Simpatico's Gift

by Frank Martorana

  Kent rolled himself up onto his knees and began to tremor. He clamped his arms across his waist and wretched in revolting spasms. For a moment, the room whirled. He listed hard to the left and caught himself with his injured arm. Lucinda whimpered. He consoled her with a feeble pat on the head. White-hot pain vibrated up through to his shoulder. He crawled across the floor, clawed a grip on the counter, and pulled himself up to the sink. He cast aside a few dishes, and splashed a handful of water on his face. Its coolness steadied him.

  He looked at his arm. It was already turning blue as blood oozed beneath his skin. The definition of his wrist began to disappear as swelling enlarged it to match his forearm. Ragged tears through the skin and muscle marked where Ninja’s fangs had penetrated. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and covered the wound, more to hide it from his own view than to protect it.

  Beaten, he said, “Let’s get out of here, girl,” and took two steps toward the door. Then a strange determination arose within him. I’m going to quit now? After all of this shit? The hell I am!

  He pulled in a deep breath and willed the pain from his mind. Then, braced against the counter, he resurveyed the apartment. After a moment, he began pillaging through Burton’s kitchen with a vengeance.

  Under the telephone, which doubled as a paperweight, was a pile of mail, mostly bills, mostly overdue. Kent rifled through them. One was a telephone bill that caught his eye because it showed only two calls, both long distance, both to the same number. He tucked it into his pocket.

  As he worked, the throbbing in his arm rose and fell in rhythm with his pulse. The queasiness was returning and beads of sweat coursed down his temples. The room felt like an oven.

  He moved to the sleeping area, searched the shelves — nothing. Then, from behind the sofa bed, Ninja’s lair, he pulled a small suitcase, actually a cheap plastic attaché case. It was surprisingly heavy. He flopped it onto the bed and popped open the latches. It was full of neatly bundled twenty-dollar bills, crisp and new, aligned in even rows. Even in his blurry condition, he knew there had to be at least twenty thousand dollars.

  “Bingo, Lucy!” he said, staring at the money. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  He eased himself down onto the bed, and was contemplating the significance of the money when his eye was attracted to a Styrofoam mailer among the litter on the floor — maybe 4”x6”x2” thick and pristine white. It was the same type of mailer they used at the CVC to sent samples, and it seemed totally out of place in Burton’s rat hole. He picked it up. It was empty. He rolled it in his hand and looked for an address. It was to Burton, but there was no return address. He squinted at the postage meter strip — postmarked Cynthiana, Kentucky.

  Just then he heard a series of soft beeps. He had forgotten about the radio. He pulled it out of his pocket and signaled, okay.

  He gave the rest of the apartment a cursory inspection, then grabbed the attaché case, and started toward the door. He was halfway to it when he stopped, as an idea struck him. He turned back to the bed, reopened the case, took out two large handfuls of bundled twenties, closed the case, and replaced it behind the bed. Then he tore for the Cherokee.

  He let Lucinda in, then fell into the back seat. He signaled Maria to drive. As the wheels spun up gravel, he breathed deeply, allowing the sweet fresh air to flow over him.

  They were out on the highway before Emily or Maria felt at ease enough to speak.

  “Did you find anything?” Emily asked.

  “Yeah, I did. Enough to tie Burton to foul play of some kind, but I’m not sure it’s anything that will help the police prove he killed Simpatico.”

  “What was it?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it after we stop by Dr. Marshall’s.”

  “Why Dr. Marshall’s?”

  Kent held up the arm that he had hidden from view. Emily’s gasp startled Maria, who whirled around to look, throwing the Cherokee into a violent swerve.

  Kent grunted as his shoulder slammed against the vehicle’s door. “Maria, you pay attention to the driving.”

  “What happened?”

  “I forgot about Ninja.”

  “Ninja!” Maria cried. “Oh, God. He was in the apartment? He bit you?”

  “To say the least.” Kent winced as he gently lifted the handkerchief jellied with clotted blood. “If it hadn’t been for Lucy, I might not have made it out of there.” He tried to make a fist, but the slightest movement of the forearm muscles sent high-voltage pain ripping up his arm.

  “We didn’t hear anything, but she must have. Or she just sensed you needed help. She shot out of the window before we could stop her. We figured better to just let her go. Good thing, I guess. Right?”

  “She got Ninja off of me.”

  “Wow.”

  “She killed him. I never saw her like that before. I found out one thing, for sure — you don’t mess with Lucinda when she’s ticked.” He hugged the red coonhound like a child, burying his face in her scruff. Lucinda whined softly and licked his cheek.

  When he looked up, he saw Emily studying his arm, a frightened look on her face. “A few stitches, a little ice, and antibiotics and I’ll be as good as new,” he said with false bravado.

  It turned out to be twenty-six stitches installed during a tongue lashing by their family physician, Dr. Marshall. “You’re too careless about these animals, Kent. A bite like this can land you in the hospital. You’ve got assistants to hold them for you, and restraint devices. Use them. As many dogs as you handle at your clinic, you need to take better precautions.”

  “You’re probably right,” Kent said, letting Dr. Marshall remain under her misconception. He held up his arm for the last tape to be applied, and listened to instructions about keeping it elevated, applying ice packs, and the importance of rest and antibiotics.

  “Kent, be careful,” Dr. Marshall said. She looked over her glasses at Emily and Maria. “You heard the instructions I gave him. I expect you two and Margaret to see that they are carried out.”

  “They will be,” Emily said, and the expression she made at her father told him she meant it.

  Just like Lucinda, Kent thought. Don’t mess with Emily when she’s ticked.

  CHAPTER 26

  By the time Aubrey roared into Pine Holt late that afternoon, Kent’s arm felt like it was tangled in red-hot wire. He couldn’t find a comfortable position in the bed the girls made for him on the family room couch. Dr. Marshall’s pain prescription was so totally ineffective he considered getting himself some horse painkiller. Ice packs helped a little. Margaret’s tea was a distraction. Petting Lucinda’s head as she lay on the floor by his bed helped as much as anything.

  “What the hell, Kent?” Aubrey said, as she burst into the room. “What happened?”

  “Half-assed plan number two.”

  “I’m beginning to agree with you. Maybe we aren’t too hot at this detective shit.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What did happen?”

  He held up his arm. “I got into a dog fight.”

  “Yeah. I guess so. Who won?”

  “I did, of course. With Lucy’s help.”

  Aubrey looked at his arm. “Was it worth it?”

  “I think so.”

  “I hope so. Burton was absolutely crazy around there after he found out someone broke into his apartment and killed his dog. He went right up to see Elizabeth, and carried Ninja with him for proof. He stormed around about her having a bunch of worthless S.O.B.’s working for her. He made all kinds of threats. He really lost it.” Aubrey’s face darkened for a second. “I have to admit, I do feel bad for Ninja.”

  “Did Burton say anything incriminating?”

  “No, just a lot of ranting and raving. He swore he’d find out who killed his dog. Do the same thing to them. You know, that kind of stuff.”

  “I h
ope he doesn’t have any luck at that. But like you say, it’s a little weird, but I feel sorry for Ninja, too. And Burton, as far a losing his dog. Ninja was a jerk of a dog, for sure, but he was Burton’s best buddy. I get that.”

  Aubrey huffed a sad laugh. “Yeah, I get that part, too. Elizabeth offered to call the police for him. She knew he would say ‘no’. And, of course, he did. He didn’t want them anywhere near. She asked him why not, but he wouldn’t say.”

  “That’s a relief. My reputation is bad enough without getting arrested for burglary.”

  “Tell me all the details,” Aubrey said, easing down onto the couch, as Kent pulled his legs up to make room.

  He told her the whole story — his encounter with Ninja, Lucinda’s rescue, the phone bill, the money, and the mailer. She listened without interrupting.

  After some thought, she said, “Why didn’t you take the money? Then he would think the motive for the break-in was robbery. Might have taken some of the pressure off us.”

  “I thought of that. In fact, I had the case in my hand, but I put it back. I got to thinking maybe we’d get a better reaction if he realized the motive was not robbery.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if he figured it was robbery, all he’d do is harass the other farm hands, or worse, trying to figure out which of them had the money. But when he sees that someone broke in but didn’t take the money, even though they could have, even a dunce like Burton will realize that something else is going on. It may force him to make some kind of mistake. Either way, he’s not likely to put any of us very high on his list of suspects, and this way the other boys at the farm will have to endure a lot less undeserved hassle.”

  “You devious thing, you.”

  Kent squinted into a nefarious smile.

  “You sure he’s going to know someone found the money?”

  “Yep.”

  “How?”

  Kent stood slowly and crossed the room to a bookshelf. With his arm that was not in a sling, he reaching behind some books, and extracted the bundles of twenties he’d not mentioned till now. “Because he’ll see these are missing.” He tossed them on the couch.

  Aubrey stared at the money. “You took part of it?”

  “Yep. Just enough for him to figure someone found the case.”

  “No wonder he went ballistic.”

  “That’s just what we want. Plus, I might talk to Merrill about finding someone who can check out the serial numbers on these bills. Maybe that will tell us something.”

  “No police.”

  “Right.”

  Aubrey picked up a bundle of twenties and stared at it. “I take it all back, you should have been a P.I.”

  “No thanks.”

  She tossed the bundle back into the pile. “So what’s with the phone bill?”

  Kent pointed toward the end table, “It’s right over there.”

  Aubrey scanned it. “This bill is old. He must have paid it by now or his phone would have been disconnected.”

  “True. But does anything strike you as odd?”

  Aubrey studied the bill again. “Well, Burton wasn’t one of AT&T’s biggest customers.”

  “That’s what I thought. Burton only made two long distance calls and both are person-to-person to the same number in Cynthiana, Kentucky.”

  “Okay, I’m with you there.”

  “It pays to have a Chief of Police for a brother. I had Merrill check the number for me. I didn’t tell him why. Get this, it belongs to none other than Hector Figurante.” He let that fact sink in.

  “You’re kidding,” Aubrey said, sitting up straight as it registered. “You think this is the Hector Figurante?”

  “Doesn’t he live in Kentucky? How many Hector Figurantes can there be in Cynthiana, Kentucky?”

  “What would a ne’er-do-well like Burton Bush be talking to a guy like Figurante about?”

  “That’s a good question. And the first step in answering it is for me to learn more about Mr. Figurante. All I know about him is what I’ve read in the Thoroughbred magazines, and a few rumors at the sales.”

  “Did you ask Maria? She worked for him last year, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. And no, I didn’t ask her yet. I haven’t mentioned anything about the phone bill or the money to anyone except you.”

  “Not even the girls?”

  “Just you. I wanted to make sure you didn’t have some logical explanation for Burton talking to Figurante.”

  “I’ve got no clue. And about all I can tell you about Figurante, you already know. He’s a real wheeler-dealer. I think I heard he made lots of money somehow, then decided to live out a dream in the world of Thoroughbreds. You know the type. I know he’s very controversial. A lot of people hate his guts and won’t deal with him, but just as many think he’s been a real shot-in-the-arm for the industry.”

  Kent stretched out on the couch again, letting his foot stroke Aubrey’s hip. “Sometimes that means he’s a good businessman. People get jealous.”

  “Right. You know, another person to ask would be Elizabeth. I don’t think they’ve ever struck a deal, but I know they’ve talked. She can tell you more.” Aubrey glanced at her watch. “You want me to call her? She’s probably home.”

  “Sure. I’d like to hear what she has to say.”

  Aubrey pushed Kent’s feet aside and padded silently, cat-like, toward the phone in the privacy of Kent’s office. As she passed the kitchen, she greeted the three women at work there.

  “Nice bite your dad has there, huh, Em?” She motioned to her forearm.

  “Looks like a bear got him,” Emily said.

  Aubrey stepped into the office and closed the door.

  When Aubrey returned to the den a few minutes later, Maria and Emily were tending to Kent.

  “Well, Elizabeth was home and I was right. She knows Hector Figurante. Apparently Charles considered some deals with him, but nothing came . . .”

  Aubrey was interrupted by the clatter of a teacup rattling off its saucer and onto the floor, as the side table Maria was lifting, jolted violently in her hands. “Sorry,” Maria said, her face ashen. As she dropped into a chair, she whispered, “La pesadilla ha vuelto.”

  “Are you okay?” Kent said.

  She gave a weak nod.

  “Maria, you worked for Hector Figurante. What’s your take on the guy?”

  Maria was silent for a moment. Then she made an expression like she was going to spit, and said, “Hector Figurante is a bastard.” She stood abruptly and started to leave.

  “Wait, Maria,” Kent said. Shocked by her reaction, he made his voice as soothing as he could. “Do you have any idea why Burton would be talking to Figurante?”

  Maria wheeled around. “I know nothing about Hector Figurante or his dealings.” She disappeared down the hallway toward her bedroom.

  Kent’s gaze trailed after her. He felt a mix of surprise, confusion, anger, but mostly sympathy for Maria. He remembered the day Maria arrived back in Jefferson and her strange comment about Pine Holt being a safe place to be.

  “What just happened there?” he asked Aubrey and Emily who were just as dazed as he was.

  “I think we hit a sore spot.”

  “I guess so,” Kent said.

  Emily followed down the hall after her friend. Then her head reappeared around the corner. “Think about this — maybe Burton talked to Figurante about a job.” She didn’t wait for a reply.

  Silence hung between Kent and Aubrey as both mulled over Maria’s reaction. Eventually, Kent turned to her. “He wouldn’t talk to Figurante about a job. He’d talk to Figurante’s farm manager. Right?”

  “That’s how it works at most farms. I’m going to go check on Maria.”

  Kent took her hand. “Let Em do that?”

  “But she’s rea
lly upset. Besides, I want to ask her a few questions.”

  “So do I. Later. When she’s settled down. Could Figurante have an interest in Simpatico, Charter Oak, or Solar Wind?”

  Aubrey glanced down the hallway, then reluctantly focused on Kent’s question and shook her head. “Not Simpatico. Even if he did, he’d talk with Elizabeth, not Burton.”

  “What about Charter Oak or Solar Wind?”

  “Elizabeth doubts it. I do, too.”

  “I’ll call Louise Stanford and Art Kelsey tomorrow. Just to be sure.”

  “What else did Elizabeth have to say?” Kent asked.

  It took Aubrey a second to clear her mind enough to recall what Elizabeth had told her. “She said most people in the Thoroughbred business know Figurante, at least by reputation. He’s from South America originally, she thinks maybe Ecuador.”

  “Maria’s from Ecuador,” Kent said, more than a little surprised by the coincidence.

  “And it’s not that big a place, is it? Hmm. According to Elizabeth, he came from a fairly wealthy family down there, but really made his fortune in the coffee importing business here in the states. A few years back when coffee prices took such a jump, he made a killing. He moved his headquarters to the U.S. about ten years ago, supposedly because of a better economic climate, and to allow himself to fulfill a life-long dream of owning a horse farm.”

  “You can’t own a horse farm in Ecuador?”

  Aubrey just shrugged. “His detractors, of which there are many, say it was for other reasons. One rumor is to better manage his illegal import business, that being drugs. According to Elizabeth, his ethics are marginal at best. Apparently, he has clawed his way to the top of the Thoroughbred world over several old and well-respected Kentucky farms by using some really questionable tactics, to put it mildly. Elizabeth hasn’t gotten burned, but she knows several people who have, and she says she discouraged Charles from dealing with him. And, as far as she knows, he didn’t. She also said she has some back issues of a couple of trade magazines that featured him as a premiere breeder or something. She’s going to try to find them for us.”