Snow Blind Page 7

  “Such fun.” Katie combed her fingers through her pixie-cut hair and rested her hand on her hip. Her pose seemed studied, as though she were arranging her body to show off her curves.

  “Could you tell me what you’re planning for the meeting?” Sasha asked. “I want to make sure I can record everything for Mr. Loughlin.”

  “What a shame that Damien couldn’t be here,” she said. “I was looking forward to seeing him on skates.”

  “He sends his deepest regrets.”

  “Poor old Virgil P. Westfield.” Her head swiveled, and her pale green eyes focused sharply. “I’ve heard rumors that the police are investigating his death.”

  This topic was exactly what Damien had told her not to talk about. Sasha clenched her jaw. “I really can’t say.”

  “But Damien is the Westfields’ attorney, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Sasha felt herself being drawn into a trap and was grateful when Sam Moreno joined them. He skated as well as he did everything else; she’d seen him pull off a single axel leap without a wobble.

  He asked, “What are you ladies talking about?”

  “Westfield,” Katie said.

  “So tragic.” He shook his head and frowned. “The police think he was murdered.”

  Sasha silently repeated her mantra: say nothing, say nothing, say nothing.

  “I knew it,” Katie said. “My husband consulted with his cardiologist last year. I know for a fact that Virgil P. had the heart of a man half his age.”

  Apparently, the ice-skater didn’t have a problem with sharing confidential medical information. Sasha pinched her lips together, refusing to be drawn into the conversation.

  “Westfield’s mind wasn’t sharp,” Moreno said. “I heard he wanted to leave his fortune to his cat. Is that right, Sasha?”

  It wasn’t. She wanted to speak up and defend Mr. Westfield, who hadn’t been senile in any way. Say nothing, say nothing. She tried to change the subject. “I wasn’t aware that you all knew each other.”

  “My relationship with Westfield was long-standing and true,” Moreno explained. “Like many people who have spent their lives accumulating property, he neglected the inner growth that would make his life truly meaningful.”

  “And profitable,” Katie said cynically. “I’m sure you told him how to invest.”

  “I advised,” Moreno said. “He listened.”

  Sasha had been involved with the investors long enough to understand the subtext. All of them made their money with real estate. Dooley got his land the old-fashioned way: he had inherited thousands of acres in the mountains. Reinhardt was a developer. Katie Cook and her surgeon husband owned commercial buildings in downtown Denver. And Sam Moreno reaped commissions for turning land into cash on a house-by-house basis.

  The Arcadia project was supposed to be a nest egg for all of them. Their plan was for the resort to continue to turn a profit without much in the way of further investment. Sasha wasn’t sure how Westfield fit into this picture.

  She heard Brady calling her name and turned toward the far end of the ice, where he was waving to her. Happily, she grabbed the excuse and skated away from Katie and Mr. Moreno.

  When she reached the edge, she leaned toward Brady. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to get away from them.”

  “You’re welcome, but that wasn’t my intention.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Your briefcase is ringing.” He held it up.

  She scrambled off the ice and sat on a bench before opening it. The last thing she needed was to spill the documents inside or to break her laptop.

  This call had to be from Damien. She didn’t expect good news.

  Chapter Seven

  “The reason I wanted you all to skate,” Katie Cook said, “was so you could experience the very impressive potential of the Arcadia Ice Rink for yourselves. Not only is this an outstanding facility for skating and training, but the six thousand–seat venue can be used as a stadium for special events.”

  Sasha adjusted the screen on her laptop, where the face of her boss stared out at the investors and their entourages. Damien hadn’t wanted to conduct the first part of the meeting here, but Katie hadn’t offered him an alternative.

  Still wearing her skates, Katie pushed away from the edge of the rink toward the center. This must have been a signal because the man who had been operating the PA system started playing the opening to Ravel’s Boléro. After an impressive two-minute version of her famous routine, Katie skated back toward them. Her message was clear: I’ve still got the moves.

  “My connections in the skating world are excellent,” she said. “I intend to host a national championship at the Arcadia Ice Rink this year, with television coverage, but I will need other revenue streams to make this a profitable endeavor.”

  “I’m in,” Sam Moreno said. “I’ll host a minimum of two seminars at this location. If the partners agree to finance my ashram, I will do more.”

  “Your what?” Reinhardt demanded. “Ashram?”

  “It’s a retreat devoted to meditation and study with live-in residents.”

  “Here we go,” Reinhardt growled. “I’ve been waiting to hear some half-baked scheme from you that was going to cost me money.”

  “Your investment will be minimal,” Moreno assured him, “and far outweighed by the benefits.”

  “Gentlemen,” Damien said from the computer. “May I have your attention?”

  His computerized voice was less than commanding, and Reinhardt ignored him. “I’m not putting one penny into financing some hippie-dippie ashram.”

  On Damien’s behalf, Sasha spoke up, “Excuse me.”

  “What?” Reinhardt said.

  She held up the computer. “Mr. Loughlin has something to say.”

  On the screen, her boss straightened his necktie in his classic stalling move. Then he said, “Today the stage belongs to Katie Cook. We need to stay on topic. I suggest that we adjourn to the owners’ box. Immediately.”

  As they lumbered off the ice and changed into street shoes, Sasha turned the computer screen toward herself. “Any suggestions, boss?”

  “I need to go. Try to keep the talks on track. Only contact me if it’s absolutely necessary.”

  The screen went blank. She was glad that he trusted her enough to leave her on her own. At the same time, she was completely freaked out. These people were all strong personalities who could trample her like a herd of wild rhinos. Somehow she had to maintain control.

  On the way to the owners’ box, she stopped where Brady was standing and looked up at him. If he came with her to the meeting, she’d feel as if she had at least one person on her side. “Are you going to stay?”

  He fired a quick glance around the ice rink. “I think you’ll be safe here with all these witnesses.”

  “I’m not worried about being physically attacked.” His presence gave her confidence. He was strong and solid and trustworthy—the opposite of most of the partners. “I don’t know how I’ll keep this meeting on track.”

  “You’ll manage.” He gave her a wink. “You’re a professional.”

  Though she straightened her spine, she didn’t feel in control. She’d already made the mistake of allowing Katie Cook to lure them onto the ice. Damien wouldn’t be pleased if she didn’t cover all the items on the agenda. “Tell me again.”

  He held her upper arms and looked directly into her eyes. “You’re a pro. You’ll handle these people and be done by noon. Then I’ll take you out for a cheeseburger and fries.”

  “Nice incentive,” she said with a nod. “I love cheeseburgers.”

  “I had a call from Jacobson and need to head back over to the hotel.”

  “A clue?”

  “Maybe.” H
e stepped away from her. “I’ll be back to pick you up. Don’t go anywhere alone. Don’t leave without me.”

  She was sad to see him go. Her feet were itching to run after him and pursue the investigation. In some ways, tracking down a mysterious killer felt far less dangerous than being locked in a boardroom with the business leaders.

  * * *

  AT THE HOTEL, Brady didn’t have to look hard to find Grant Jacobson. The head of Gateway Hotel security was striding toward him before Brady reached the front desk. Jacobson greeted him with a nod and jumped directly to what he wanted to say; he wasn’t the kind of guy who wasted time with “hello” or “goodbye.”

  “I’ve apprised the staff on the day shift about the black-haired victim. A couple of them identified Andrea, the woman who was with Reinhardt.”

  “How do you know it was Andrea?” Brady asked.

  “They saw her with Reinhardt. He’s the big boss, so people notice what’s going on with him.”

  In his casual but expensive leather jacket, Jacobson fit in well with the hotel guests who were on their way to a late breakfast or early lunch in one of the hotel’s cafés. He continued, “Since last night, we’ve searched this place from top to bottom looking for evidence, like a blood trail or a piece of jewelry or a purse.”

  Brady caught a hint of self-satisfaction in Jacobson’s attitude. “You found something.”

  “Come with me.”

  They exited onto the street, where the valets turned toward them and backed off when Jacobson indicated with a quick gesture that he didn’t need their assistance. The former military man had already trained the staff to understand his needs and to know how to respond. A born leader, Jacobson could have been running a battalion rather than security for a hotel. This job might be a kind of retirement for him with the beautiful surroundings and lack of problems.

  “Speaking of Reinhardt,” Brady said, “has he given the go-ahead on getting your electronic surveillance operational?”

  “You bet he has.” Jacobson’s expression was grim. “There’s nothing like a tragedy to focus attention. Reinhardt agreed to several upgrades, and I have a full contingent of electricians and computer techs on the case. By tonight I’ll have the hallways, elevators and underground parking area wired.”

  * * *

  LEAVING THE ENTRYWAY, Jacobson led the way around to the sidewalk on the right side of the building. It was sunny and warm today. The artificial snow–making machines would be working overtime on the slopes tonight. Halfway down the block, on the other side of the ramps leading to underground parking, Jacobson stopped at the curb beside a dark green SUV.

  “This vehicle was here overnight,” he said.

  As far as Brady could tell, the parking spot was legal. The SUV didn’t have a ticket tucked under the windshield wiper. “How do you know it was here?”

  He nodded toward the entrance to underground parking. “My parking space is down here, and I saw that SUV when I came in last night. When I left, it was the only vehicle parked on the block. It was still there this morning.”

  A car parked on the street hardly counted as evidence, but Brady was grasping at straws. Until now he’d had nothing but Sasha’s testimony to go on. “I’ll run the plates.”

  “I already did.” Jacobson shrugged. “I don’t want you to think I’m stealing your thunder, but I have a couple of connections, and I thought I could check it out and save you the time if it wasn’t relevant.”

  Brady squared off to face him. Jacobson had seriously overstepped his authority. “This isn’t your job. You’re not a cop.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I don’t have to tell you proper procedure.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I should have notified you first.”

  “Damn right you should have.”

  When Jacobson locked gazes with him, Brady knew better than to back down. Maybe he wasn’t getting much help from the sheriff. And maybe he was a newbie when it came to homicide investigations. But he was still in charge. If this killer got away, Brady would take the blame.

  Jacobson gave a nod. “I like you, kid. If you ever decide to leave the sheriff’s department, you’ve got a job with me.”

  “I’m glad you’re on my side,” Brady said, echoing the statement Sasha had made earlier. “Show me what you found.”

  Jacobson pulled a computer notepad from his inner jacket pocket and punched a few buttons. “The plates belong to Lauren Robbins of Denver. This is her driver’s license.”

  The photo showed an unsmiling thirty-seven-year-old woman with brown eyes and long black hair. She fit the description Sasha had given.

  * * *

  IN THE LUXURIOUS owners’ box at the Arcadia Ice Rink, Sasha helped the catering staff clean up the coffee mugs, plates and leftovers as the meeting wrapped up. No surprise decisions had been made. The discussion among the business partners had been relatively calm and rational. It seemed that the three men were more than happy to leave control of this operation to Katie Cook as long as she didn’t exceed her stated budget.

  Sasha’s main contribution had been to make sure everything was recorded for future reference. She also kept the coffee fresh and the juice flowing, made sure the fruit was organic and sorted the gluten-free pastries for Moreno and his minions.

  Her boss had joined them for the last couple of minutes via computer. “To summarize,” Damien had said from his computer screen, “existing contracts are still in order. And I will prepare a new agreement that will allow Moreno to use the arena facilities for two recruitment sessions.”

  “At a sixty-five percent discount,” Moreno said.

  Katie Cook rolled her heavily made-up eyes. “Fine.”

  “Tomorrow,” Damien said, “we meet at Dooley’s ranch. For those of you who don’t want to drive, a van will be waiting outside the hotel at eight-thirty.”

  “Are you joining us?” Katie Cook asked.

  “I’m sure as heck going to try,” Damien said.

  “Is there anything we can do for Virgil P. Westfield’s family?” she asked. “When is the funeral?”

  “Your condolences are appreciated. The funeral won’t be until next week.”

  Katie smirked as though she’d discovered a clever secret. “No funeral is scheduled because there’s going to be an autopsy. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Damien said hesitantly.

  “I knew it,” she crowed. “The police suspect murder.”

  “Cause of death was a blow to the head caused by falling down the grand staircase in his home. The coroner will perform an autopsy to determine if he fell because of medications he was taking.”

  “Or if he was pushed,” Katie said.

  “At present,” Damien said, “the police consider Westfield’s death to be an accident. That’s all I can say for now. If you have concerns or questions, don’t hesitate to ask Sasha and she’ll be in touch with me.”

  As Damien had requested, Sasha turned off the computer screen and officially closed the meeting. She gave the group a reassuring smile and said, “I’ll see you all tomorrow. Have a great day.”

  She noticed that Brady had entered the room and was talking with his uncle as the others exited. Reinhardt and Andrea approached the two cowboys. In his usual gruff manner, Reinhardt demanded information about the supposed hotel murder. Brady told him he was following up on several leads.

  “But you still don’t have a body,” Reinhardt said.

  “Not yet.”

  “Waste of time,” Reinhardt muttered.

  In short order, the room was empty except for her and Brady. The tension in the air dissipated, and it was quiet. Sasha exhaled a sigh of relief, rotated her shoulders and stretched her arms over her head. Since most of her hair had already escaped the chignon, she pulled out the last few clips and toss
ed her head.

  Being done with the meeting reminded her of the feeling she’d had as a kid when the final bell rang and school was over for the day. She wanted to skip or run or twirl in a circle. I’m free! Even better, she was in the company of somebody she liked. Better still, they were going to get cheeseburgers.

  Her natural impulse was to give Brady a big hug, but she stopped herself before grabbing him. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wasn’t going to leave you here unprotected.” The dimple at the left corner of his mouth deepened when he grinned. She’d like to kiss that dimple. “Good meeting?”

  “No yelling. No huge arguments. Katie had a chance to name-drop every superstar in the ice-skating world. Reinhardt was satisfied with the numbers, especially since Katie’s rich hubby has agreed to take up any slack. Moreno hinted about this ashram he wants to build. And then there’s your uncle Dooley.”

  “Who slept through it,” Brady said.

  “Good guess.”

  “He’s never really sleeping. He hears everything.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “That’s kind of like you,” he said. “You pretend to be busy filling coffee mugs but you’re really keeping track. I came in early enough to hear you give the summary for your boss. Very complete and concise.”

  “Thank you.”

  His compliment made her feel good. In her position as a paralegal, few people even acknowledged her presence. Brady listened to everyone, including her. That was a useful attribute for a cop.

  He sat at the table and patted the seat of the chair next to him. “Are you ready for some bad news?”

  “Not really.” But she sat beside him anyway.

  As he scrolled through several entries on his cell phone screen, he said, “Jacobson noticed a car on the street that hadn’t moved since last night. He checked out the license plate and found the owner.”

  He held the screen so she could see the driver’s license. The photograph showed an attractive black-haired woman. Though Sasha was somewhat relieved to know that she hadn’t imagined the attack, she hated to think of what had happened to her.