by Tami Hoag
“Great,” I said. “I guess I have to take you up on that ride, after all.”
Landry looked at me sideways as he flipped up the collar of his jacket. “Fuck you. Call a cab.”
I watched him get into his car, and stood there in the rain until he’d backed up and driven away. Then I went back inside to use the phone.
I couldn’t say I hadn’t asked for it.
When the cabbie finally showed, he wanted to chat, curious about why I needed a ride from the Sheriff’s Office at 3:45 in the morning. I told him my boyfriend was wanted for murder. He didn’t ask any more questions after that.
I propped myself up in the back of the cab and spent the ride home wondering how Erin Seabright was spending the night.
ACT TWO
SCENE ONE
FADE IN:
INTERIOR: OLD TRAILER HOUSE
Night. A single lightbulb in a lamp with no shade. No curtains at the filthy window. A rusty old iron bed frame. Stained mattress with no sheets.
Erin sits on the bed, huddled against the headboard, frightened, naked. She is chained to the bed by one wrist. Her hair is a mess. Mascara rings her eyes. Her lower lip is split and bloody.
She is very aware of the camera and the director of the scene. She tries to cover as much of herself as she can. She is crying softly, trying to hide her face.
DIRECTOR
Look at the camera, bitch. Say your line.
She shakes her head, still hiding.
DIRECTOR
Say it! You want me to make you?
She shakes her head and looks at the camera.
ERIN
Help me.
FADE OUT
Chapter 10
Landry didn’t sleep for shit, and it was Estes’ fault. Her fault he’d been dragged out of bed in the first place. Her fault he couldn’t get back to sleep once he’d finally gotten back home. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her back, crisscrossed with lines where new flesh had been stitched into old. The bruises just coming to the surface from her run-in at the equestrian center were insignificant, pale shadows beneath the old damage.
Damage. He thought of Estes and what he knew about her. Their paths hadn’t crossed when she was on the job. Narcs ran their own way. They spent too much time undercover, as far as he was concerned. It made them edgy and unpredictable. An opinion borne out in the incident that had ended her career, and ended the life of Hector Ramirez. What he knew about that incident was what everybody knew: Estes had jumped the gun, gone against orders to make the bust herself, and all hell had broken loose.
He had never given any thought to Estes, beyond thinking she’d gotten what she deserved, losing her job. He knew she’d been wounded, hospitalized, was suing the SO for her disability pay—which seemed pretty damned nervy, considering—but it had nothing to do with him, and he didn’t give a shit about her. She was trouble. He had figured it, and now he knew it for a fact.
Pushy bitch. Telling him how to do his job.
He wondered about what had happened to her at the equestrian center, wondered if it really did have anything to do with this girl she said was missing . . .
If the girl was missing, why would a twelve-year-old child be the only one to report it? Why not her parents? Why not her employer?
Her parents who maybe wanted to be rid of her.
Her boss who maybe had a major scam going, and maybe beat Estes across the back with a broom handle.
He saw her back, a patchwork of mismatched flesh stretched taut over bone.
At five-thirty he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of running shorts, stretched, did a hundred sit-ups and a hundred push-ups, and started his day. Again.
I stand at the side of the Golam brothers’ trailer. I’ve been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that’s not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I’ve got the brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. I’ve worked this case three months. I know what I’m doing. I know I’m right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap. He wants to look good when the news vans arrive. He wants to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff.
He’s stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn’t know his ass. He didn’t listen to me when I told him the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam’s four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they’ll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road.
Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now . . . They think they know me.
I key the button on my radio. “This is stupid. They’re going to break for the truck. I’m going in.”
“Goddammit, Estes—”
I drop the radio into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It’s my case. It’s my bust. I know what I’m doing.
I draw my weapon and hold it behind my back. I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers’ customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. “Hey, Billy, it’s Elle! I need some.”
Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking—crystal meth. He’s breathing hard. He’s got a gun in his hand.
Shit.
The front door explodes inward.
One of the girls screams.
Buddy Golam shouts: “Cops!”
Billy Golam swings the .357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath.
He turns abruptly and fires. The sound is deafening. The bullet hits Hector Ramirez in the face and blows out the back of his head, blood and brain matter spraying Sikes behind him.
I go for my weapon as Billy bolts out the door and knocks me off the stoop.
He’s running for the truck as I scramble to get my feet under me.
The engine roars to life.
“Billy!” I scream, running for the truck.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” The cords in his neck stand out as he screams. He throws the truck into reverse and hits the gas.
I throw myself at the driver’s door, grab hold of the side mirror and the window frame, and get one foot on the running board. I don’t think what I’m doing. I just act.
I’m screaming. He’s screaming.
He brings the gun up and points it in my face.
I hit the gun, hit his face.
He cranks the wheel around as the truck runs backward. One of my feet slips off the running board. He throws the truck into drive and gravel spews out behind it.
I struggle to keep from falling. I try to grab the wheel.
The truck catches hold of pavement. Golam cranks the wheel hard left. His face is a contorted mask, mouth wide, eyes wild. I try to grab for him. He shoves the door open as the truck spins around in the road.
I’m hanging in space.
I’m falling.
The road slams against my back.
My left cheekbone shatters like an egg.
Then the black shadow of Billy Golam’s four-by-four sweeps over me, and I die.
And I wake.
Five-thirty A.M. After two hours of fitful dozing, waiting for a rib fragment to deflate one or both of my lungs, I oozed over the side of my bed and forced myself to attempt stretching.
I went into the bathroom, stood naked in front of the mirror, and looked at my body. Too thin. Rectangular marks on both thighs where the skin grafts were taken. Gouges into the meat of the left leg.
I turned and tried to look over my shoulder at my back in the mirror. I looked at what I had shown Landry, and called myself stupid.
The one useful thing my father had ever taught me: never show a weakness, never appear vulnerable.
The bruises from my b
eating were dark maroon stripes. It hurt when I breathed.
At 6:15—after I’d fed the horses—I drove myself to the ER. The X rays showed no broken bones. A bleary-eyed resident, who’d had even less sleep than I, questioned me, clearly not believing my story of having fallen down a flight of stairs. All the staff looked at me askance with jaded eyes. Twice I was asked if I wanted to talk to a cop. I thanked them and declined. No one forced the issue, which led me to wonder how many battered women were allowed to simply walk out of the place and back into their own private hell.
The resident vomited up a big load of medical terms, trying to intimidate me with his expensive education.
I looked at him, unimpressed, and said, “I have bruised ribs.”
“You have bruised ribs. I’ll give you a prescription for painkillers. Go home and rest. No significant physical activity for forty-eight hours.”
“Yeah, right.”
He gave me a scrip for Vicodin. I laughed when I looked at it. I stuffed it in the pocket of my windbreaker as I left the building. My arms worked, my legs worked, no bones were protruding, I wasn’t bleeding. I was ambulatory, I was fine. As long as I knew I wouldn’t die of it, I had places to go, people to see.
My first call was to Michael Berne, or rather, to Michael Berne’s assistant—the phone number on the stall doors. Michael was a busy man.
“Ask him if he’s too busy to speak to a potential client,” I said. “I can always take my business to Don Jade, if that’s the case.”
Miraculously, Michael’s time suddenly freed up and the assistant handed off the phone.
“This is Michael. How can I help you?”
“By dishing some dirt on your friend, Mr. Jade,” I said quietly. “I’m a private investigator.”
Chapter 11
I dressed in black from head to toe, slicked my hair back with a handful of gel, put on a pair of narrow black wraparound sunglasses, and stole Sean’s black Mercedes SL. I looked like a character from The Matrix. Serious, mysterious, edgy. Not a disguise, but a uniform. Image is everything.
I had asked Berne to meet me in the parking lot at Denny’s in Royal Palm Beach, a fifteen-minute drive from the show grounds. He had groused about the drive, but I couldn’t take the risk of being seen with him near the equestrian center.
Berne arrived in a Honda Civic that had seen better days. He got out of the car looking nervous, glancing around. A private eye, a clandestine meeting. Heady stuff. He was dressed to ride in gray breeches with a couple of stains and a red polo shirt that clashed with his hair.
I buzzed down the Mercedes’ side window. “Mr. Berne. You’re here to meet me.”
He squinted at me, doubtful, uncertain, unable to get any kind of a read on me. An agent for a shadow organization. Maybe he’d been expecting Nancy Drew.
“We’ll talk out here,” I said. “Please get in the car.”
He hesitated like a child being offered a ride by a stranger. He looked around the parking lot again as if he expected something bad to happen. Masked operatives creeping out of the shrubbery to ambush him.
“If you have something to tell me, get in the car,” I said impatiently.
He was so tall, he had to fold himself in to fit into the Mercedes, as if he were getting into a clown car. What a contrast he was to Jade’s handsome, elegant image. Howdy Doody on growth hormones. Red hair and freckles, skinny as a rail. I’d read enough about Michael Berne to know he’d been a minor contender in the international show-jumping world in the early nineties, when he had ridden a horse called Iroquois. But the biggest thing he’d done was a tour of Europe with the second string of the U.S. Olympic team. Then Iroquois’ owners had sold the stallion out from under him, and he hadn’t had a big winner since.
When Trey Hughes had come into his barn, Berne had been quoted in an interview saying that Stellar was his ride back into the international spotlight. Then Stellar went to Don Jade’s barn, and Michael Berne’s star dimmed again.
“Who do you work for again, Ms. Estes?” he asked, taking in the pricey car.
“I didn’t say.”
“Are you with the insurance company? Are you with the police?”
“How many cops do you know drive a Mercedes, Mr. Berne?” I asked, allowing the barest hint of amusement to show. I lit one of Sean’s French cigarettes and blew the smoke at the windshield. “I’m a private investigator—private being the operative word. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about, Mr. Berne. Unless, of course, you’ve done something wrong.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said defensively. “I run an honest business. There aren’t any stories going around about me killing horses for the insurance money. That’s Don Jade’s territory.”
“You think he had Stellar killed?”
“I know he did.”
I watched him from the corner of my eye, and when I spoke I used a flat, monotone, business voice. “You have something to back that up? Like evidence?”
His mouth turned down in a sour pout. “Jade’s too smart for that. He always covers his tracks. Last night, for example. No one will ever connect Don Jade to it, but he had my horses turned loose.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I confronted him. I know what he is. It’s people like Jade that give the horse business a bad name. Crooked deals, stealing clients, killing horses. People turn a blind eye as long as they aren’t the victims. Someone has to do something.”
“Did Trey Hughes ever approach you about doing something to Stellar?”
“No. I had Stellar on track. He was making progress. I thought we had a shot at the World Cup. I would never have anything to do with a scheme like that anyway.”
“Why did Hughes take the horse away from you?”
“Jade poached him. He steals clients all the time.”
“It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you weren’t winning?”
Berne glared at me. “We were getting there. It was only a matter of time.”
“But Hughes wasn’t willing to wait.”
“Jade probably told him he could do it faster.”
“Yeah, well, now Stellar is going nowhere.”
“What about the autopsy?”
“Necropsy.”
“What?”
“It’s called a necropsy when it’s a horse.”
He didn’t like being corrected. “So what did it show?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge those details, Mr. Berne. Were there any rumors going around before the horse died? I heard he wasn’t sound.”
“He was getting older. Older horses need maintenance—joint injections, supplements, things like that. But he was tough. He had a big heart and he always did his job.”
“No one was hinting anything hinky was going on in Jade’s barn?” I asked.
“There are always rumors about Jade. He’s done this before, you know.”
“I’m familiar with Mr. Jade’s background. What kind of rumors lately?”
“The usual. What drugs his horses are on. Whose clients he’s after. How he’s got Trey Hughes by the balls—pardon my language.”
“Why would anyone say that?”
“Come on,” he said, defensive again. “He must have something. How else is he getting that barn Hughes is building?”
“Through merit? Good deeds? Friendship?”
None of my suggestions appealed.
“You worked for Trey Hughes,” I said. “What could Jade have on him?”
“Take your pick: his drug du jour, whose wife he’s been sleeping with—”
“How he came to inherit so suddenly?” I suggested.
Berne tried to sit back and study me for a moment, his expression not unlike Jill Morone’s when she’d been trying to decide how to play me. “You think he killed his mother?”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just asking questions.”
He considered something and laughed. “Trey would never have the nerve. He stut
tered whenever he talked about Sallie. She scared the crap out of him.”
I didn’t point out that Trey only needed nerve enough to hire someone else for the job. Delegating was something I was sure came quite easily to a man who had spent his entire life shirking any kind of responsibility.