Horse of a Different Killer by Laura Morrigan Read Free Book Online Page A

El-Amin?”
    â€œI very much need your help. If you could meet me at my house as soon as possible—it’s a matter of life and death.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I told Jasmine I would be there in forty-five minutes. It took closer to an hour because in addition to having to take a shower, I’d decided to do a quick Google search for her to get a little background info. Skimming over the Wikipedia entry as fast as possible, I learned she’d been born in London to a British mother and a father who was of mixed English, Mediterranean, and Middle Eastern heritage. Which was pretty vague but might not matter anyway.
    â€œâ€˜Began her modeling career at age ten,’ blah, blah,” I read aloud. There was no mention of Ortega or their engagement, making me wonder how long they’d been together. It listed her hair color as dark brown and her eye color as hazel. Her height was five feet ten inches, only a few inches taller than my sister.
    The only image included was a photograph of her stalking down a runway. I supposed the clothes would be called avant-garde, her makeup and hairstyle just as cutting-edge. She wore the slightly sullen, yet somehow severe expression you often see on runway models.
    Paging back to the other search results, I quickly found a host of photos. I started to scan over a few to get a more realistic idea of what she looked like—then chided myself for wasting time. I’d see what she looked like soon enough, or would if I got a move on.
    A few minutes after eight, I pulled through the open gate leading to the Ortega house. The place looked almost exactly as it had the last time I’d seen it over six years ago. An interesting mix of Southwestern and Art Deco with a dash of Aegean, the front of the house had no porch and few windows. The stucco walls were stark white, making the focal point the enormous double doors set into the cylindrical, two-story entry.
    The strangest detail was the railless steps that wrapped the side of the entry, curving up to nowhere.
    They reminded me of photos I’d seen of Greece, where stairs leading to rooftop terraces were decorated with pots of bright flowers and the occasional lounging cat. Here, it seemed a pointless architectural adornment.
    To the left of the stairway to nowhere, carved wood doors were embedded in the semicircle of the house’s façade. I climbed out of Bluebell and had started toward the doors when one opened and a young woman carrying an assortment of cleaning supplies in a plastic caddy stepped onto the landing and began scrubbing the wood. It took me a moment to realize she was wiping away the smudges and dust left over from fingerprint powder.
    A moment later, the door opened again and a second woman appeared. She was older and dressed in a navy skirt suit and low heels. Her dark hair was pulled up into a tight French twist. She spoke quietly to the woman cleaning, then looked up when she noticed my approach.
    The flash of recognition caught me off guard and it took me several seconds to remember her name.
    â€œMary,” I said with a forced smile. “I didn’t know you still worked for Tony.”
    Emma had described Mary as more of a house manager and personal assistant than a housekeeper. Whatever her title, something about her had always rubbed me the wrong way. I wasn’t sure what I had against the woman. Other than thinking anyone who could stomach working for Ortega had to have a screw loose.
    â€œGrace. It’s been too long. Come in.” She opened the door and ushered me inside, through the foyer. Here, there were more windows than walls, making the view of the Atlantic spectacular.
    Emma had loved this house. It had been in midconstruction when she’d met Ortega, and though it had been years, I vividly remembered how excited she’d been when he’d suggested she design the pool area, which was visible through the wall of glass opposite