“And what were you wearing?”
“I told you, my bathrobe.” Rachel sounded annoyed and impatient to be done. “It’s the old-fashioned kind, blue chenille and long, with ties around the waist. I got it from my children last Christmas. And for the record, my son’s briefs were white Fruit of the Loom. Any more questions?”
“I believe that’s all.” Sam switched off the recorder and stood. “Thank you, Mrs. McKenna. I won’t trouble you any more today. Enjoy the Run for a Million tomorrow night.”
Sam rode the elevator back to the lobby. Rachel’s story matched Roper’s version to the letter. If it was true, and it was at least plausible, then Roper had to be innocent. But what about motive? What about the murder weapon, found in the creek by two young boys with traces of fentanyl but no prints or DNA? Without solid evidence, one way or another, how could he clear a man based on two matching stories that could easily have been rehearsed?
There was no simple answer to that question. Either he could arrest Roper and leave the final outcome to the jury. Or, if Roper was truly innocent, he could find the real killer.
Lost in thought, he passed through the hotel lobby and wandered back to the practice arena, where some of the reining contestants were drilling for tomorrow’s big event. Watchers were scattered among the seats. Slipping onto a bench seat along the side, he let his mind work while his eyes watched some of the most magnificent horses and riders in the world.
Roper was at the far end of the arena with One in a Million. Sam made no effort to catch his eye. He’d resolved to leave him alone until the competition was over. Roper deserved that much respect, at least. And the man was innocent until proven guilty.
The stallion was in top form, head alert, muscles rippling beneath his silvery bay roan coat. His moves were flawless, beautifully done. One in a Million had earned the right to be here—but at such a tragic price.
Earlier, Sam had watched Buck Tolson and his friend maneuver Fire Dance into a trailer that was fitted with a supporting rack for medical transport. The fiery young stallion had looked utterly beaten. But at least he was alive and not lying cold on a concrete slab.
One in a Million had experienced a tragedy of his own. As the single eyewitness to Frank’s murder, the big roan’s memory held the answer to Sam’s most vital question. What a shame the horse couldn’t communicate.
For a few minutes, he watched Roper take the stallion through his paces. The connection between horse and rider was smooth and subtle, almost poetic. He could imagine the pair winning the million-dollar prize.
And then what?
At first, Sam hadn’t paid much attention to the lanky cowboy seated at the far end of the row, his black hat shading his face. Only when the man turned at an unexpected sound did Sam realize he’d hit the jackpot. He was looking at Hayden Barr.
Putting his phone on silent, Sam moved down the row to sit beside him, showed his ID, and introduced himself. Hayden stirred as if to get up, then appeared to think the better of it. “I know who you are,” he said. “And I know you’re investigating Frank Culhane’s murder. But I didn’t have anything to do with it. I didn’t even know him. And I sure as hell didn’t kill him.”
“But you knew he was your father,” Sam said.
In the silence that followed, cheers could be heard from the Shootout in the main arena. “You’ve been talking to Cheyenne, haven’t you?” Hayden said at last. “Never trust a woman.”
“Who else knew?” Sam asked.
“My father, and my mother, of course—both of them gone now—Cheyenne, and now you. That’s about the size of it.”
“And did Frank Culhane know about you?”
“My mother said she told him, but he was married and so was she, so he never came around. What’s this all about? I told you I didn’t kill the man. I never met him.”
“Can you tell me where you were on the night Frank was murdered?”
“Hell, I don’t even remember what night it was or what I was doing. But I know that I was nowhere near Frank’s place.”
“Have you ever telephoned Darrin Culhane?”
“That’s Frank’s son, isn’t it? I don’t even know him. But I know how he died. A story like that gets around fast.”
“Somebody called him late last night, claiming to behis brother and wanting to meet by the horse stalls. Was that you?”
“No way. If I’d wanted to meet him, I’d have invited him to lunch in broad daylight. Check my phone. I never called him.”
“Records indicate that the calls to his number came from a burner,” Sam said.
“Well, it wasn’t me. None of this has anything to do with Frank’s death. Don’t I have rights or something?” Hayden was getting defensive. Time to back off.
“Just a couple more questions,” Sam said. “Have you had any contact with Simone Culhane, Darrin’s wife, or with Jasmine Culhane, his sister?”
When Hayden hesitated, Sam felt his heart drop. Could there be some connection between Jasmine and this attractive but highly suspect young man? Could they have been scheming together to take Darrin out of the picture? But what was he thinking? He loved Jasmine. He trusted her. But then again, she was her mother’s daughter.