscious had picked Reinhardt, the ex-husband, the man with a lot of money invested. “In the meantime, my assignment is to make sure our key witness is safe.”

  “Sasha Campbell,” Dooley said. “Watching her all day shouldn’t be too hard.”

  The cowboy next to him perked up. “Is she that cute little blonde?”

  Because Brady knew how hard Sasha worked to be thought of as professional, he said, “She’s more than cute. She works for the law firm with the partners at Arcadia, setting up the meetings and recording what goes on.”

  “Brady’s right,” Dooley said. “She’s ten times smarter than her b
oss. But she’s also nice to look at.”

  He couldn’t argue.

  On the drive over to the hotel to pick her up, he tried to reconcile his different images of Sasha. Her warmth and her smiles were natural, and she liked to think the best of people. But she wasn’t a pushover. Though she didn’t dress in low-cut blouses or wear sultry makeup, she had that girl-next-door kind of sexiness that made a man sit up and take notice. When she was being professional, she was smart and efficient, whipping out her laptop computer and keeping everyone on track.

  Thinking about her ever-present briefcase reminded him of how much she relied on electronics to do her job. Everybody did. It was only the dinosaurs like Dooley who figured you could count on your gut feelings. The rest of the world was plugged in, including Lauren Robbins. She was a businesswoman. Where were her electronics? Her cell phone had been recovered with her body, but where were her computer and her electronic notepad? She wouldn’t have left those items at home. Not if she’d been planning to do business in Arcadia.

  At the hotel, he circled around to the side where her car was still parked at the curb. He’d told McKinley about the vehicle, but the sheriff apparently hadn’t had time to get it towed. And the CBI hadn’t taken notice.

  Brady parked his SUV in front of her car. Had Lauren left anything inside? He should tell someone else to check it out.

  Or maybe he should do a tiny bit of investigating on his own.

  In the back of his SUV, stored inside his locked rifle case, were the low-tech tools used to break into a car when somebody had accidentally lost their keys.

  He unlocked the gun case and took out a wooden wedge and a metal pole with a hooked end. Over the years, he’d helped lots of folks who had gotten stuck in bad places without their keys, and he was good at breaking in. Many of the newer vehicles were impossible to unlock but this dark green American-made SUV wouldn’t be a problem for him.

  He used the wedge to pry open a narrow space at the driver’s-side window, stuck the pole inside and wiggled it around until he could manipulate the lock. There was a click. He opened the door.