by Tami Hoag
What if the jab I had thrown at Michael Berne to rattle him was true? I wondered. What if Berne hated Jade enough to ruin him, hated him so much he would sacrifice an animal he himself had loved in order to frame Jade?
Berne would know as well as anyone a sedative in the horse’s system would be a big red flag to the insurance company. The death would be ruled the result of foul play. The company wouldn’t pay out. Trey Hughes would lose a quarter of a million dollars. Jade would lose his career, and possibly go to jail.
If what Erin had known about Stellar’s demise was that Berne had orchestrated it, then Berne had a motive to get rid of the girl. But why risk the kidnapping plot? Was he that desperate for money? The chances of getting caught seemed far too great—unless he had a way to hang the kidnapping on Jade as well, but I couldn’t see how he would pull that off. And if Van Zandt was a part of the kidnapping, I had seen no connection between him and Berne.
I got up from my chair and walked around the house, trying to separate the tangled strands of truth and speculation.
I knew in the marrow of my bones Tomas Van Zandt was a sociopath, a criminal, a murderer. It stood to reason: if he was responsible for one girl dying, he was responsible for another disappearing. He had the arrogance to think he could pull off a kidnapping for ransom. But who would he trust for a partner? And who would trust him?
All of it seemed too risky for Jade. He may well have been a sociopath too, but there was a world of difference between Van Zandt and Don Jade. Van Zandt was unpredictable. Jade was controlled and methodical. Why would he concoct a scheme that made him look like a crook and a killer? Why would he kill Stellar in a way that would make everyone jump to the conclusion he was guilty of the crime? Why would he risk kidnapping Erin for ransom?
If he had needed to be rid of her, why wouldn’t he just make her disappear? If he was going to claim she had moved out of town, why wouldn’t he ditch her car? Why leave it parked at the show grounds on the off chance that no one would ever look for it?
It didn’t make sense to me. But Landry thought Jade was connected. Why?
Erin’s connection to Stellar.
Erin had allegedly told Jade she was quitting. Told him and no one else.
Jade was the last person to see her.
He said she’d gone to Ocala. She hadn’t.
Why would Jade make up a story like that—a story that could be easily checked out and discounted as untrue.
It didn’t make sense to me. But somehow it made sense to Landry. What other information did he have that I didn’t? What small thread that could tie Don Jade to the crime?
The phone numbers of the calls to the Seabright house.
I hated the idea that Landry had details I wasn’t privy to. I was the one who had given him those numbers, but he was the one who could check them out. And I was the one who had given him the videotape of the kidnapping, but he had access to the technicians who could enhance the tape. I was the one who had tried to reach out to Interpol, to check out Van Zandt. But I knew that if Landry had made first contact with Interpol, no one would have held back from him the information about Van Zandt’s past history as a possible sexual predator.
The frustration built inside me like a thunderhead. I was on the outside. It was my case. I was the one who had cared enough to try to help this girl. I was the one who had done all the dog work. Yet I was the one being shut out, information kept from me. Information available on a need-to-know basis, and it had been decided I had no need to know.
And whose fault was that?
Mine.
It was my fault I wasn’t a cop anymore. It was my fault I’d brought Landry into the picture. I’d done the right thing and pushed myself out of the picture in the process.
My case. My case. The words pounded in my head like a drumbeat as I paced. My case. My case. The case I hadn’t wanted. My case. My case. The thing that had reconnected my life to the real world. The world I had retreated from. The life I had given up on.
The conflicting emotions sparked off each other like stone and flint, igniting my temper. Unable to contain the pressure, I grabbed up one of the decorator’s objets d’art and threw it as hard as I could against the wall.
The motion felt good. The crash was satisfying. I picked up another piece—some kind of heavy wooden ball from a collection in a bowl—and threw it like a baseball. A wild, animal sound ripped up my throat and exploded from my mouth. A deafening shout that lasted so long, my head was pounding from the sheer effort of it. And when it ended, I felt spent, as if a demon had been exorcized from my soul.
I leaned against the back of the sofa, breathing hard, and looked at the wall. The wallboard had two large dents about head-high. Looked like a good place to hang a picture.
I sank into a chair and held my head in my hands, and I didn’t think at all for a good ten minutes. Then I got up, grabbed my keys and my gun, and left the house.
The hell if I would let James Landry cut me out. This was my case. I was in it to the end.
The end of the case or the end of me—whichever came first.
Chapter 34
There is no surer way to tell which direction the wind is blowing than to spit into it.
Sunday is the marquee day at a horse show in Wellington. During the Winter Equestrian Festival, the big grand prix jumping competitions are held on Sunday afternoon. Big money, big crowds.
Just down the road from the polo stadium, where an international match would be going on at the same time, the stands and banks around the Internationale arena fill with hundreds of fans, owners, riders, grooms—all come to watch the best of the best jump a massive course of fences for prize money upward of a hundred grand.
Camera crews from Fox Sports dot the landscape. Vendor stands line the walkway on the high bank between the Internationale arena and the hunter rings below, teeming with people eager to part with their money for everything from ice cream to diamond jewelry to a Jack Russell puppy. At the same time the grand prix is going on, there are lesser events taking place in half a dozen smaller arenas around it.
I drove in the exhibitors’ gate and down the row of tents, backing my car into a spot about three tents before Jade’s. I had no way of knowing whether Van Zandt had ratted me out to the Jade camp. Fine if he had, I thought. My patience was too thin to play any more games.
I had not come dressed as the dilettante. Jeans and sneakers. Black T-shirt and baseball cap. Belt holster and Glock nestled in the small of my back under the loose shirt.
Circling around the back of Jade’s tent, I entered as I had the first night I’d come there. Down the aisle of some other trainer’s stalls where people I didn’t know were talking, laughing, shouting at each other as they prepared for their classes. Horses were being groomed and braided, tack cleaned, boots polished.
Farther down the row, directly behind Jade’s stalls, another trainer’s horses stood bored in their stalls. Two had already gone that day, their short manes were still curly from having their braids let down after their rides. The others hadn’t seen a brush that day. There was no sign of a groom in the vicinity.
Cap pulled low, I picked up a pitchfork and dragged a muck cart to one of the stalls, let myself in. The occupant of the stall barely spared me a glance. Head down, I picked through the bedding with the fork, working my way to the back of the stall, and peered between the iron frame of the stall and the canvas that made the wall.
In the stall behind, a girl with spiky red hair stood on a step stool, braiding Park Lane
. Her fingers worked quickly, expertly. She sewed the braids in place with heavy black thread, every braid perfect and flat against the horse’s neck. Her head bobbed as she worked, keeping time to a tune only she could hear on her headphones.
One of the many cottage industries of the winter show season is braiding manes and tails. With four thousand horses on the grounds, most of them needing full braids for the showring, and not enough grooms to go around, a tidy sum can be ma
de every day of a show by a good braider. There are girls who do nothing but go from stable to stable, starting before dawn, braiding manes and tails until their fingers give out. A good braider can clear several hundred dollars a day—cash if the clients are willing to do business that way.
The girl braiding for Jade kept her eyes on her work and her fingers flying. She didn’t notice me.
Paris paced in the aisle in front of the grooming stall, talking on her cell phone. She was dressed to show in buff breeches and a tailored sage green blouse. There was no sign of Jade or Van Zandt in the immediate area.
I doubted Landry had hauled either of them in. He wouldn’t make a move before the ransom drop. If there was still a chance of them getting the money, the kidnappers had an incentive to keep Erin alive—provided they hadn’t killed her already. Unless what Landry had on Jade was ironclad, taking him into custody was too risky. He still had nothing solid on Van Zandt. If he pulled in one suspect, the other kidnapper would still be free to do as he pleased to Erin. If he knew his partner was in custody, he might panic, kill the girl, and bolt.
Landry had to play the odds on the drop, hoping against hope the kidnappers would show up with Erin in tow, even if he knew the odds were against him.
I couldn’t quite make out the conversation Paris was having. She didn’t seem upset. The tone of her voice rose and fell like music. She laughed a couple of times, flashing the big smile.
I tossed a couple of forkfuls of manure into the muck cart, moved to the next stall, and repeated the process. Looking between the canvas and the post, I watched Javier emerge from the Jade tack stall with Park Lane
’s tack in his arms.
“Excuse me? Excuse me?”
I started at the sound of the voice behind me, and turned to find an older woman peering in at me. She wore a helmet of starched-stiff apricot hair, too much makeup, too much gold jewelry, and the severe expression of a society matron.
I tried to look confused.
“Can you tell me where to find the Jade stables?” she asked.
“Jade stables?” I repeated with a heavy French accent.
“Don Jade’s stables,” she repeated loudly and with very precise diction.
I pointed at the wall behind me and went back to digging through the shit.
The woman thanked me and went out the end of the tent. A moment later, Paris Montgomery’s voice rang out: “Jane! It’s wonderful to see you!”
Jane Lennox. Park Lane
’s owner. The owner who had called after Stellar’s death, talking about moving the horse to another trainer.
Through my spy hole, I watched the two women embrace—Paris bending down to put her arms around the older woman, unable to get too near because of the size of Jane Lennox’s bosom.
“I’m so sorry, Don’s not here, Jane. He’s tied up with something related to that poor girl’s murder. He called to say he won’t be back in time to show Park Lane
. I’ll be filling in for him. I hope that’s not too disappointing for you. I know you flew all the way down here from New Jersey to watch Don ride her—”
“Paris, don’t apologize. You ride her beautifully. I won’t be disappointed watching you take her in the showring.”
They went into the tack stall, and their voices became muffled. I moved to the stall directly behind them to listen through the wall. Their voices went from whisper to murmur and back, the volume increasing with emotion.
“. . . You know I love how you handle Parkie, but I have to tell you, Paris, I’m very uncomfortable with what’s going on. I thought he’d put his past behind him when he went to France . . .”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I hope you’ll reconsider, Jane. She’s such a good horse. She’s got such a bright future.”
“So do you, dear. You have to consider your own future in this. I know you’re loyal to Don, but—”
“Excuse me?” A voice behind me asked sharply. “Who are you? What are you doing in there?”
I turned to face a woman with thick gray hair and a face like a wizened golden raisin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, opening the stall door. “I’m calling security.”
I went with confusion again, shrugged, and asked in French if these were not the stalls of Michael Berne. I was asked to clean the stalls of Michael Berne. Was I not in the right place?
Berne’s name was the only part the woman understood. “Michael Berne?” she said, her face pinched tight. “What about him?”
“I am to work for Michael Berne,” I said haltingly.
“These aren’t his horses!” she snapped. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you read? You’re in the wrong barn.”
“Wrong?” I asked.
“The wrong barn,” the woman said loudly. “Michael Berne. That way!” she shouted, waving her arm in the general direction.
“I am so sorry,” I said, slipping out of the stall and closing the door. “I am so sorry.”
I set the pitchfork aside, shrugged, spread my hands, tried to look sheepish.
“Michael Berne,” the woman said again, waving like a demented contestant in charades.
I nodded and backed away. “Merci, merci.”
Head ducked, shoulders hunched, hat pulled low, I stepped out the end of the tent. Paris was walking away on Park Lane
, looking like a cover girl for Town and Country. The Jade golf cart trailed behind, Jane Lennox and her cotton-candy balloon of apricot hair perched behind the wheel.
I slipped back into the tent on Jade’s row. Javier, who had apparently been promoted, was leading Trey Hughes’ gray into the grooming stall. I waited for him to start working on the horse, then slipped unnoticed into the tack stall.
The crime scene unit had been through everything the day before. The sooty residue of fingerprint dust clung to the surfaces of the cabinets. The remains of yellow crime scene tape hung on the door frame.
I didn’t like that Jade was absent, with the ransom drop only a couple of hours away. What detail of Jill Morone’s death would he see to personally? He hadn’t wanted to take time out of his life to answer questions about her when the cops had dug her corpse out of the manure pile. He wouldn’t want to be bothered with details when he should have been on a horse. Details were Paris Montgomery’s job as his assistant. The details, the scut work, the PR, the day-to-day. All of the nitty-gritty and none of the glory. The lot of the assistant trainer.
Not today. Today Paris would ride the star of the stables in the showring while the wealthy owner looked on. Lucky break.
I wondered how loyal to Jade Paris Montgomery really was. She was quick to pay lip service, but her compliments to and defenses of Don Jade always seemed to have a backside to them. She had spent three years working in Don Jade’s shadow, running his operation, dealing with his clients, schooling his horses. If Jade left the picture, Paris Montgomery might have a hell of an opportunity. On the other hand, she had no reputation in the international show-jumping ring. Her talent in the arena had yet to be realized. It would take the support of a couple of wealthy patrons to make that happen.
And in a little while she would ride Park Lane
into the ring in front of Jane Lennox, who was on the verge of jumping the Jade ship.
I looked around the stall, one eye on the door, waiting to be found out. Paris had left the armoire open. Clean shirts and jackets hung neatly on the rod. Jeans and a T-shirt had been tossed on the floor. A leather tote bag was carelessly half-hidden by a discarded blouse on the floor of the cabinet.
Checking the door again, I squatted down and dug through the bag, finding nothing of interest or value. A hairbrush, a show schedule, a makeup case. No wallet, no cell phone.
On the right-hand side of the cabinet, at the bottom of a bank of drawers, was a small plastic lockbox bolted to the floor of the cabinet. I tried the door. The simple keyed lock was in place, but the box was cheap with flimsy plastic hinges that wobbled as I pu
lled on the door. A casual thief would leave it alone and move on to one of the many open stalls where purses were carelessly left in plain sight.
I was not a casual thief.
I glanced at the stall door again, then worked the door of the lockbox, jiggling and pulling at the hinged side. It moved and gave, tantalizing me with the possibility of coming open. Then a cell phone rang, playing the William Tell overture. Paris Montgomery’s cell phone. And the sound was coming not from the lockbox in front of me, but from a drawer above my head.
With the tail of my T-shirt, I wiped my prints off the lockbox door, then rose and started opening the drawers above it. The caller ID window in the phone displayed the name: Dr. Ritter. I turned the phone off, clipped it to the waistband of my jeans, and let my T-shirt fall to cover it. I closed the drawer and slipped out of the stall.