Steve Cline Mysteries - 01 - At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  "And if the original owner knowingly passed on a horse with a problem," I said, "that's exactly what I would have been . . . in the beginning, anyway."

  "Yep. So you have the horse killed or, more likely, kill it yourself. Pretending it was stolen involves more risk."

  I frowned. "Why?"

  "The police aren't going to do anything about a dead horse, unless it's obviously the result of a malicious act. And with horses, the two most common methods, electrocution and suffocation, aren't that easy to spot. But with theft, you're likely to become a suspect."

  "Yeah, but if I board my horse in a public stable and take a bunch of other horses with it--"

  "You'd be less of a suspect," she agreed. "Any reason you think a certain someone's guilty of anything underhanded, I'd like to hear about it."

  I shook my head. "No reason. I'm just fishing."

  Marilyn relaxed into her chair. "Though it doesn't happen as often, thank God, some people purchase a horse with the deliberate intention of defrauding an insurance company. If you're cautious and not too greedy, you buy an inexpensive horse and inflate the purchase price on the bill of sale. Not much, but enough to make it worth your while. If the horse is doing okay at the shows, his inflated price won't be questioned. Putting a value on an animal is fairly subjective at the best of times, and you've got your fake bill of sale to back you up. So when you dispose of the animal, you collect on the policy, less any deductible. It's a nice little fraud that's hard to prove unless you've made some glaring mistakes. Clear?"

  "As glass."

  Marilyn rolled her eyes.

  "But it doesn't seem like you'd make all that much," I said. Not when you consider the actual purchase price, the insurance premium, plus the usual board and upkeep of the horse."

  "And don't forget the vet exam the policy requires," she said.

  "So, where's the profit?"

  "There's not much. But if you insure your horse with more than one company . . ."

  "Oh, wow."

  "There's more risk, but the profit's considerably higher." Marilyn shook her head as if she couldn't believe she was telling me this. "Let's say you and a couple of your buddies have this horse that can do the jumper circuit. He's nothing great, but he makes do. You take turns 'buying' him, insuring him, then stealing him. Between each 'theft,' you take him home for a while, then send him to another stable where he does a little showing to substantiate that he is in fact a jumper. Then he gets stolen again. Each time, the owner's name is different, the stable where he's boarded is different, and of course, he gets a new name at each barn."

  "But doesn't the insurance company review the horse's show record when they determine its value?" I said. "And what about the registration papers?"

  "Sure. You send the company paperwork on someone else's horse that's doing well in competition."

  "But--"

  She raised her hand. "Let's say you have a chestnut Hanoverian gelding that you're competing in open jumper classes--there are hundreds of them on the show circuit. He's doing okay, enough to play the part, but in the grand scheme of things, he's a pretty mediocre animal. But you know of a more successful Hanoverian the same sex and color, similar markings, and chances are, he's not insured with the company you're dealing with. So when you apply for insurance for your horse, you write away for the show record--"

  The waitress plunked down our drinks and sandwiches and laid the check face down on the checkered tablecloth. "Anything else?" she asked as if she didn't expect to be bothered.

  Marilyn shook her head, and the waitress returned to the kitchen's swinging doors, where she'd been chatting with someone just out of our line of sight. Marilyn leaned forward and said, "Where was I?"

  "You write away for the show record . . ."

  "Oh, yeah." She bit into her sandwich. "You get the show record of a successful Hanoverian, put his name on all your paperwork, do a little creative forgery on a copy of your horse's registration papers, and viola, you now have one expensive animal, at least on paper. But not so expensive that he's going to raise a flag. When you get rid of him, no one's the wiser."

  "But wouldn't someone figure it out?"

  "It's a riskier fraud, I'll admit, but if it's uncovered, it more than likely won't be the insurance company that catches on." She sipped her iced tea. "Most agents wouldn't know a Hanoverian from a Clydesdale. Consider the thousands of horses competing today, and the hundreds of insurance companies that provide equine mortality insurance, and it's pretty easy to see you'd go unnoticed, unless you did something stupid, like pretend you owned a world-class horse like Charisma. The real threat comes from someone on the show circuit noticing that the horse you're masquerading as Rocket isn't Rocket at all, because Rocket's down at ol' Charlie's place in South Carolina right about now."

  "So you've got to be careful where you place your horse," I said.

  Marilyn nodded. "That's right, and you don't keep him there long, and though you'll probably have to give the barn owner his fake show name, you make sure everyone else around the barn knows him as plain ol' Jake."

  I swallowed some Coke. "Why's he have to be the same color?"

  "For the vet exam."

  "But if one of your buddies is a vet, then it wouldn't matter what the horse looked like. You wouldn't even need a horse, would you?"

  "Your buddy the vet could fill out a fake report, sure. But when it came time to 'steal' the horse, you'd need a police report, and for that, you've gotta have a stable owner that can witness the fact that there actually was a horse. Too many thefts from one farm won't be noticed by different insurance companies, but the cops would eventually catch on."

  I grinned. "Guess it would be too farfetched to think you'd have a crooked vet, cop, and stable owner as friends, wouldn't it?"

  She looked at the ceiling. "Let's hope so. Course, I imagine if you were smart enough and had the connections, the entire scam could be done on paper without there ever being an actual horse."

  We ate in silence. Despite the dreary decor and poor service, the food was surprisingly good. Eventually, I said, "It's a pretty unscrupulous industry, isn't it?"

  Marilyn shrugged. "It's everywhere. Kinda makes you wonder about human nature, doesn't it?"

  "Yeah. So, is Sanders' policy being questioned?" I asked, not sure that she would tell me.

  She glanced around the room. "No. He'd signed up three months before the theft. That might've caught someone's attention, but it happens. In this case, what really got the ball rolling was pure and simple fate. Nicky happened to be shoeing at the barn the day the horse was vetted for the policy, and he overheard the figure, which he thought excessive. He mentioned it to me when he heard the horse was stolen, and," she caught her breath, "since I just so happen to work for the insurance company in question, the underwriter had a tense moment or two because the policy did appear to be on the high side. But after an investigation, he was cleared." Marilyn leaned back in her chair and eyed me speculatively. "And you have no suspicions?"

  "No. I'm just trying to figure out who'd gain by taking the horses."

  "Besides the thieves, you mean?"

  "Yeah." I thought about James Peters and figured she was right. It was just too farfetched to think that Sanders had anything to do with what had happened at Hunter's Ridge. "So he's going to get a check?"

  "Sure. No reason why he won't. Thirty days after the date of the theft, we'll cut his check."

  "Why thirty days?"

  "SOP."

  "What?"

  "Standard operating procedure."

  "What if the horse shows up after he collects?"

  "Then the company has the right to take title and possession of the animal." She glanced at her watch. "Anything else?"

  "I don't think so."

  "If I hear you're going around collecting on insurance claims," she said with a grin, "I'll wring your neck."

  I chuckled. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Don't 'ma'am' me, boy. Makes a girl feel old." S
he wiped her mouth with a napkin, tossed it on the table, and stood up. "I'm late. Thanks for lunch."

  I stood also and thought that I'd gotten the prim part wrong. "Thanks for the education." I hesitated. "Any chance I could get a look at my friend's paperwork?"

  She tilted her head. "I'll think about it."

  We shook hands, and I watched her walk out of the cafe.

  Chapter 6

  Five-thirty Saturday morning, and already bands of color had spread across the eastern horizon. The horses watched as I walked down the barn aisle, flipping through my farm keys, looking for the right one. I had too many damn keys. Even with color-coded tape, I was still sorting through them when I stopped outside the tack room door.

  Sensing something wrong, out of place, I looked up. I wouldn't be needing my keys. Not that morning, anyway.

  The door was half open, and the jamb was cracked and splintered and dented with pry marks.

  With nerves on high alert, I pushed the door inward with the toe of my boot and flipped the light switch with my key.

  Locker doors hung askew or lay on the floor. Most of the saddles were gone. I walked into the center of the room and surveyed the damage. Some of the more expensive bridles were missing, too. I checked the other boarders' tack room. Everything of value that could easily be sold was gone. On my way out, I stopped outside the school horses' tack room. It was still locked. I frowned at the undisturbed door and considered the implications.

  I walked over to barn A, knowing I'd find the same thing.

  I pushed the door in with my boot, hit the light switch, and froze. A thin trail of blood snaked across the floor and disappeared around the corner of the central island of lockers.

  I looked at my hand. Blood darkened my fingertips. The light switch had been smeared with blood, and it was still tacky.

  The lockers were eight feet tall. I couldn't see around them. I inched toward the first row of lockers.

  Before I made it around the corner, a hollow thump resounded in the barn. The muscles in my gut tightened. I looked back at the doorway. No one was there. The sound had come from one of the stalls. It was simply one of the horses across the aisle, knocking a hoof against the wall.

  I looked down at the floor, realized I was holding my breath, forced myself to breathe. I stepped around the corner and followed the trail with a gaze so intent, I could see nothing else.

  Something touched my hair.

  I jumped back. The heel of my boot caught on the edge of a broken locker door, and I crashed backward into the row of lockers. Hanging from the rafters, and now gently swaying, was Boris the barn cat. Baling twine was tied around the tip of his tail, and his throat had been cut. His head dangled from a thin ribbon of flesh and matted fur. My stomach lurched, and saliva flooded my mouth. I swallowed and stumbled out of the room.

  My muscles felt rubbery from the flood of adrenaline. I rubbed my face, then remembered the blood on my fingers. I wiped my hand on my jeans and looked up and down the aisle. Everything looked peaceful. Normal. The horses were watching, wondering what I was up to.

  "Just having heart failure, guys," I said and didn't recognize my own voice.

  After a minute or two, I went back in. Most of the saddles in that barn were ridiculously expensive. They were all gone. I crossed the room and examined the door that opened into aisle two. It was still locked. Blood had been smeared on that light switch, too. Whichever door I chose, I would have put my hand on a bloody light switch.

  I walked back into the center of the room. The flies hadn't taken long to find the cat. They buzzed and flitted around the gaping wound in his neck and crawled over the matted fur. He'd been the only cat on the farm--a mascot of sorts--and wasn't aloof like most of them. Many of the boarders brought him treats. I doubted he'd ever caught a mouse. He wasn't going to now.

  I thought about the room's layout and how his body had been strategically placed for maximum effect. I hadn't seen him until I was right on top of him. Someone had a very sick, twisted mind. Tack theft was all too prevalent, but this was cruel, wicked. Designed to terrify. Judging by my physical state, it had been, on the whole, entirely successful.

  I headed for the office. The buildings were bathed in an early-morning wash of gray, and a ground-hugging mist had settled in the swales that cut through the pastures. The farm looked like a latent photograph come to life. As I walked down the sidewalk, it occurred to me that the office and lounge weren't immune to vandalism, either. I quickened my pace.

  I peered through the glass as I unlocked the office door and saw that everything was secure. In the quiet room, my footsteps echoed hollowly on the cheap linoleum. I snatched up the phone and punched in the familiar number.

  Mrs. Hill answered in three rings, fast for her. I glanced at the clock. Five-forty-three.

  "Yes?" An element of dread in her voice.

  "Mrs. Hill, this is Steve. . . ." When she didn't respond, I said, "There's been more trouble at the farm--"

  "Oh, no."

  I told her about the saddles and Boris and the blood.

  She didn't say anything . . . not a word.

  "Mrs. Hill?"

  "I can't believe this. Are you okay?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Are any of the horses missing?" Her voice was tight.

  "No, ma'am."

  "Well, there's that at least. I'll be in as soon as I can. It'll be a while, though. I have to wait until the bus comes for the kids."

  She told me to notify the police, and I could hear her yelling to her husband as she hung up the phone. I slumped into her chair and rubbed my face. It was too much. Too damned much. I sat up, tapped my fingers on the blotter, and looked at the phone. Made another call.

  The voice at the other end said, "C.I.U., Ralston."

  "This is Stephen Cline from Foxdale Farm. You interviewed me last week, about--"

  "What's up?"

  "Last night, someone broke into the tack rooms on the farm. Most of the saddles are gone, and I think it might be the same people who took the horses."

  He cleared his throat. "What makes you think that?"

  "Well, whoever was here last night couldn't keep it simple. They killed a barn cat and smeared its blood around. Then they hung the body from the rafters." Christ, I had walked into the damn thing.

  "How?"

  "How what?"

  "How was the cat killed?"

  "Oh. They slit its throat."

  After a pause, he said, "Did you see anyone when you arrived?"

  "No, sir."

  "You're sure no one's there now that shouldn't be?"

  I glanced reflexively at the door. "Yes."

  "Okay. I'll give Howard County a call." He paused, and I could hear papers rustle in the background. "And I think I'll drive over there myself. Do me a favor, Steve. Keep everyone clear of the barns. Don't let anyone drive all the way down there, okay?"

  "Sure."

  He disconnected, and I thought about the exhaustion I'd heard in his voice and didn't envy him his job.

  I grained the horses early--they didn't object--then lugged hay bales out of the storage area at the end of the barn and spaced them down the center of the aisle. I slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the knife that was successfully wearing a hole through my jeans. The smooth plastic sheath was warm from my own body heat. It wasn't until I pulled the blade out that I thought how someone, just hours before, had used a knife to slit the cat's throat.

  * * *

  Shortly before seven, a police car pulled down the lane and jerked to a halt between the barns. As the officer climbed out and grabbed a clipboard off the dash, a dirt-streaked white Taurus parked alongside the grain bin. I answered questions that had become increasingly familiar in the past two weeks, while the driver of the Taurus popped the trunk and levered himself out of his car. He wasn't in uniform, and judging by the equipment he'd hefted onto the asphalt, I guessed he was a technician of some sort. When he joined us, carrying a black du
ffel bag with HCPD stenciled on the side in one hand and a heavy-looking aluminum case in the other, we walked into the barn.

  I glanced over my shoulder when one of them whistled.

  The uniformed cop adjusted his mirrored sunglasses. "How many horses you got in this place?"

  "In both barns, one hundred and ninety three."

  He whistled again, then grinned at his partner. "Look like they're in jail, don't they?"

  The plainclothes cop didn't respond, and I wondered what was eating him. We stopped at the tack room door.

  "They broke in here," I said. "But we can get in through the undamaged door in the other aisle. I nailed this one shut, because I didn't want the employees or boarders to see what's inside."

  "And what's that?" the uniformed cop said.

  I glanced at my reflection in his glasses and realized how disconnected I felt because I couldn't see his eyes. I told him about Boris. "I was hoping to keep it quiet. Some of the boarders loved that cat."

  "Did you touch anything?"

  "No. Oh, yeah. The light switch."

  "Humph. We'll start processing the scene, but I can't guarantee we'll be done in time for what you want."

  I skirted a puddle in the wash rack and ducked under the divider that allowed two horses to be bathed at once. "We can cut through here," I said over my shoulder, "to get to the other aisle." I turned in time to see them hesitate. The grumpy guy crinkled his nose and proceeded as if he were in alien territory. Smiling to myself, I took the opportunity to rinse my hands under the spigot. A minty scent, left over from liniments and leg braces, clung to the walls.