by Tami Hoag
The cigarette was gone. Landry dropped it on the sidewalk, ground the butt out, picked it up and threw it in the trash.
And how did Don Jade fit into the picture?
Estes had told him: Seabright sold land to Trey Hughes, Don Jade worked for Trey Hughes. Bruce got Erin the job with Jade through Hughes. The girl would have been better off running away from home to live on the street in Miami.
Everything goes back to Jade, Estes had said in the beginning. But that wasn’t quite true. Everything went back to Trey Hughes.
Landry dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Dwyer, who had the tail on Jade.
“Where is he?”
“Having dinner at Michael’s Pasta. Specials of the night: penne putanesca and seafood risotto.”
“Who’s he with?”
“Some tiny old broad with big fake tits and orange hair. Can we pick him up?”
“No.”
“What happened at the drop?”
“It was a setup. They knew we’d be there.”
“How?”
“I’ve got a hunch.”
“They’ve got medication for that now.”
“Yeah, it’s called an arrest. Do you know where the feds are?”
“Sitting with their thumbs up their asses. They say Van Zandt hasn’t left the town house. The Mercedes is sitting in the driveway.”
“And where’s the Carlton woman’s car?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m doing my job.”
“Great.”
Landry wished for a second cigarette as he watched Dugan come out the door behind Bruce Seabright. Seabright went across the parking lot to his Jaguar, got in, and drove away. His wife was noticeably absent from the passenger’s seat. Dugan turned and came down the sidewalk.
“I’ve gotta go,” Landry said to Dwyer, and snapped the phone shut.
“What do you know about Elena Estes?” Dugan asked.
“She used to be a narc.”
“What do you know about her being a private investigator?”
“I know she’s not.”
“Why does Seabright think otherwise?”
Landry shrugged. “Why does he think anything? He’s a fucking asshole. He thinks it’s a good idea to let perverts have an eighteen-year-old girl so they can beat her with a whip.”
“What do you know about Estes in relation to this case?” Dugan asked. His face was tight with temper.
“I know there wouldn’t be a case if she hadn’t come into this office and told me what was going on,” Landry said.
“She’s involved in this.”
“It’s a free country.”
“It’s not that free,” Dugan snapped. “Get her in here.”
Chapter 37
Suddenly living in rural Loxahatchee made sense. Secluded, away from the throng of horse people, it was the perfect place to conduct a clandestine affair.
Apparently, Don Jade wasn’t the only one in his barn willing to play bedroom games to further his cause. If Trey Hughes was in that house for something other than a discussion of how his horse had gone in the ring that day, then Paris Montgomery had snagged Jade’s most affluent patron. With malice aforethought.
Or maybe Jade knew. Perhaps she had his blessing. Perhaps she was Jade’s insurance policy for keeping Trey’s attention.
My gut said no. I had witnessed no overt displays of affection between Paris and Trey. Their interaction at the barn had appeared to be nothing more than client and trainer.
Paris was a smart, ambitious girl. If Paris made Trey happy, Trey could certainly make Paris happy.
As I drove back to Wellington, I wondered if Paris knew Hughes had been involved with Michael Berne’s wife before her. That certainly hadn’t insured Michael a place in the posh new stables—or Stella Berne either, for that matter.
I wondered how long the affair had been going on. Hughes had taken his horses to Jade about nine months previous, meaning they had gone up to Jade’s barn in the Hamptons for the summer. Trey had likely spent the summer there, soaking up the social swirl. A relationship might have sparked.
Turning these things over in my mind, I drove back to Wellington and swung by Sag Harbor Court.
The Mercedes Trey Hughes had loaned to Van Zandt was parked in the driveway. In the visitor parking spots down the street, two men in shirts and ties sat in a dark Ford Taurus.
Feds.
I parked a couple of slots down from the sedan and approached the vehicle from the front. The guy in the driver’s seat rolled his window down.
“FYI guys,” I said, “I saw him this morning driving a dark blue Chevy Malibu.”
The driver stared at me with cop eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“Tomas Van Zandt. That’s who you’re supposed to be sitting on, right?”
They looked at each other, then back at me.
“Ma’am? Who are you?” the driver asked.
“I used to be a friend of that prick Armedgian. Tell him I said that.”
I left them sitting there like a couple of assholes, watching a car that probably hadn’t left the driveway all day.
Tomas Van Zandt was a free man.
Until later . . .
I put my gun on the passenger seat of my car and drove home to wait.
There was no obvious sign of an intruder in the area of Sean’s farm. I knew Sean would not have given Van Zandt the gate code. But my senses were humming just the same.
I parked my car at the barn and checked on the horses, walking down the aisle with gun in hand. I stopped to pet each horse, feeling my tension lessen a fraction at each stall. Oliver wanted to eat the gun. Feliki pinned her ears at me, to remind me who the alpha mare was, then expected a treat. D’Artagnon wanted only to have his neck scratched.
I thought of Erin Seabright as I performed the task, of the way she had laughed at Stellar in the video I’d found in Van Zandt’s bedroom. I wondered if she let memories like that one comfort or torment her wherever she was, whatever was happening to her.
I wanted to call Landry and find out what had happened at the drop, but I wouldn’t. He wasn’t my friend or my confidant. He wouldn’t appreciate my need to know. I hoped Molly would have called, but knew she wouldn’t be the first to hear whatever news there was. Bruce would have been sent to the drop. Regardless of what transpired, there would be a postmortem of the operation at the Sheriff’s Office. And during that time, no one would think or have the courtesy to let Molly know what was going on.
Nothing to do but wait, I thought, then remembered I had Paris Montgomery’s cell phone in my car. I retrieved it on the way to the house and sat down with it at the writing desk.
The phone was a Nokia 3390. The voice mail icon indicated she had messages, but I had no way to retrieve them because I didn’t know her password. I did know from experience, however, this model of phone automatically stored the last ten numbers dialed.
I scrolled to the last number dialed. “Voice mailbox” appeared in the screen. I scrolled to the next call: Jane L—Cell. The next: Don—Cell.
Headlights flashed in the drive.
It wasn’t Sean. I never saw Sean’s lights when he drove in because he always went directly into the garage, which was on the far side of the main house.
Irina, perhaps.
Perhaps not.
I set the phone aside, picked up the Glock, turned off the only light I had on in the house, then went to look out the window.
The security light on the end of the stable didn’t quite reach the car. But as the driver got out and came toward my house, I could tell by the way he carried himself it was Landry.
My heart beat faster. He would have news. Good or bad, he would have news. I opened the door before he made it to the patio. He stopped and put his hands up, his eyes on the gun still in my hand.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” he said.
“Is it bad news?”
“Yes.”
“Is she dead?”
“Not that
we know.”
I leaned against the door frame and let go a sigh, feeling relieved and sick at once. “What happened?”
He told me about the drop, the taped message rigged with a timer, the videotape of Erin being beaten.
“My God,” I mumbled, rubbing my hands over my face, feeling it on only one side. In that moment, I wished all of me could have been numb. “Oh, my God. That poor kid.”
You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price.
Breaking the rules had been my idea. I’d spent my entire life breaking rules and never thinking twice until it was too late. I never seemed to learn that lesson. Now Erin Seabright was paying the price.
I should have done something differently. If I hadn’t been such a bully with Bruce Seabright, if I hadn’t insisted on bringing the SO into the picture . . .
If I hadn’t been me. If Molly had gone to someone else.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Estes,” Landry said quietly.
I laughed.“But that’s one of the few things I do really well.”
“No,” he murmured.
He was standing very close to me. Our shadows overlapped on the flagstone as the front door light washed down over us. If I’d been a different woman, I might have turned to him in that moment. But I couldn’t remember the last time I had offered my vulnerability to anyone. I didn’t know how. And I didn’t trust Landry not to hand it back.
“It’s not all about you,” he said. “Sometimes things just play out the way they play out.”
I had used those same words with him just twenty-four hours before. “Anything I say can and will be used against me.”
“Whatever works.”
“Did it work when I fed it to you?”
He shook his head. “No. But I liked the sound of it.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We looked at each other for a little too long, then Landry rubbed the back of his neck and looked past me into the house.
“Can I help myself to your scotch? It’s been a hell of a day.”
“Sure.”
He went to the cabinet and poured himself a couple of fingers of whiskey as old as I was, and sipped at it.
I sat on the arm of a chair and watched him. “Where was Jade during the drop?”
“In West Palm, meeting with Jill Morone’s parents. They flew down from Buttcrack, Virginia, this afternoon and demanded he meet with them personally.”
“And Van Zandt?”
He shook his head, the line of his jaw tightening. “Good call this morning about your FBI friend.”
“Armedgian? He’s no friend of mine—or yours, I imagine.”
“He’s suddenly here to ‘consult and advise.’ His people are sitting on Van Zandt.”
“His people are watching a car in a driveway. Van Zandt was out here this morning driving a Chevy.”
Landry gave me the eagle eye. “What was he doing out here?”
“Serving me notice, I think.”
“He knows it was you in his place last night?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
He sipped his scotch and thought. “Well . . . he wasn’t at the drop. We know that.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not connected to the kidnapping. Or Jade either, for that matter. I’m sure that was half the point of rigging the tape with a timer: so the bad guys could make airtight alibis for the time of the drop.”
“That and to punish Seabright.”
“They had to know you’d be there. They never had any intention of showing up with or without Erin.”
“We still had to go through with it.”
“Of course,” I said. “But I don’t like what it means for Erin. They know now they’re not going to get the money. What do they have to gain by keeping her alive? Nothing.”
“Fun and games with the riding whip,” Landry said. He stared at the floor and shook his head. “Jesus. You should have seen him go at her. If he beat his horses like that, the SPCA would have him locked up.”
“Jade?” I said. “I’m sure you know something about him I don’t, but I’m having some serious doubts he’s our guy.”
“You’re the one who told me everything came back to him.”
“In a way, it does. But in a way that doesn’t add up for me. He’s sitting pretty professionally with Trey Hughes putting him into that new facility, buying expensive horses for him. Why would he risk that by doing something so outrageous as kidnap Erin?”
“Erin knew something about that horse he killed.”
“So why not just get rid of her?” I asked. “This is south Florida. It’s the easiest thing in the world to get rid of a body. Why get embroiled in a messy kidnapping plot?”
Landry shrugged. “So he’s a psycho. He thinks he’s omnipotent.”
“I could go for that explanation regarding Van Zandt. But I don’t see Jade risking everything on some scheme, and I don’t see him partnering with a loose cannon like Van Zandt.”
Landry took another sip of the scotch. Trying to decide whether or not to share with me, I thought.
“One of the phone numbers you gave me from Seabright’s incoming calls belonged to a prepaid cell phone we traced to the Radio Shack in Royal Palm Beach. We couldn’t get an ID from the clerks off Jade’s photo, but one of them thinks he took a phone call from a man named Jade, asking him questions about the phones, and asking him to set a phone aside for him.”
“Why would Jade do something so stupid?” I said. “He wouldn’t.”
Landry shrugged. “Maybe he figured a disposable phone would be untraceable, so it wouldn’t matter who he talked to.”
I got up to pace, shaking my head. “Don Jade hasn’t gotten where he is by being an idiot. If he wanted a phone held for him, why not give a phony name? Why not give them just his first name? No. This doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“It’s the lead we have,” Landry said defensively. “I’m not going to ignore it. You know as well as I do, criminals fuck up. They get careless. They make mistakes.”
“Yeah, well maybe someone made this mistake for him.”
“What? You think someone’s trying to frame him?”
“It looks that way to me. Jade has more to lose than to gain by any of this.”
“But he’s done it before—the insurance scam with the dead horses.”
“Yes, but things were different then.”
“Tigers don’t change their stripes.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not trying to defend him. I just think there are more rotten apples in this barrel than Don Jade. What did Michael Berne have to say for himself about the night Jill was murdered?”
“He was at Players for drinks with a client, the client was a no-show. Berne went out into the hall to call the client, and witnessed the scene between Jade and the girl.”
“And after that?”
“Went home and spent the evening with his wife.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ah, yes, the accommodating Ms. Alibi.”
“What?” Landry said, looking irritated. “You think Berne masterminded the whole thing? Why?”
“I’m not saying that. I still don’t see why anyone would risk getting caught at the kidnapping scheme. But Michael Berne hates Don Jade with a vengeance—and I mean that literally. Berne lost a lot when he lost Trey Hughes as a client. He’s the definition of bitter. He might have killed the horse. Maybe he thinks if Jade was out of the way, he would get back in with Hughes. Even if that didn’t happen, he would have the satisfaction of ruining Jade’s life.”
“And where does Van Zandt fit in with Berne? You still believe he killed Jill, don’t you?”
“Yes, but maybe he doesn’t fit in. Maybe he killed Jill and it didn’t have anything to do with anything but sex,” I said. “Or maybe he’s partners with Berne, or he’s partners with Paris Montgomery—who’s screwing Trey Hughes, by the way—bu
t I don’t believe he’s partners with Don Jade. And then there’s Trey Hughes. This whole nightmare is revolving around him.”