Dark Horse
Page 29
It was all her fault. She had thought she was doing the right thing, the smart thing. She had thought she was the only one who would do anything to save Erin. She had taken action. She had gone for help. Now Erin could die. And it was her fault.
Her fault and Elena’s.
You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price.
Chapter 28
In the uncertain hour before the morning
Near the ending of the interminable night
Strange the things we remember and the reasons we remember them. I remember those lines from a T. S. Eliot poem because at eighteen, as a headstrong freshman at Duke, I had an obsessive crush on my literature professor, Antony Terrell. I remember a passionate discussion of Eliot’s works over cappuccino at a local coffeehouse, and Terrell’s contention that Four Quartets was Eliot’s exploration of issues of time and spiritual renewal, and my argument that Eliot was the root cause of the Broadway musical Cats and therefore full of shit.
I would have argued the sun was blue just to spend time with Antony Terrell. Debate: my brand of flirtation.
I didn’t think of Antony as I sat curled in the corner of the sofa, chewing on my thumbnail, staring out the window at the darkness before dawn. I thought about uncertainty and what would come at the end of the unending night. I didn’t allow myself to contemplate issues of spiritual renewal. Probably because I thought I may have blown my chance to hell.
A tremor went through me and I shivered violently. I didn’t know how I would live with myself if my getting caught at Van Zandt’s caused the loss of evidence that could prove him to be a murderer. If he was somehow tied to Erin Seabright’s disappearance, and I had blown the chance for him to be charged with something, and in charging him pressure him to give up Erin . . .
Funny. Before I had ever heard of Erin Seabright, I hadn’t known how I would live with myself because Hector Ramirez had died as a consequence of my actions. The difference was that now it mattered to me.
Somewhere in all this, hope had snuck in the back door. If it had come knocking, I would have turned it away as quickly as I would turn away a door-to-door missionary. No, thanks. I don’t want what you’re selling.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings without the words
And never stops—at all
Emily Dickinson
I didn’t want to have hope for myself. I wanted to simply exist.
Existence is uncomplicated. One foot in front of the other. Eat, sleep, function. Living, truly living, with all the emotion and risk that entails, is hard work. Every risk presents the possibility of both success and failure. Every emotion has a counterbalance. Fear cannot exist without hope, nor hope without fear. I wanted neither. I had both.
The horizon turned pink as I stared out the window, and a white egret flew along that pink strip between the darkness and the earth. Before I could take it for a sign of something, I went to my bedroom and changed into riding clothes.
No deputies had come knocking on my door in the dead of night to question me about my jacket and the break-in at Lorinda Carlton’s/Tomas Van Zandt’s town house. My question was: if the deputies didn’t have my jacket, who did? Had the dog dragged it back to Lorinda Carlton? His trophy for his efforts. Had Carlton or Van Zandt followed my trail and found it? If ultimately Van Zandt had possession of the prescription with my name on it, what would happen?
Uncertainty is always the hell of undercover work. I had built a house of cards, presenting myself as one thing to one group of people and something else to another group. I didn’t regret the decision to do that. I knew the risks. The trick was getting the payoff before I was found out and the cards came tumbling down. But I felt no nearer to getting Erin Seabright back, and if I lost my cover with the horse people, then I was well and truly out of it, and I would have failed Molly.
I fed the horses and wondered if I should call Landry or wait to see if he would come to me. I wanted to know how Van Zandt’s interview had gone, and whether or not the autopsy had been performed on Jill Morone. What made me think he would tell me any of that after what he had done the night before, I didn’t know.
I stood in front of Feliki’s stall as she finished her breakfast. The mare was small in stature and had a rather large, unfeminine head, but she had a heart and an ego as big as an elephant’s, and attitude to spare. She regularly trounced fancier horses in the showring, and if she had been able to, I had no doubt she would have given her rivals the finger as she came out of the ring.
She pinned her ears and glared at me and shook her head as if to say, what are you looking at?
A chuckle bubbled out of me, a pleasant surprise in the midst of too much unpleasantness. I dug a peppermint out of my pocket. Her ears went up at the crackling of the wrapper and she put her head over the door, wearing her prettiest expression.
“Some tough cookie, you are,” I said. She picked the treat delicately from my palm and crunched on it. I scratched her under her jaw and she melted.
“Yeah,” I murmured, as she nuzzled, looking for another treat. “You remind me of me. Only I don’t have anybody giving me anything but grief.”
The sound of tires on the driveway drew my attention out the door. A silver Grand Am pulled in at the end of the barn.
“Case in point,” I said to the mare. She looked at Landry’s car, ears pricked. Like all alpha mares, Feliki was ever on the alert for intruders and danger. She spun around in her stall, squealed and kicked the wall.
I didn’t go out to meet Landry. He could damn well come to me. Instead, I went to D’Artagnon, took him out of his stall, and led him to a grooming bay. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Landry approach. He was dressed for work. The morning breeze flipped his red tie over his shoulder.
“You’re up bright and early for someone who was out prowling last night,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I chose a brush from the cabinet and started a cursory grooming job that would have made Irina scowl at me and mutter in Russian if it had not been her day off.
Landry leaned sideways against a pillar, his hands in his pockets. “You don’t know anything about a B&E at the town house of Lorinda Carlton—the town house where Tomas Van Zandt is living?”
“Nope. What about it?”
“We got a nine-one-one call last night claiming there was a piece of evidence there that would lock Van Zandt into the murder of Jill Morone.”
“Terrific. Did you find it?”
“No.”
My heart sank. There was only one piece of news that would have been worse, and that would have been that they had found Erin’s body. I hoped to God that wasn’t the next thing coming.
“You weren’t there,” Landry said.
“I told you I was going to bed with a book.”
“You told me you were getting in the tub with a book,” he corrected me. “That’s not an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question. You made a statement.”
“Were you at that town house last night?”
“Do you have reason to believe I was? Do you have my fingerprints? Something that fell out of my pocket? Video surveillance tapes? A witness?” I held my breath, not sure which answer I feared most.
“Breaking and entering is against the law.”
“You know, I kind of remember that from when I was on the job. And there was evidence of forcible entry at this town house?”
He didn’t look amused by the clever repartee. “Van Zandt made it back to his place before I could get the warrant. If that shirt was there, he got rid of it.”
“What shirt is that?”
“Goddammit, Estes.”
He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me around, startling D’Artagnon. The big gelding scrambled and pulled back against the cross-ties, jumped ahead, then sat back and reared.
I hit Landry hard in the chest with the heel of my hand. It was like punching
a cinder block. “Watch what you’re doing, for Christ’s sake!” I hissed at him.
He let me go and backed away, more leery of the horse than of me. I went to the horse to calm him. D’Artagnon looked at Landry, uncertain that calming down was the wisest choice. He would have sooner run away.
“I’ve had zero sleep,” Landry said in lieu of an apology. “I’m not in the mood for word games. You haven’t been properly Mirandized. Nothing you say can be used against you. Neither Van Zandt or that goofy woman wants to pursue the matter anyway, because, as I’m sure you know, nothing was stolen. I want to know what you saw.”
“If he got rid of it, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I have to think you had an accurate description of whatever it was or you wouldn’t have gotten the warrant. Or did he give you grounds during your interview? In which case you should have been smart enough to hold him while you got the warrant and executed the search.”
“There was no interview. He called a lawyer.”
“Who?”
“Bert Shapiro.”
Amazing. Bert Shapiro was on a par with my father in terms of high-profile clients. I wondered which of Van Zandt’s grateful pigeons was footing that bill.
“That’s unfortunate,” I said. And doubly so for me. Shapiro had known me all my life. If Van Zandt showed him that prescription slip, I was cooked. “Too bad you didn’t wait until the autopsy was done to pull him in. You might have had something to rattle his cage with before he used the L word.”
I struck a nerve with that. I could see it in the way his jaw muscles flexed.
“Was there anything in the autopsy?” I asked.
“If there was, I wouldn’t be standing here. I’d be in the box busting that asshole’s chops, lawyer or no lawyer.”
“It’s hard to imagine he’s clever enough to get away with murder.”
“Unless he’s had practice.”
“He hasn’t been caught at it,” I said.
I chose a white saddle pad with the Avadonis logo embroidered on the corner and tossed it on D’Artagnon’s back, lifted his saddle off the rack, and settled it in place. I thought I could feel Landry’s inner tension as he watched me. Or maybe the tension was my own.
I moved around the horse, adjusting the girth—a job that had to be done gradually and in ridiculously small increments with D’Ar because he was, as Irina called him, a delicate flower. I tightened the girth one hole, then knelt to strap on his protective leg boots. I watched Landry shuffle his feet as he shifted positions restlessly.
“The Seabrights had another call,” he said at last. “The kidnapper said the girl would be punished because Seabright broke the rules.”
“Oh, God.” I sat back on my heels, feeling weak at the news. “When did the call come?”
“Middle of the night.”
After my screw-up at Van Zandt’s. After Landry had executed the search warrant.
“Do you have someone sitting surveillance on Van Zandt?”
Landry shook his head. “The LT wouldn’t approve it. Shapiro was already screaming harassment because of the search. We don’t have a goddam thing on him. How do we justify surveillance?”
I rubbed at the tension in my forehead. “Great. That’s great.”
Van Zandt was free to do as he pleased. But even if he wasn’t, we knew he wasn’t in the kidnapping alone. One person had run the camera, one had grabbed the girl. There was nothing stopping the partner from hurting Erin even if Van Zandt was under twenty-four-hour guard.
“They’re going to hurt her because I brought you into it,” I said.
“First of all, you know as well as I do, the girl could already be dead. Second, you know you did the right thing. Bruce Seabright wouldn’t have done anything at all.”
“That’s not a lot of comfort at the moment.”
I pushed myself to my feet and leaned back against the cabinet, crossing my arms tightly against my body. Another tremor rattled through me, from my core outward, as I thought of the consequences Erin Seabright was going to suffer for my actions. If she wasn’t dead already.
“They set up another drop,” Landry said. “With luck, we’ll have the accomplice by the end of the day.”
With luck.
“Where and when?” I asked.
He just looked at me, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses, his face like stone.
“Where and when?” I asked again, moving toward him.
“You can’t be there, Elena.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, knowing where this conversation was going to end. “You can’t shut me out of this.”
“It’s not up to me. The lieutenant will run the show. You think he’s going to let you ride along? Even if it was my call, you think I’d let you in after that stunt you pulled last night?”
“That stunt netted a torn, bloody shirt from a murder suspect.”
“Which we don’t have.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“You got caught.”
“None of that would have happened if you hadn’t had to flex your muscles last night and take Van Zandt in when you did,” I argued. “I might have gotten something out of him over dinner. You could have had him afterward, after the autopsy. You could have held him, gotten the warrant, found the shirt yourself. But no. You couldn’t play it that way, and now this guy is running around loose—”
“Oh, it’s my fault you broke into that house,” Landry said, incredulous. “And I suppose it was Ramirez’s fault he walked in front of that bullet.”
I heard myself gasp as if he had slapped me. My instinct was to step back. Somehow, I managed not to.
We stood there staring at each other for a long, horrible moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Then I turned, very deliberately, and went back to D’Artagnon to put on his other boot.
“Jesus,” Landry murmured. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
I didn’t say anything. My focus was on tightening the boot straps just so, aligning them perfectly.
“I’m sorry,” he said again as I stood. “You just make me so goddam mad—”
“Don’t put this on me,” I said, turning to face him. “I’m carrying enough guilt without taking on yours too.”
He looked away, ashamed of himself. I could have done without the small victory. The price for it had been too high.
“You’re a son of a bitch, Landry,” I said, but not with any strong emotion. I could have as easily said, you have short hair. It was a simple statement of fact.
He nodded. “Yeah. I am. I can be.”
“Don’t you have a ransom drop to arrange? I’ve got a horse to ride.”
I took D’Ar’s bridle down from the hook and went to put it on him. Landry didn’t move.
“I have to ask you a question,” he said. “Do you think Don Jade could be Van Zandt’s partner in this? In the kidnapping?”
I thought about that. “Van Zandt and Jade were both connected to Stellar—the horse that was killed. They both stand to make a lot of money if Trey Hughes buys this jumper from Belgium.”
“So, they’re partners of a sort.”
“Of a sort. Jade wanted rid of Jill Morone—maybe because she was lazy and stupid, or maybe because she knew something about Stellar. Erin Seabright was Stellar’s personal groom. She might have known something too. Why? Do you have something on Jade?”
He debated whether or not to tell me. Finally, he drew a deep breath and let it out, and lied to me. I could feel it. I could see it in the way his eyes went flat and blank. Cop eyes. “I’m just trying to connect the dots,” he said. “There are too many coincidences for this not all to be tied together.”
I shook my head and smiled my bitter, ironic half smile, and thought of Sean’s matchmaking talk. Oh, yeah. Me and Landry. A match made in hell.
“So what came out in the autopsy?” I asked again. “Or is that a state secret too?”
“She suffocated.”
“Was she raped?”
“God. Poor girl.” To die like that, and not one person she’d known here mourned her.
“Or the rape attempt was staged,” Landry said. “No semen anywhere.”
“Anything under her nails?”
“Not so much as a flake of skin.”