by Sasscer Hill
Gravelin did not introduce me to the stranger, instead he switched on a recording device and after flipping through a few pages of my file, he spoke for the record, giving his name, the date, time, place, my name, and the charge against me.
“Officer McKee, you have previously been read your rights regarding a charge of excessive use of force. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.” My foot started jiggling. I pressed it hard against the carpet.
Gravelin picked a document off the top of the stacked papers and stared at it, his lips compressed.
“It seems the Baltimore state’s attorney’s office is not inclined to bring charges against you in this matter. The autopsy report on your John Doe revealed large amounts of meth and steroids in the blood system, which corroborates your claim that the man was beyond reason.”
I breathed a mental sigh of relief. I was not going to be prosecuted. I’d known they had no case, but still …
As Gravelin looked at me, some emotion caused the mole beside his nose to quiver. His mouth grew tighter.
“Make no mistake. You are still under investigation by this office! Your repeated tendency to overstep police powers concerns me. After being ordered off the John Doe case, you defied a direct command from both me and Detective Ladner by interrogating Shyra Darnell.” His gaze shifted to Ladner. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. We don’t need her type on this force!”
He stared at me like I was something that had crawled out of the sewer. Men like him probably hated my double earrings and short hair as much as any crime I might have committed. He struck me as the kind of guy who wanted women to have long hair and wear knee-length skirts, preferably in the kitchen.
“With those concerns in mind,” he continued, “and because Mr. Jamieson here thinks you could be useful to the Thoroughbred Racing Protective Bureau, you should seriously consider any offer he may have for you. I’ll leave you three alone to sort this out.”
The room was so hot I was sweating.
Gravelin glanced at my boss. “Ladner, let me know the outcome. It would be in everyone’s best interest if McKee left the department.”
I watched Gravelin walk from the room and shut the door behind him. What were the chances of the TRPB wanting me after that introduction?
Ladner leaned forward and switched off the recorder. He glanced at the man who must be Jamieson and said, “Gravelin’s an ass.”
Jamieson stretched a hand to me across the table. “Gunford Jamieson,” he said.
I shook his hand. It was cool and slightly gnarled, but the man had an excellent handshake, firm and strong. A faint scent of Old Spice aftershave clung to his skin, startling me. The scent my father had used. Pale red strands left from the glory days streaked his faded hair. The knowing look in his eyes told me he’d seen a lot, much of it not good.
“Jamieson spent time with the Miami police department,” Ladner said. “He knows all about IAD officers, don’t you, Gunny?”
Jamieson nodded. “So tell me, Ms. McKee. Would you shoot the strangler again if the same situation presented itself?”
No point in pretending. “Yes, sir.”
It must have been the right answer. The two men smiled at each other like they’d both won a bet.
Jamieson gave me a long, speculative glance, then nodded. “The TRPB may have a position for you.”
A jolt of excitement shot through me, surprising me. I wanted this job?
Jamieson continued. “I hear you’re good at undercover work. That you used to ride for your father at Pimlico. We have need for an agent who can pose as an exercise rider at Gulfstream Park down in South Florida. Does that interest you?”
I stared at the drab wall behind Jamieson, mentally piercing it, seeing the gray streets outside and the steel bars on my apartment.
“Yes, sir, that is something I’d very interested in.”
“You have a brother who lives down there, correct?”
“Yes, Patrick McKee. He’s in real estate.” But Jamieson probably already knew that. He’d probably done enough due diligence on me to know where I shopped online, what bank I used, and who my friends were.
Ladner leaned toward Jamieson. “I told you it makes a good cover, Gunny, Fia having family near the track. She’s got the training and she can ride.”
“What’s going on at Gulfstream?” I asked Jamieson.
“Horses that shouldn’t be winning races are cleaning up at long odds.”
“What do the tests show?” I asked, knowing they would immediately run blood and urine tests on the winning animals.
“That’s the problem,” Jamieson said. “Nothing comes up positive. Someone’s got a new drug.”
Every crooked horseplayer’s dream. An untraceable performance enhancer.
“Not good,” I said.
Jamieson leaned back into his chair. “No, it’s not.” He gazed at me a moment. “Okay then, Fia. Why don’t you take a few days to get things in order here, then I want you up at the Fair Hill office for some basic training and paperwork. How long do you think it will take you to get in shape to ride?”
I hadn’t ridden much in the last five years, but I was fit from running and regular gym workouts. Still, the cardiovascular demands of galloping multiple sets of fresh Thoroughbred racehorses were tremendous.
“I could be ready in less than two weeks,” I said. The TRPB offices were on the grounds at Fair Hill, which happened to be one of the nicest training tracks in America. It would be a great place to get my sea legs back. “Can I leg up at Fair Hill?”
Jamieson’s smile went right to his eyes. “That’s the plan.”
* * *
Back at my apartment, I paced around the small living room trying to mentally juggle things in place. In five days, I had to report for duty at Fair Hill. They had a place for me to stay there and though I’d make use of that offer, it might be smart to continue the rent on my Baltimore place until I knew what the future held. I had paperwork to fill out with the Baltimore PD. I had to get my car up from Florida.
My pacing took me to a window overlooking Fulton Street. Below, a skinny girl, her hair in cornrows, carried a baby stuffed into a puffy pink jacket. The young mother’s coat was tattered, and a sockless big toe stuck through the front of one of her sneakers. Her cornrows made me think of Shyra Darnell. Where was Shyra? I continued staring at the girl and it hit me. She doesn’t look any older than Jilly.
I squeezed my eyes shut. With just one wrong decision, Jilly could be the girl walking away from me on the street below. I grabbed my phone to call Patrick, and flinched when it rang in my hand. The caller ID read Patrick McKee.
“Hey,” I said, “I was just going to—”
“Jilly’s run off to the C-Nine Basin with that guy Zanin!”
“What? She told you that?”
“No, she left a note on the kitchen table. They’ve gone to look for Valera.”
“Are they both crazy?” This was insane.
“Fia, you gotta get back here!”
“Did you call the police?”
“You are the police,” he yelled.
“You’re the one who told me I have no jurisdiction down there.”
Why was I arguing with my brother when Jilly was missing?
“I’ll get the next flight,” I said. But you’ve got to call Sheriff Rodriguez!” I hurried on before he could interrupt me, “I’ve got a number for Zanin. I’ll call him, but first read me Jilly’s note.”
“Hold on,” he said.
I heard the sound of his footsteps fade and return before he came back on the line.
“‘Dad, I’m going with Mr. Zanin to find the guy that killed Cody.’ That’s all it says.”
“Okay. Do you recognize it as Jilly’s handwriting?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be her handwriting?” His voice rose in panic. “You think somebody took her?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Just making sure.”
“Damn it, Fia. Yo
u’re scaring me.”
“Just call Rodriguez.” I ended the connection, grabbed my wallet, and ripped out the card Zanin had given me. I entered his number on my phone. Damn Zanin. What was he thinking taking Jilly into that no-man’s-land?
9
Zanin’s cell rang six times before it sounded like it switched to call forwarding. A woman answered, “Animals League.”
“I need to speak to Zanin,” I said. “It’s urgent.”
“Sorry, he’s in the field.
“I really need to speak to him.”
“He’s not available.”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Betsy.”
“Listen to me, Betsy. Zanin has my fifteen-year-old niece with him. He’s taking her into the C-Nine Basin. If I can’t talk to him, maybe the Broward County sheriff’s department will have better luck.”
Silence, then, “Does your niece have dark hair, with a diamond stud in her nose?”
My pulse quickened. “Yes. Her name is Jilly. You saw her?”
“Yeah, earlier. And she is not with Zanin. We get kids like her all the time. Dying to fight the good fight.”
“So Zanin took her with him?”
“Absolutely not! You aren’t listening to me. He sent her on her way before he left. I heard the whole thing. He told her what he tells all the wannabe young warriors, ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, be our radar, but keep yourself safe.’”
I stared at the vehicles parked on the street below my apartment window. What would I have done when I was fifteen? “But you say Jilly left your office before Zanin did?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know she didn’t stow away in the back of his SUV?”
“Zanin would never let that happen.”
“You don’t know Jilly,” I said. “Please, you need to contact him.”
“He’s deep into a reconnaissance mission. I told you. He’s unreachable.”
“You can’t even text him or send some sort of radio alert?”
“No.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” I shouted. “What will you do if he goes missing?”
The voice on the phone hardened. “Aside from the one in his cell phone, he has a GPS tracker sewn into his bulletproof vest, and one hidden in the buckle of his belt.”
I heard her breath suck in.
“Oh, crap. Nobody’s supposed to know that!”
“No one will hear it from me,” I promised, then gave her my and Patrick’s cell numbers. “If Zanin becomes reachable, please get him to call my brother or me.” I thanked her and disconnected.
Calling US Air, I discovered a noon flight. I had an hour. Ladner knew I’d taken the job with Jamieson and that I wasn’t expected up at Fair Hill for a few days. I was lucky the timing had worked out. I threw everything into my carry-on, ran from my apartment, caught a cab on the corner, and told the driver, “Cash reward if you can get me to BWI in twenty minutes.”
* * *
At three that afternoon, I’d retrieved my Mini from Fort Lauderdale’s general airport parking and was heading south on 95 with my windows rolled down. Warm salt air and the smell of the sea blew through the car. I checked for messages but had only one from a woman at the Fair Hill offices of the TRPB. Nothing from Zanin or Patrick.
Now, as I sped down the highway, crossing over an arm of the Intracoastal Waterway, whizzing past docked boats and wastelandlike swamps, I used the Mini’s Bluetooth to call Patrick.
“Fia,” he pounced, “have you heard anything?”
“No. Have you?”
“Nada. The sheriff’s department won’t do anything. Jilly hasn’t been missing long enough.”
“I told you that.” Yet I’d been hoping they might put a track on Zanin’s phone. Not that they would tell me. “Where are you?”
“The office. What are you going to do?”
“Find Jilly,” I said.
Patrick’s snort of irritation echoed through the Mini’s speakers. “How? You have no idea where you’re going.”
“Wrong. I have friends in the Baltimore PD, remember? They ran Luis Valera through the system and got me an address. OnStar should get me within shouting distance.”
Outside the Mini’s passenger’s window, palm trees and telephone poles zoomed past. I decided not to mention Valera’s ugly police record to Patrick.
“I have to call Zanin’s office,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.” I disconnected, and called the PAL office.
Betsy answered. No, she hadn’t heard from Zanin.
“Can you at least tell me the make and color of his SUV?” My only recollection was that is was midsized and dark.
“I don’t think he’d like that,” she said.
“Betsy, I’m a Baltimore city police officer, so you might want to cooperate, because Zanin’s going to dislike the idea of your obstructing justice a whole lot more than a simple description of his SUV! Jilly’s still missing. If she’s not with Zanin, I need to know it so we can search elsewhere.”
“All right, all right. It’s a black Chevy Tahoe, okay?”
“Okay,” I said more gently. “Please call me if you hear anything.”
“Sure,” she said, her sarcasm leaking out the Mini’s speakers like snake venom. “You have a nice day.”
Fia McKee, specializing in lies, threats, and making new enemies. I pressed harder on the accelerator and called OnStar.
When a male operator came on, I relayed the address and halfway held my breath. My cop buddy in Baltimore had said the intersection of Flamingo Road and 178th Street wasn’t visible on his satellite map.
“I’m sorry,” the OnStar guy said. “I’m not finding that location. The streets are listed, but the system’s not giving directions.”
We settled on the intersection of Okeechobee Road and 137th Street. He sent the directions, and I sped south on 95, before exiting onto Hollywood Boulevard and traveling west past miles of tile-and-stucco housing developments, shopping malls, and garden centers stuffed with palms and flowering bushes.
After a drive that seemed endless, the road changed into Pines Boulevard. Stopping at one of the larger gas stations for fuel, soda, and the restroom, I bought a Rand McNally Map of Florida. OnStar was pretty cool, but I wanted something on paper so I could see where I was heading. Sitting in the car, I sipped a cup of iced Diet Coke and poured over the map. I found 137th Street, which appeared as a tiny squiggle trailing into nothing.
Not promising. Back on the road, the heavy traffic thinned. After passing under Interstate 75, the road narrowed to one lane, finally dead-ending at North Okeechobee Road. Across the pavement a one-lane sand track led into a flat, empty distance.
After swinging south onto Okeechobee, I rode alongside a narrow canal paralleling the highway. Beyond it was an endless landscape of skinny, denuded tree trunks, thrusting skyward like broken knives. Maybe they’d been sprayed with chemicals to keep them off the electric lines that stretched endlessly to the west.
Continuing south, I passed more landscaping companies, seedy-looking trailer and fishing camps, and airboat tour sites. There were no nice homes, no hotels, no shopping malls.
A sensation of crossing a dark threshold touched me as Okeechobee passed over Snake Creek Canal and I officially entered the C-9 Basin. A cloud bank was building on the western horizon, gray, ominous, and heading my way. I wanted to find Jilly and head for home.
Fifteen minutes later, OnStar announced that 137th Street was a mile ahead. The road was marked by a small dented county sign, and after turning, I drove slowly down a pocked gravel road hoping to find a place to ask for directions. The clouds were overhead now, the light dim and unsteady. I passed a palm tree nursery on the right with no visible office or humans. Properties barred by chain-link fences advertised five- or ten-acre lots for sale.
Ahead, a large tarp covered the outside of a metal fence, hiding whatever was on the other side. I’d never been one to resist curiosity an
d eased the car to a stop. It wasn’t like there was any traffic on the road. I slid my gun into the waistband at the small of my back and got out. The air was warm, humid, and dusty. When I smelled horses, my head lifted like a dog, testing the airborne scent.
Walking to the end of the tarp, I peered through a narrow gap between the blue plastic and thick waxy bushes. There were five or six mixed-breed horses inside a dirt lot. They appeared well fed and in good shape. One of them was a paint like Cody. Why were they hidden? Stolen? Slaughterhouse potentials?
“What you want?” a harsh voice asked.
I whirled to face a thickset man with a poorly trimmed beard and moustache. He held a machete at his side.
I smiled and gave him my best dumb blond look. “I heard you have horses for sale.”
“You heard wrong.” He stared at my car. “You from Maryland? You don’ belong here. This property private.”
“Lo siento,” I said, telling him I was sorry. “This is 178th Street, right?”
He shook his head.
“Lo siento,” I repeated, “puede digame dónde está?” Could he tell me where it was?
He rolled his eyes to the heavens as if dealing with me required help from above. “Dos millas,” he said. Using the machete, he pointed in the direction I’d been heading. The blade was dirty and crusted with something reddish brown.
“Two miles.” I nodded and smiled. “Gracias!”
Still facing him, I eased away. You don’t turn your back on a man like that. After edging sideways, I hopped into the Mini, fired the engine, and bumped away on the potholed road, hating to leave the animals behind. When I found Zanin, I’d ask him about the horses.
First, I had to find out what had happened to Jilly.
10
The clouds overhead thickened, and the vegetation closed in, almost swallowing the road as I crawled forward searching for 178th Street. I rolled my window down and listened. Air, heavy with moisture and the scent of vegetation, seeped into the car. With relief I saw a trailer camp ahead to the right.