“But you can’t afford to dismiss it, either.”
“I’m not dismissing anything. But, like I said, there’s more to this nightmare—more that makes me believe it’s someone on the outside who’s trying to bring us down.” He unlocked his center drawer, extracting an envelope.
“Will this explain your comment about not believing in coincidence?” Monty demanded.
“Two attacks on my family in one weekend? That’s no fluke.” Edward thrust the envelope across the desk. “Take a look at this. I got it on Thursday. It was mailed to me at the office.”
Monty eyed the envelope without taking it. It was laser-printed, and addressed to Edward Pierson at Pierson & Company. “Extortion,” he surmised aloud. “Which kind, blackmail or ransom?”
“Blackmail.”
“Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“Because I thought the letter was a hoax until Frederick was killed. Then I called you.”
Nodding, Monty reached into his parka pockets. He groped around, whipping out his ski gloves. “No point in contaminating the evidence any more than it already has been,” he said, yanking on the gloves. “I doubt we’ll find any distinguishable fingerprints. But, just in case, let’s not taint them.” He leaned forward and took the envelope, eyeing it again. “No return address,” he noted. “And a Manhattan postmark.”
He slid out two folded sheets. The first was clearly a letter. The other was a computer printout of an article from Horse Daily News. He scanned that first.
ANTIDOPING AGENCY DISQUALIFIES TWO MORE HIGH-PROFILE RIDERS FOLLOWING POSITIVE DRUG TESTING, the headline read. The story, dated the previous October during Manhattan’s National Metropolitan Horse Show, went on to describe the growing problem of drug use among equestrian riders, both at competitions and at random out-of-competition testing.
Monty skimmed the article just enough to get the gist of it. Then he turned his attention to the letter. Identical laser printing. Double-spaced. Nondescript in format.
Not so in content.
Sometimes disqualified riders aren’t responsible for what shows up in their urine. Or their horse’s urine. It could happen to anybody. Like James. Or Stolen Thunder. It could happen at an Olympic qualifying event. Like the US Open Jumper Championship CSIO in March. That would ruin everything. Lives. Reputations. All gone up in smoke.
Two million would keep them out of trouble. And safe, in and out of the show ring. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?
Consider the offer. I’ll be in touch.
“No salutation. No signature,” Monty muttered.
“And no follow-up.” Edward took another shaky gulp of water. “I haven’t heard word one from the scum who wrote that. At first, I thought it was some kind of sick gag. Then Frederick was killed.”
“There’s no mention of Frederick in the letter.”
“What about the part about going up in smoke?”
Monty pursed his lips. “Yeah. There’s that. It could be a reference to Friday’s fire. But it still doesn’t make sense. If the blackmailer wanted his cash, why kill Frederick before giving you a chance to come up with it?”
“An incentive, maybe.” Tension creased Edward’s forehead. “An act to show he means business.”
“That’s one hell of an incentive. Arson and murder. And why Frederick? Were he and James particularly close?”
“Our whole family’s close. We fight. We make up. But family’s family.”
That wasn’t an answer, but Monty left it alone. “We could be looking at payback of some kind. I’ll need the names of anyone who might have a grudge against the Piersons. I’ll also need to talk to your other family members. Not today, obviously. Over the next few days. I’ll speak to them one at a time.”
“I don’t want them knowing about the blackmail letter. Especially James. He’s high-strung enough. I don’t want him to panic.”
“I understand that. But he should be on the lookout for anything suspicious.”
“He doesn’t need to be. I’ve arranged for twenty-four-hour security around him, in New York and in Wellington. No one will get near him.”
“He doesn’t know about this?”
“It’s not necessary. My people are discreet.”