Claudia took the binoculars from her face and pushed a finger under her eyeglasses. She rubbed the soft area below her left eye, then tried to shift to a more comfortable position. They’d been here for hours, she and Suggs and twelve others, setting up and then getting in position behind trees, and now, just . . . waiting. Booey and Carella were twenty feet away; Moody and three other patrolmen ten feet beyond them. She couldn’t see them, but hoped that Booey had remembered to slick himself down with insect repellant.
She groped for the Thermos, but stopped short of doing anything once her fingers brushed against it. That’s all she needed, another cup of coffee. Already her bladder was sending warning signals she couldn’t ignore much longer. She groaned, then looked through the binoculars again. She’d lost count, but calculated twenty-five or thirty trucks when the last one was parked. Most carried two people, including a handful of women. Doors were opening and thumping closed again. Laughter rolled from the trucks to the line of trees concealing Indian Run’s finest.
Suggs had come through, and she turned to him discreetly, watching him watch people getting out of their pickups. It was hard to see his face in the dark, but earlier, before dusk faded into night, he looked all right—tired, maybe, and of course a little tense, but all right.
“They’re a noisy bunch, aren’t they,” she said to him.
“Who? The cockers or the cocks?” Suggs set aside his own field glasses and squinted at her.
Claudia wasn’t up on the lingo. If Cleveland had cockfights, she’d never been plugged into them. “Both, I guess,” she answered, presuming he was referring to the men and the frenzied roosters they were unloading. “You’d think they were at a carnival.”
Suggs snorted, exasperated. “For them, this is a carnival, Hershey. It’s why they’re so damned excited now. When are you ever gonna get the city mentality out of your head?”
Claudia gave it a rest. She suspected that some of the men down there were Suggs’s friends. She knew where he stood on this, had made it clear on the ride over. “Next thing you know,” he’d growled, “the same bleedin’ hearts who put an end to cockfightin’ are gonna go after sports fishing. If this thing we’re doin’ gets out to the press I’m gonna have to take the bass off my office wall. They’re gonna want to know why’d I catch it if I wasn’t gonna eat it.”
Claudia watched the handlers bring their birds into the barn. The chief didn’t like it—she guessed he’d been turning a blind eye to cockfighting for years—but tonight he’d do what the law said he had to do. He’d do it because she’d persuaded him it was one way to get to Raynor.
“Look,” said Suggs. He pointed. “Two o’clock, just inside the door.”
There he was, the man himself, greeting the cockers with a hearty handshake. Two of the white dogs Claudia had seen at Raynor’s trailer stood at his side, tethered to their master by a short leash. Though tension in their bodies signaled keen interest in the gamecocks, which their handlers carried in cages, neither moved from their position. And, of course, they didn’t bark.
“Well trained,” Claudia muttered. “And creepy.”
“That’s what he counts on. From what I hear tell, they’re like a trademark with him, like a family crest or somethin.’ He’s always got at least two of his dogs with him when he goes out in public. You get one look at them and you know Raynor’s not a man to mess with. Nobody does. It’s one reason people trust him to organize fights. If nothin’ else, him and his dogs keep a lid on trouble.” Suggs slapped at a mosquito. “Damned muggy night you picked for this, Hershey.”
“So Raynor doesn’t fight his own birds?”
“Uh-uh. Used to—used to breed gamecocks, too—but not for years now. He makes his money these days as a freelance organizer, at least that’s what we’ve been hearin’ and it must be true because the man’s here, all right, and he did what we needed him to do by taking care of the arrangements. Of course, he’s the guy who was hot to put something together. We just made it easier for him, is all.”
Claudia heard the irony in Suggs’s tone. She bet he never would have mentioned hearing that Raynor was actively looking to arrange a cockfight if he’d known it would open the door for a sting operation.
“Oh, yeah,” Suggs said. “We helped him put a bow on this one, all right. We’re seein’ that he gets a five-hundred dollar fee on top of his normal cut off the admission price. And I gotta tell you, fifty bucks to get in, even for a private hack fight like this one, well, that’s just way off the charts. Most often, in places like Arizona or maybe Oklahoma, you’d pay maybe five or ten bucks to get in.”
“I’m surprised the admission price didn’t send up a red flag for him.”
“Two things, Hershey. First, the risk isn’t as all that high. Chasin’ down fights just isn’t a big priority in most places. Raynor knows that. Second, he’s a greedy bastard. He sees dollar signs and so he’s plenty happy to believe what we fed him, that the man scouting for a fight is a high-rolling anesthesiologist from out of town. I’m sure he’s also thinkin’ about laying down a few bets for himself. And anyway, maybe fifty bucks for admission really isn’t such a stretch. With cockfightin’ being illegal just about everywhere now, getting into a private club or a one-time fight like this is flat-out pricier.” Suggs shook his head. “Raynor’ll have to peel off a few bills for the pimple-faced kid who helped him get the barn ready, but even so, if this wasn’t a sting tonight, he’d strut out of here with a bundle. And those dogs of his would make sure it stayed in his pocket on the way home.”
“Nice racket. All he’s got to do is stand there and smile and pocket money. He doesn’t even have to get his hands dirty by refereeing any of the fights. He’s—”
“Hershey, how many times do I have to explain this to you?” Suggs pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “The referee is paid by the house, which in this case is us, and in this case, of course, the referee is one of our own guys.”
“I realize that,” Claudia said, annoyed. “I was making a statement, not asking a question.” She resisted correcting him about the referee, who was not one of “our” guys. He was a Flagg County deputy whom Raynor was unlikely to recognize.
As if Suggs were reading her thoughts, he let loose a profanity about Flagg’s involvement in the sting. “Just my kind of luck that Raynor would pick a place both in and out of the town limits,” he muttered. The abandoned property, once home to a modest cattle operation, straddled the Indian Run and county lines. “We’re no more than a eyelash onto county land and I had to go hat in hand to Andrews, who’s still wet behind the ears but of course wanted to tell me how to run the thing. I’ll never understand how that young pup was made sheriff.”
“It’s just an interim appointment,” Claudia reminded him.
Personally, she thought Jared Andrews had more on the ball than his predecessor, a bigot who keeled over at his desk in the middle of his second term. But now wasn’t the time to share her perspective, and she murmured something inane about jurisdictional turf wars. Suggs wasn’t listening anyway.
“They got four of their people undercover inside the barn, and none of ours,” he said. “We’re just decoration. All we’re really doin’ is babysittin’ the outside.”
Claudia chose not to point out that Indian Run had no people Raynor wouldn’t recognize, or experience with stings, or even enough manpower to pull off a raid on its own. “You put it together, Chief, and it’s still our show,” she said, then changed the subject before he could respond. “Hey, that Aaron guy from the Becker estate? We got a hit on his prints from the beer bottle. He’s every bit the lowlife we thought he was. Maybe worse.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“He’s been behind the wire twice. Once for breaking and entering. Second time for second-degree murder. That one came out of a home invasion in a ritzy section of L.A. He thumped a guy on the head with a fireplace poker.”
“And he only got second degree?”
“Her
e’s the fun part. He bopped one of his own guys, claimed he was trying to stop the guy from killing the homeowner. He had a decent lawyer and the jury bought it.”
Suggs swore. “Figures. But L.A.—that’s interesting. Kensington spent a lot of quality time there.”
“Yeah, and the timing fits.” Claudia squirmed, wishing for a bathroom. “Aaron—full name Aaron Rivens—he’s plenty well-known to the L.A. police. Before he got into violent crimes there were a few other charges along the way that never stuck, everything from petty larceny to auto theft to peddling small quantities of dope. Maybe we’ll get somewhere now.” She held her binoculars to her eyes. “Ahh . . . take a look. It looks like everybody’s just about inside, even Raynor’s demon dogs.”
Suggs squinted into his field glasses. “We need to give them a few minutes. They’ll be weighin’ the cocks and checking their gaffs. Someone’s probably settin’ up sandwiches. The handlers—hang on, hang on; Raynor’s little sidekick is closin’ the doors. Come on. We need to get in position.”
“Wait a minute. How’re we going to handle the dogs?”
“We’re not. One of the Deputy Fifes inside will. I figured Raynor’s dogs would be here, so two of Andrews’s people are from canine patrol. They know animals. They’ll know what to do.”
“I hope so.”
Suggs chuckled. “You really are a fish out of water here, Hershey.” He murmured into his radio to the others, then nudged her. “Let’s go, then. It’s showtime.”
* * *
The plan was simple. Raynor had already been witnessed taking money and if no one had screwed up, they had it on video. Theoretically, that would be enough. But to avoid giving a defense attorney wiggle room, they’d wait for the first cock to fly before they moved in. Raynor would go down. Spectators and the handlers would get . . . discretion.
Suggs silently motioned for his people to get in place. Booey disappeared with Carella into shadows behind a pickup truck. Moody signaled to a patrolmen and together they crept toward the west side of the barn. Two others took the east side. A show of force, it wasn’t. But they had four Flagg deputies squirreled inside, and they had the element of surprise. They’d make do.
Claudia quietly positioned herself two feet from the barn doors and peered through a notch in a board that Moody had widened earlier. Suggs was similarly set up a few feet away. With her nose to the wood and her eyes pressed up against the hole, she felt like a peeping tom. An absurd urge to laugh seized her so suddenly that she had to push her face against the board to shake it off. The moment passed and she concentrated on what she could see inside. The sight sobered her instantly.
Yes, fine—George Washington had been a cocker; Lincoln had been a referee. Cockfighting predated Christianity . . . she knew all that, had actually listened when Suggs lectured her, and she understood—she did—that participants in blood sports were rarely crazed people who hated animals. Hunting was popular. Little old ladies fished in tournaments. Millions watched boxing on HBO. Hadn’t she attended a bullfight herself? Blood spilled everywhere, all the time. No one could get enough. But the hole in the barn revealed a blood lust that she could feel and almost smell, so strong was the anticipation of spectators. They sat on splintered bleachers arranged in a semi-circle around a wide dirt pit. Ragged chicken wire enclosed the pit, which was illuminated by bare bulbs powered by a noisy generator. Claudia had seen the arena set-up hours earlier, had vaguely admired Raynor’s ability to orchestrate everything so quickly and thoroughly. Now, though, with people inside, people catcalling and whooping and shouting their first bets, now that she could see the first of the gamecocks resisting their owners’ arms, straining to go after each other, now she felt her stomach sour and wished she could be anywhere else.
Claudia took her eye off the hole for a second and breathed deeply the night air. When she looked inside again, two handlers were moving toward each other, swinging their gamecocks in front of them, waiting for a signal from the referee to release the birds. The spectators roared their approval. Light glanced off something lashed to one of the bird’s feet. Claudia could barely see it, but she knew it had to be a gaff. Suggs had described it as a long, needle-like weapon that each cock wore for the duel. They would fight vigorously, and they would fight to the death.
“First up is a Gray Toppie and a blue Kelso,” she heard Suggs say. “Good fighters with lots of heart. Good match-up. Watch close now. They’re done billing the birds. They’re gonna toss ’em and what happens next, happens fast. Be ready, be ready . . . .”
She didn’t see the referee’s signal, but suddenly both birds were airborne and flapping furiously at each other. They hovered, as clenched together as lovers, then landed in a cloud of feathers and instantly clashed, pecking and slashing at each other with their gaffs. The spectators roared excitedly when the Toppie pivoted and sidestepped a few inches away. In the next moment it was back, jabbing at the other rooster’s head.
“Now!” Suggs roared.
Claudia saw the Kelso go down in the second she wheeled from the notch and hurried after him, drawing her gun. She helped him shove the doors open, but the Flagg deputies inside the barn were already barking orders at the stunned crowd. Raynor had chained the dogs. They weren’t going anywhere. She spotted him in a far corner, yelling back at a deputy, and started toward him. Then something caught her eye—a flash in the pit—and she paused, riveted. Like gladiators, the Toppie and Kelso were still going at it, oblivious to the commotion around them, looking for a kill, possessed by their training or an instinct or . . . something. Both birds were bloodied. The Toppie was beginning to stagger in circles. Its gaff had loosened and was etching lines in the dirt. The Kelso hopped toward it on one foot, ready to attack again. Still.
“If you’re not gonna help, then move out of the way,” said Suggs. He pushed past her and scooped up the Toppie. He handed it to a bearded man. “Get out of here. Take this foolish bird and go. Hurry up.” He looked at Claudia. “Why don’t you go have a talk with Mr. Raynor over there. He’d be the one in handcuffs and I don’t believe he even realizes you’re here yet.”
“Look, I’m sorry—”
Suggs shook his head. “Forget it. Go get Raynor.”
Claudia glanced over just as a deputy was pushing him out the door. She turned back to say something to Suggs, but he was already reaching for the Kelso, hollering for the bird’s owner to come get it. She looked at the blood-stained dirt, and went outside.
* * *
The deal was simple. If Raynor went down for Wanda Farr’s murder, Indian Run would share credit for the bust with Flagg County. If he didn’t, and word of the sting got out to the press, Indian Run was on its own to explain why no one else got arrested. Raynor might have already figured some of it out, but Claudia didn’t care. His first priority would be to save his own hide and she approached him with a smile.
“Well, well, Mr. Raynor. And here I thought you were a homebody,” she said. He was sitting on the ground against a tree, his only company a Flagg County deputy, and he hadn’t seen her coming. His head snapped up and he glared. Claudia looked at the cuffs on his wrists. “I guess you do get out, after all.”
“You bitch,” he said. “I should’ve guessed you’d be behind this.”
Claudia laughed. She took the deputy aside for a minute and spoke to him briefly, then told him he could go. She squatted beside Raynor. “The deputy tells me you don’t want a lawyer. That true?”
“For what? A cockfight? There’s not a judge or a jury in Flagg who’s gonna give a damned. I wouldn’t spend the price of a phone call to rouse a lawyer out of bed.”
“Well, now, if it’s money you’re concerned about, we’ll get you an attorney. It’s your constitutional right, you know. Did the deputy—”
“Yeah, yeah, he told me. But I don’t need anyone, Hershey, because this is all a load of crap. I know it. You know it. I’ll be out before the sun rises.”
“That’s a pleasant little fantasy. Maybe you
don’t keep up, but your little party here tonight? Did you know it’s a third-degree felony?”
He sighed elaborately.
“Yep. The state frowns on cockfights. It falls under the Animal Fighting Act. Chapter 828 on the Florida books. You can go down for five years. Imagine that—five years, just for putting together a friendly little duel between roosters. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
A slight breeze stirred the air. Claudia hoped it didn’t mean rain. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and offered one to Raynor. He shook his head. “No?” She lit one for herself. “Suit yourself.”
Someone laughed in the distance. A truck started up. Then another. Raynor turned to the sound. “What the hell is this about, Hershey? Where’s everyone going?”
Claudia looked over. “Home, I imagine.”
“Oh, I see. It’s just me who’s staying.”
She shrugged. “We’re allowed some discretion. Most of those folks? They didn’t even get a chance to place a bet. I guess we jumped the gun.”
“This was a set-up.”
“Sure you don’t want a cigarette, Mr. Raynor?” She held hers up. “I’d offer you some coffee—I know how you like your caffeine—but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want the swill left in my Thermos.”
Raynor said nothing. He watched two officers wrestle the barn doors closed, then glanced around. “Where are my dogs, Hershey?”
Claudia blew a plume of smoke skyward. “Oh—well, funny thing about those dogs, Mr. Raynor. We put a call into Animal Control. They’re coming, and they’re all hot and bothered about them. Apparently they regard your dogs as dangerous. I don’t know; maybe it’s that no-voice thing.” She shifted to the ground. “I’m a cat person myself, but your dogs? In their own way, they’re actually kind of handsome. I hope Animal Control doesn’t just put them down.”
The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries Page 42