Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  “Okay.” I shut the door so the overhead light wouldn’t flood into the dark outside. I flicked a switch, and blinked from the sudden illumination.

  Like a thousand stable offices I’d seen before—a desk, some chairs, a bulletin board, supplies, papers, and charts. The room smelled like liniment and trash that needed to be emptied. Glancing in the can, I saw pizza boxes, a half-eaten chili dog, and a number of empty beer cans. Grimacing, I poked through the mess looking for discarded papers, following my theory that one man’s trash is an investigator’s treasure. Not today.

  I riffled through the papers on his desk with the same result. I went through his desk drawers finding more beer, a box of condoms, bills, condition books, and a Playboy magazine. I held it by the spine and shook it just in case anything might fall out. Fortunately, nothing did.

  Copper had a filing cabinet against the opposite wall, so I yanked out drawers, and pawed through files. Ten minutes later, I still had nothing, and it occurred to me the one person who might have told us Last Call’s fate was Wendy. She’d been Copper’s vet. Damn everything.

  I switched off the light and stepped onto the shedrow.

  Patrick emerged from the shadows. “Did you find anything?”

  “No. Let’s call Zanin. Maybe he’s had some luck. Then we should hit the streets and look for those kids.”

  “For God’s sake, Fia, they could be anywhere. We’ll never find them.”

  I worried he was right. “We won’t find them standing here,” I said.

  Patrick gave an impatient shrug. I moved past him, and climbed into the Mini. When I cranked the engine, he scrambled into the passenger seat.

  Zanin had said he planned to search the area farms he often spied on, the type where an injured racehorse might be sent. As we drove out the stable gate, my call to him went straight to voice mail.

  When I pulled onto Hallandale Beach Boulevard, the late traffic had thinned to a trickle, making it easier to see license plates, and the features of passengers under the bright streetlights.

  “What can Jilly be thinking?” Patrick asked. “They don’t have a horse trailer. They don’t have any money.”

  “I guess Jilly just wants to find the horse and talk to whoever has her. She’s probably afraid they’ll sell her to the killers.”

  Patrick’s expression was tight with anxiety. “I wish I’d claimed the horse for her. I don’t like her out with this boy. You said he’s seventeen? You don’t think—”

  “She’ll be all right.”

  With the windows down, I could smell the sea, exhaust, and a trace of the fragrant flowers growing in the gardens on side streets. The air flowing into the car was cool, and above us, a breeze was rattling the palm fronds. It occurred to me how much I hated the twenty-four-hour rule on searching for missing persons. It would have been nice to have the police searching for Angel’s tag number.

  “You know,” Patrick said, “my daughter is just like you. And the way history repeats itself with her makes me crazy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mom ran out on us. Rebecca ran out on Jilly. You love horses more than anything and so does Jilly. But you were close to Dad, and I can’t bridge that gap with Jilly.”

  “We had the horses, Patrick.”

  Patrick leaned forward in his seat, the streetlight above playing across his face, revealing a familiar anger in his eyes.

  “For Christ’s sake, Fia, it was way more than that. Dad let you do whatever you wanted. You could do no wrong. You two were thick as thieves.”

  “Nice analogy, Patrick. And you were Mom’s little darling. So there it is.”

  “Come on, Fia. You know Dad never had time for anyone but you. How can you blame Mom for leaving?”

  The bitterness I’d carried from Patrick’s close relationship with my mother lashed out like a venomous snake, shocking even me.

  “So it’s my fault Mother ran out on us like your stupid wife did?”

  I’d had myself convinced I hated the arrogant woman who’d left us for a wealthy man and left Dad with a broken heart. My anger had provided an unbending shield against her. Suddenly, the truth broke through and I realized her abandonment had shattered my heart, too.

  The silence in the car was colder than steel and just as impenetrable. I exhaled a long breath. And if my heart was broken by my mother, what had Dad done to Patrick’s?

  “I’m sorry, Patrick, I shouldn’t have said that about Mom. Or Rebecca.”

  He didn’t answer, just stared ahead, his jaw tight as a vise.

  The street suddenly plunged downhill before dead-ending South Ocean Boulevard, where the big water tower says WELCOME TO HALLANDALE BEACH. Beyond it was the ocean. After turning left, we passed by the Diplomat hotel. I looked at every person I could see inside the passing cars and on the sidewalks. I stared at countless license plates and decided searching for Jilly was as useless as my argument with Patrick.

  He still maintained his icy silence, staring at the road ahead. Looking at his profile, I could see faces from our past, the features he’d inherited from our parents. It occurred to me he’d married Rebecca because she was so much like our mother. And me? I was probably still looking for Dad.

  Patrick sighed, then gazed out the passenger window at a group of three people on the sidewalk. He rolled his shoulders, turned, and stared at me.

  “They didn’t make it easy for us, did they, Fia?”

  It took me a second to catch up. “No, they didn’t. Not even a little bit.”

  “You know they played us against each other?”

  And it was still happening. I hated to think Dad had been involved in that kind of game, but deep inside, I suspected Patrick was right.

  “They weren’t perfect,” I said. “Maybe we should stop letting them run our lives.”

  His smile was weak, but it was there. “We can try. After we find Jilly.”

  “Works for me,” I said. The sudden ring of my cell startled both of us.

  It was Zanin. “No sign of Jilly yet, but I think I found your filly.”

  Something in his tone caused a frisson of dread to course through. “Where?” I asked, but I knew the answer before he spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Fia. She’s at Luis Valera’s place.”

  38

  Zanin’s words left me clenching my cell phone so hard, I was surprised it didn’t break. “Valera has her? Oh, shit.”

  “What?” Fear sharpened Patrick’s voice. “Valera has Jilly?”

  “No, Patrick, no. He has the horse.”

  Patrick sagged with relief, and Zanin asked, “Is that your brother?”

  “Yes.” I pulled the car over to a side street, stopped, and put the phone on speaker.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked Zanin. “You can’t go in there with a trailer and get her out. And she’s probably too lame to lead out. Besides, you might be killed if you tried.”

  “I have an idea,” Zanin said.

  “Well, that’s good,” I said, “because I’m fresh out. What is it?”

  “I’m thinking I could—”

  “Zanin,” Patrick said. “Forget about the horse. What about Jilly? Do you know anything?”

  The regret in Zanin’s voice was palpable. “I’m sorry, Patrick, I don’t. But at least she’s not at that place.”

  I wanted to know Zanin’s idea and said so.

  “We’ll need money,” he said. “Patrick, can you cough up some cash?”

  A guilty expression crossed Patrick’s face, like maybe he was remembering how he’d refused to buy Last Call. Then a fire lit his eyes. “To keep the bastard that butchered Cody from doing it again? You bet.”

  “Good,” Zanin said. “Fia, you remember my friend Juan, who’s related to Valera?”

  “Yes.” I’d never forget how the man had scared me when he emerged from the dark outside Zanin’s Tahoe.

  “If we give him some cash,” Zanin said, “he can buy Last Call from Valera.”

&nb
sp; “Is Juan in the habit of buying horses?” I asked. “Won’t Valera be suspicious?”

  “I’ll help him make up a good story.”

  “How much money will you need?” Patrick asked.

  “Around a thousand for the horse, that’s meat market price, and a couple hundred for Juan.”

  “Not a problem,” Patrick said. “We passed my bank on Hallandale. I’ve got more than one ATM account there. I can pull that much out tonight.”

  My brain was spinning like paper bills in a money counter. “You know I met those Hallandale Beach detectives today, right? Since I’m going to be a material witness in their murder trial, maybe I can talk to them, get them to loosen up on that twenty-four-hour rule and start a lookout for Angel’s tag number.”

  “Yes!” Patrick said. “Maybe that’ll work. At least we can talk to them.”

  I pulled my car from the side street and headed back to Hallandale. “Zanin, how about we get the money and meet you somewhere in between, like where Pines Boulevard dead-ends at Okeechobee?”

  We agreed, disconnected the call, and Patrick and I sped to his bank where he withdrew two thousand in cash. On the way to the meet with Zanin, I called the Hallandale Beach PD, and was told that Detective Bailey would be on duty at eight the next morning. I left a message on Bailey’s voice mail about Jilly’s disappearance, explaining that it connected to Morales’s murder through the players in the drug scam at Gulfstream. Not confident I’d receive the results I wanted from a phone message, I planned to visit her the next day.

  At midnight, we pulled into a landscaping business on Pines Boulevard. The night had cooled, and moisture from condensation beaded and wiggled down the windshield as we waited for Zanin’s arrival. Moments later he drove into the lot, and Patrick gave him the bank envelope filled with cash. The skin around Zanin’s deep-set eyes wrinkled with exhaustion, but his expression showed determination.

  “You’re the best,” I said to him. “Thank you.” He nodded and climbed back into his Tahoe.

  Back on the road, Patrick and I hit a mental wall. He placed more fruitless calls to Jilly, and my endeavor to think up clever ways to find her came up empty. It was time to go home. We had to sleep.

  Unfortunately, I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling over my bed.

  * * *

  At six the next morning I called Rosario and told him I wasn’t coming in, that Jilly had run off with Angel, and I would be searching for them.

  “Angel?” Rosario asked. “You mean the kid that works for Serpentino?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “How about I walk around right now?” he asked. “See what I can find out?”

  “Would you? Thanks, Rosario.”

  But when he called back a few minutes later, he said the kid wasn’t there, Serpentino was pissed off, and nobody knew anything.

  Lot of that going around. I thanked him, then punched in Jilly’s number, feeling resigned when the call routed straight to voice mail. Damn.

  I headed into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and fixed some breakfast. I wasn’t hungry, but I made myself eat.

  When I heard the sound of tires on the gravel drive, I darted to the kitchen window. Outside, a banged up truck, pulling a dilapidated horse trailer, was rolling by, heading for the barn behind the house. Juan was driving, and Zanin sat in the passenger seat. As the trailer bumped past, I saw the familiar glossy bay hindquarters and black tail that belonged to Last Call for Love. If only Jilly was here.

  Patrick erupted into the kitchen, still in pajamas, his hair sticking out in different directions. “Who’s out there?”

  “The horse, Patrick. It’s just Zanin bringing the horse in.”

  He sank into a kitchen chair and I poured him a cup of coffee. “There’s no news,” I said.

  Patrick’s lips formed a grim line. “When I get my hands on this Angel kid…” He shook his head in frustration.

  “I’m going to go out and help them with Last Call.” I left him staring at his coffee cup like he wasn’t sure what it was or what he was supposed to do with it.

  Outside the living room’s sliding-glass door, I passed the pool, where oblivious to human events, the sweeper robot gurgled and bumped against the blue tile, blowing perky little bubbles into the chlorinated water.

  At the barn, Zanin and Juan had already dropped the trailer ramp and were encouraging Last Call to back out. She did, and when she stood four square, I stared at her left front leg, startled to see the tendon was not “the size of a grapefruit” like Copper had told me.

  There was a bubble there, but not as big as I’d seen on horses like the famous Maryland runner, Captain Bodgit, who with a noticeable bowed tendon, had won the Florida Derby and been a strong finisher in the Kentucky Derby and Preakness.

  “Walk her a few steps,” I asked Zanin. He did, and like Bodgit, Last Call showed no overt sign of lameness.

  “Her injury isn’t that bad,” I said. “Why would Copper sell her for horse meat?”

  Juan spread his hands and produced an excellent Latin shrug. “No sell for meat. Para jugo azul.”

  “What?”

  “Copper,” Zanin said, “didn’t sell her for cash, he traded her for blue juice.”

  “How does Juan know that?” I asked.

  “Juan has his ways,” Zanin said.

  Juan grinned at me, raising his brows a little. “Es verdad. People talk, Juan listen.”

  This guy Copper was a piece of work; he’d condemned a horse that still had a future for a drug that would win money and probably kill more horses.

  “Any news on Jilly?” Zanin asked.

  I shook my head, took the lead shank from him, and led Last Call to Cody’s stall. When Jilly had hoped to claim her filly, she had cleaned the stall, scraping it to the dirt and bedding it down in fresh straw. Now I finished up by filling the water bucket, and loading the hayrack with sweet-smelling timothy.

  I let the filly stretch her legs a moment, then led her back into the center aisle, where Zanin helped me cold-hose her leg and slather poultice on the inflamed tendon. When finished, we put her in her stall, and as I was giving her a light portion of grain, Patrick entered the barn.

  He stared at the filly. “I see why Jilly wanted her,” he said. “She really is pretty.”

  Too little too late. “Yes,” I said, and pulling my cell, I called the Hallandale Beach Police Department.

  * * *

  Late that morning, a male officer from homicide led Patrick and me down a corridor on the second floor of the Hallandale Beach PD. We passed a doorway I hadn’t seen the day before, where uniformed officers worked at desks lined with computers, phones, and stacks of files. Cool air spilled from overhead vents, and the odor of stale coffee laced unpleasantly with a pungent scent of cleaning fluid.

  We passed by the interrogation room where they’d grilled me after Wendy’s death, and the memory released a feeling of unease that chased me down the hall. Moments later, we were led into an office where Detective Bailey was ensconced behind a large desk. After dismissing the homicide cop, she pointed at two uncomfortable-looking chairs facing her desk.

  “Why don’t you both have a seat?” she asked.

  We did, and a broken spring immediately poked my thigh. My chair and Patrick’s were both set to their lowest position, forcing us to look up at the woman.

  “Detective Bailey,” Patrick said, apparently unfazed by office politics, “thank you for seeing us.”

  Bailey gave us a tight smile. “I take it your daughter’s still missing?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said.

  I leaned forward. “Like I said on the phone, Jilly’s only fifteen. The boy she’s with is seventeen, and they’ve been missing since—”

  “I got all that in your message,” Bailey said. “Tell me more about how this girl’s disappearance relates to the Warner murder.”

  I knew how this worked. Give her something and maybe she’d give me something.

  “All r
ight,” I said. “I told you yesterday about the work the TRPB is doing. That we’re tracing the source of illegal drugs allowing horses to win races at long odds?”

  Bailey’s red spikes sliced the air as she nodded. “Go on.”

  I explained again how we believed Serpentino and Copper were involved, that the boy with Jilly worked for Serpentino.

  “This is where it gets tricky,” I said. “The horse they went looking for was claimed by Copper. He traded the horse with Luis Valera for the dermorphin Valera produces on his farm.”

  Bailey stood abruptly. Her high-heeled pumps clacked on the tile floor as she rounded her desk and stood facing us. “The horse went to Valera? How do you know your niece isn’t there?”

  When I explained what Zanin told us, she said, “I hope this Zanin person is right. The death of two kids is not something I want to investigate.”

  Patrick paled and his skin looked clammy. Somebody needed to give this Bailey woman a lesson in tact. I gave her my best dead-eyed cop look.

  “So, will you put out an alert on Angel’s tag number?”

  She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I thanked her, and put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go talk to Angel’s roommate. Somebody at the track may know something.”

  Except, nobody did, and after driving around for hours, vainly looking for Angel’s car, Patrick and I went home. He had a house closing the next day and had to run into his office for last-minute paperwork. After he left, I called Zanin and told him about our visit with Bailey.

  “I wish I had new information for you,” he said, “but I don’t.” He let out a long frustrated sigh. I knew exactly how he felt.

  I spent the afternoon looking for new information on the remaining players in the blue juice scam. The overnight from Gulfstream indicated Copper had two horses running the next day and, no doubt, at least one of them would be running on blue juice. I knew it was too soon, but felt so much like a racehorse who’s been blocked and stopped, I called Gunny anyway, hoping for progress in the development of a drug test.

  “The pathologist,” Gunny said, “up at the University of Oklahoma is working on it. After what officials went through at Remington Park, they didn’t want this new one showing up out there. But it still takes time, Fia.”