by Sasscer Hill
She nodded. Then her attention shifted to Zanin. “Who are you?”
“Most people call me—”
“You’re that guy Zanin, the hero guy,” Jilly said, “Everyone knows about you. You save animals from…” Her enthusiasm crawled to a stop.
As her voice trailed off, I steered her gently toward the table. “Come on, sit, and if you want, we can talk about what happened.” I threw a sharp look at Patrick. “It would probably help all of us.”
“You’re the one with the training, Fia.” But Patrick actually looked relieved. What rookie single parent would want to handle this mess?
Jilly eased into her chair, like an old woman might. Keeping her hands tightly folded in her lap, she looked at me. “How could they do that?”
I could sense the horrific scene playing behind her eyes. I wasn’t about to coddle her with half-truths, so I gave her the short speech on humanity and greed, and told her they did it for money.
Her eyes widened and I saw a healthy spark of anger. “Are the police going to get them?”
I looked at Zanin. “Help me here.”
He explained about catching them in the act. That animal cruelty was hard to enforce. “And think about it,” he said, “Officer Rodriguez left the scene tonight because of a domestic dispute call. A person’s life was likely in danger. That will trump an animal every time.”
I nodded. “It’s like that in Baltimore, too.”
Zanin downed the last of his vodka. “You ever heard the old saying, ‘The triumph of evil is made possible by good people who do nothing’? Fortunately there are a lot of people out there who stand up. I get more help from citizens than I do from cops. And when the police don’t respond to their calls for help, I do.”
Jilly put her palms on the table and leaned forward, a zealot’s light igniting in her eyes. “I want to work with you!”
“Hold on there, warrior princess,” Zanin said. “PAL rules won’t allow it. You’re too young.”
Jilly slumped.
“But,” he said, “it would be really cool if you’d organize a neighborhood watch.”
“How?”
“Get together with the other horse people in the neighborhood. Tell them about Cody. Tell them everything. You’ll get more volunteers that way. Let them help you put up neighborhood watch signs.”
“Where do I get the signs?”
“Internet. You’ll need the neighbors to put a little fund together. I’ve found it’s not hard to raise money to protect animals.”
I bet he was good at raising funds. For a moment I wondered if he took people’s money to line his own pockets. Maybe I’d been a cop too long.
“Tell everyone,” Zanin said, “to look for strangers in the neighborhood. Guys like Luis Valera ride around in daylight to identify their victims. If the neighborhood appears on high alert, he won’t come here.”
He’ll just go somewhere else. I kept the thought to myself, because I could feel the positive energy flowing from Jilly.
“Yeah, I can do that,” she said.
“I’ll help you,” Patrick said.
“Dad, you never have any time. You’re always at your real estate office.”
“Which is how I could afford to buy you a horse, Jilly.”
I could smell a spat heating up.
Patrick paused, and exhaled. “I’ll make the time, Jilly. Okay?”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
“All righty then,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “Everyone will help.” And then I’d make brownies and we’d all live happily ever after.
Patrick refrained from commenting, Jilly rolled her eyes, and Zanin gave me a lazy smile.
I stared at him. Here he was in the McKee kitchen, drinking booze, working his way into our lives. We needed to learn more about this guy.
7
When Zanin got up from the kitchen table to leave, it was already 5:00 A.M. I followed him out the French doors to the pool terrace where the smell of chlorine mingled with the scent of sand and damp soil. Behind the stable cupola, a false dawn hung on the gray horizon.
“Are you going to go after Valera?” I asked.
“I don’t go after people,” he said. “I just try to save the animals.”
“But you were following this guy.”
He rolled his shoulders and grimaced. “Look, I’ve been shot at, threatened, and beaten up. I can’t afford to mess with Valera in his own territory. I followed him off the reservation so I could get the police on him before he killed again. But I lost him.” He closed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have lost him.…”
“True, but you’re the only one who even knew he was on the prowl last night. No one else had a line on him.”
I could almost see my consoling words bounce right off him. I knew about bulletproof guilt, and gave it up.
“Zanin, isn’t there some way to stop this guy?”
He stared at me with blank eyes. “You say you’re a cop. So you know PAL has to use the law. The bureaucrats have to be able to cite animal cruelty, slaughtering without a license, operating a business without a license, or something. I haven’t been able to get close enough to this guy to tape anything. His place out there is big, and he’s surrounded by some nasty electric fencing. I think he’s using the place to slaughter animals. For sure, he’s doing something illegal.”
He raked the fingers of one hand through the stubble on his scalp, his frustration palpable. “Usually we can get someone in undercover as a laborer. Get videos. But Valera only works with family members. I’d guarantee the guy you saw with him was a brother, a son, or a cousin.”
I flashed on the cart rolling away in the gloom, and the knowledge of what it carried sent a sick chill through me.
“It’s been a long night,” I said. “We should probably give it a rest for now. How can I reach you?”
He dug into his vest pocket and handed me his card. The red letters PAL were engraved on a black background. A circle with a black slash through it pictured a butcher knife dripping blood. PROTECT THE ANIMALS LEAGUE and an e-mail address were printed across the bottom.
I slid his card into my jean’s pocket. “I’ll call you.”
He nodded and headed to the barn where he’d left his SUV.
I went back into the house and heard pop music playing softly in Jilly’s room. Earlier, Patrick had told her she could stay home from school, before saying he’d try to snatch a few hours of sleep before he drove to his real estate office.
I entered my room and opened my laptop where I’d left it on a carved wooden desk.
When I Googled PAL, a site came up with descriptive text, ghoulish pictures, and graphic videos of animals being abused and slaughtered. I didn’t want to look at them and instead clicked on news articles about Zanin.
Two stories praised him for being instrumental in shutting down illegal slaughterhouses in the C-9 Basin. He’d worked as an employee while secretly videoing the slaughter of horses, sheep, goats, and other animals. According to both articles, he’d used the legal codes against unlicensed businesses to pull in law enforcement. I liked having confirmation that what he’d said on the pool terrace was true.
Next I opened the Florida state government’s site and read up on the statutes for animal cruelty. Like the cruelty codes in Maryland, they were pretty straightforward:
A person who unnecessarily overloads, overdrives, torments, deprives of necessary sustenance or shelter, or unnecessarily mutilates, or kills any animal, or causes the same to be done, or carries in or upon any vehicle, or otherwise, any animal in a cruel or inhumane manner, is guilty of a misdemeanor of the first degree, punishable by a fine of not more than $5,000, or both.
I was glad to read on and see that second-time offenders received stiffer penalties. I rubbed my temples, and shut down the laptop.
I walked from the desk and stretched out on the turquoise comforter covering my bed. Closing my eyes, I contemplated the fight of good against evil. As usual, it left me fee
ling powerless. Then, as they so often did, my thoughts darted to the man I’d killed. I could see his hands pulling the scarf tighter, Shyra fighting for air. I’d killed him and I still didn’t know his name.
I jerked upright on the bed. Move along, Fia. I should find out who had called me from the Baltimore PD at 4:00 A.M. With a niggle of worry, I called up the message, saw Ladner’s name, and listened.
“Fia,” he said. “Lying to me about your visit to Shyra at Pimlico wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve ever done. Gravelin just blindsided me. He knows. He’s hot and wants your badge.”
Anxiety bubbled in my stomach, made my face tingle.
“Listen,” the message continued, “I’ve got a way out for you. Call me. I’ve got something going on this morning, but should be back at my desk by ten. Call me, damn it.”
It sounded like he was involved in an early-morning operation, which explained the odd hour of his call, but not what he meant about a “way out.” I replayed the message, then stared at the phone. I didn’t want a way out. I just wanted to beat the IAD charges and keep my job.
I suddenly felt woozy. The shock of Cody’s death, the fear and adrenaline that had coursed through me had taken a toll. I lay down again, closed my eyes, and at some point fell into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
I woke up a little after nine that morning. If Patrick had left the house, I’d slept too deeply to hear him.
But where was Jilly?
I scrambled out of bed and moved quickly through empty rooms. I couldn’t find her. There was no note on the kitchen counter and Patrick’s car was gone. Music was still playing in her bedroom, but she wasn’t there.
I hurried to the French doors in the living room and looked out across the pool terrace. Jilly was sitting on the ground inside Cody’s paddock. I hurried outside, slowing to a walk as I approached her. She wasn’t crying, just sitting motionless, staring at nothing.
“Hey,” I said. “You want some breakfast or something?”
Slowly, her glance lifted to me. “No.” Her eyes held that distance that comes from seeing too much. It hadn’t been there before.
“Well, how about you come in and show me where the coffee is?”
She frowned. “Yeah, okay.”
When we reached the kitchen, she pulled out a bag of coffee and filters, and the action seemed to revive her mentally. I threw out the old coffee, and made fresh. The first sip, smooth and hot, went down like an elixir.
“Did you eat?” I asked her.
“Dad made me some eggs, but I threw them out.”
At least Patrick had tried. I looked inside the cabinets and the fridge. “Do you eat yogurt?”
“Not that plain stuff Dad buys.”
“It won’t be plain when I get through with it.”
I pulled out two bowls, a bag of walnuts and almonds, fresh strawberries and blueberries, and the yogurt. I found some granola and a jar of honey. I put it all together, stuck a spoon in each bowl, and slid one across the table to Jilly.
“Eat.”
She scowled at me but took a bite.
“You’re lucky your dad keeps such good food in the house,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. I’m really lucky.”
If she’d been a cat, she would have hissed at me. But she was eating, so I zipped my lips, spooned in a few bites of breakfast, and sipped my coffee. A glance at the wall clock showed it was close to ten, almost time to call Ladner.
My pulse started hammering in my ears and I pushed my bowl away. I could hear my dad saying, “No good deed goes unpunished.” Damn it, I’d done the right thing. Was I supposed to let that guy kill Shyra?
“What’s with you?” Jilly asked.
“Nothing. I have to make a phone call.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
At least she was spooning down the yogurt at a good rate. I took my phone through the living room, out onto the terrace, and called Ladner.
“It’s me,” I said when he answered.
“Fia, you need to come up to Baltimore and meet with Gravelin and this guy from the TRPB, name’s Gunford Jamieson. It could be an out for you. A good one.”
“What? I don’t want an out. I want to be a cop! What does the TRPB have to do with me?”
Ladner coughed as if my outburst had made him choke on his cigar.
“Could you shut up a minute? I told you, Gravelin is gunning for you. You pissed him off with that flip remark you made. Not to mention you ignored his direct command to stay out of the case. You’re not helping yourself.”
Beyond the barn, a ragged cloud drifted across the horizon and shut out the morning light. I could smell a dampness in the earth beyond the terrace. Ladner’s voice had become so sharp and loud, I held the phone away from my ear, and still heard the next words clearly.
“You know what the TRPB is, right?”
I pulled the phone back, feeling like a grade-school kid presented with a pop quiz. “The Thoroughbred Racing Protective Bureau,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “They work to keep racing clean so the public’s confidence doesn’t go down the drain any worse than it already has. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Jamieson called me yesterday. He’s the TRPB VP. They want to hire you.”
They wanted to hire me? Why? I didn’t want to work for the racetrack. Did I? My trip to Pimlico’s barns had raised painful memories of Dad’s murder. I shook my head and started to say, “No way.” But Dad had died at the track. Maybe I could find some sort of explanation or at least closure for his death.
Over Cody’s barn, the cloud on the horizon drifted just enough to let the sun’s rays hit the brass on the stable’s cupola.
“Fia, you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. What do they have in mind?”
There was a pause while Ladner took a pull on his cigar. “Undercover work. But you gotta come up here and see this guy. He’s not hiring you without meeting you. But the main thing is, if you agree to work for them, I think Gravelin will close the investigation on you.”
“He wants me out that much?”
“Listen, once things cool down, you can come back.”
Yeah, and then I’d rise to police commissioner.
Still, the bureau was a watchdog for the integrity of American horse racing. Since I can be a bitch and have met a few racetrack lowlifes I wouldn’t mind biting, the TRPB job might suit me.
“Ladner,” I said, “thanks for looking out for me. I’ll come up there, if only for you.”
“Let me know when you book a flight. I’ll set up the meeting.”
I slid the phone in my pocket and stared at the pool’s surface that glittered like wet diamonds. I’d been in the same rut for almost five years, a beat cop, going nowhere. Maybe I should take the job. But this guy Jamieson must have a real problem to be so urgently in need of a new undercover agent.
What had happened to the last one? And why did he want me?
8
On the first of December, I caught a late-afternoon flight and left the warmth of Fort Lauderdale behind. Two hours later, the plane descended onto the frozen runway at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. After riding the light rail downtown, I walked to my apartment on the second floor of a row house not far from the Mount Street police station.
Some of the houses I passed had blank-eyed boarded-up windows. The rest were secured by barred windows and doors. No sane West Baltimore resident would live without their protection.
When I reached Fulton Street, an icy wind whirled down the gray sidewalk, causing me to pull the hood of my black anorak tightly around my face. I’d always worn a lot of black when out of uniform. Doesn’t show dirt, goes with everything, and looks excellent with white-blond hair. And there is something tough about the color that’s always appealed to me.
The wind bit into me deeper, and I broke into a jog along the sidewalk, my carry-on luggage bouncing behind me as it hit cracks and the humps caused by tree roots.
When I pushed through the door of my apartment, I felt a sharp ache for Buster, the part Maine Coon cat I’d had until the infirmities of old age had taken him a month ago. After the vivid warmth of Florida, the stark emptiness of my environment shocked me. Why did I live like this?
Had the rage caused by my father’s murder blinded me to anything beyond police work and fighting the bad guys? At Jilly’s age I’d been so happy. I’d had friends at school, friends on Pimlico’s backstretch. I’d adored my dad and his dry sense of humor, not to mention his love for the spirited, sometimes magical horses. My shared fascination with these incredibly strong but fragile creatures had bonded me to my dad like a horseshoe nailed to a hoof.
I could have called a girlfriend and gone out for dinner, but instead I microwaved a box of frozen lasagna, poured myself a vodka and tonic, and watched a rerun of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Buster’s empty spot on the couch beside me was another lonely reminder of things lost.
* * *
At eight the next morning, my supervisor Ladner walked with me into Detective Gravelin’s office in the Internal Affairs Division on Kirk Avenue. I had asked Ladner to be my personal representative during the meeting, and he had accepted.
Gravelin rose from a battered desk and led us down a corridor into an overheated interview room with dull green walls, a long metal table, and half a dozen scarred wooden chairs. A man, maybe in his sixties, sat in one of the chairs that faced the entrance. I’d never seen him before, but Ladner nodded at him. Someone from IAD?
A tremor started somewhere deep inside me and I took a breath and exhaled slowly, determined to control the fear.
Gravelin seated himself at one end of the table where a case file, probably mine, lay in wait for the meeting. Ladner and I sat opposite the stranger, and Gravelin spread open the file. Even though Ladner had left his cigars at the Mount Street station, the familiar smell still clung to him and I found it comforting.