At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  * * *

  Thursday morning, I woke around four and couldn't go back to sleep. Hanging around the loft didn't appeal to me, and lying awake in bed was worse still. For the past two years, it had been my routine to go in early and ride one of the school horses, and it would have been nice to think the only reason I hadn't done so in the last twelve days was because I was too sore. I got dressed and headed to Foxdale.

  It was pitch black when I turned the corner and eased the pickup down the lane toward the indoor. I backed into a spot under one of the security lights, turned off the engine, and cracked open the window. I sat there unmoving and tried to ignore the tension in my shoulders. After several minutes, I got out and shut the door.

  The mournful hoot of an owl carried clearly in the still air. After a moment, the call was returned by its mate, or an enemy. I didn't know which. I walked down to the barns.

  No trailer was parked where it shouldn't have been. No one was lurking in the dark with a mask over his face. I was being childish. It wouldn't happen again. They wouldn't be back.

  I slipped through the space between the partially-opened barn doors and turned on the lights. Some of the horses were lying down. Others were standing, dozing. They all squinted at the light. I strolled down the aisles. Soon the barns would be noisy with the activity that went along with caring for two-hundred-plus horses--raised voices, the bass throb of a radio, the clatter of horseshoes on asphalt. But for now, the barns were quiet, the air filled with pungent odors of sawdust, hay, and horse. My favorite time of day.

  I stopped in front of stall 36. An elegant gray mare pricked her ears and watched me with wide-spaced, blue-brown eyes. She was a replacement for one of the stolen horses, and she'd settled quickly into the farm's routine. I cut through the wash rack, headed back to the lounge, and got the coffee machine going.

  By mid-morning, after the horses had been grained and hayed and the first batch was unenthusiastically plodding across pastures thick with frost, I took the rest of the day off. Mrs. Hill didn't question it, and I didn't offer an explanation. But the previous evening, with Mr. Sander's insurance windfall in mind, I'd given Nick a call. He'd conferred with his sister, and thanks in part to Nick's guarantee that I could be trusted to keep what I learned to myself, she'd agreed to meet with me.

  Traffic was light on I-95, and I made it downtown with an hour to spare. I drove past Camden Yards, where I'd watched my share of Orioles games, and found a parking space a block from the Inner Harbor. I strolled down the wide cobblestone steps to the water's edge. Exhaust fumes mingled with an underlying odor of stagnant water, while above my head, seagulls swooped and cried, ever watchful for a handout. I squinted at a distant sailboat as it skimmed silently over water that sparkled under the winter sun and thought how appearances could be deceiving. Up close, where the waves lapped against the bulkhead, the greasy white body of a fish floated between rotting pieces of lumber and the plastic rings from a six-pack. The water was coated with an oily film, and I wondered how anything could live down there.

  I walked past one of the pavilions that had been boarded up for the season. Tacked alongside the entrance, its faded corners curling back onto itself, was a poster announcing a performance by the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. The event itself had long since come and gone, and if my sister hadn't up and moved to California, her attendance would have been a sure bet. I had spent countless hours listening to her music filter through the bedroom wall as she worked her way through a piece, her brow furrowed with concentration, the smooth wood of the violin tucked under her chin.

  I sat on a park bench facing the water and stretched my legs. A man and little boy were at the far end of one of the piers. The kid squatted on his haunches and inspected something at his feet.

  Sherri and I had been close, growing up in a family that discouraged closeness. Mother and Father had provided nannies, expensive toys, and precious little personal attention. I'd often wondered why they'd bothered having children at all, unless it made them look good.

  The little boy stood and stepped closer to the edge, so he could look into the murky water. His father grabbed his hand, and the kid squealed as he leaned out across the water, windmilling his free arm as if he were falling.

  Unlike Sherri, Bobby, my older brother by eight years, had thought of me as a nuisance. He had repeatedly referred to me as an accident, and I couldn't now remember how old I'd been when I figured out what he meant. But I would never forget the hurt. Bobby was a carbon copy of the old man in looks and aspirations. The last I'd heard, he was a financial adviser for some blue-chip company. He'd divorced his first wife, a smart move by all accounts, considering she was higher up the soci-eco food chain and possessed the arrogance that went with it. Together they'd produced two snot-nosed little brats who I imagined would grow up to be just like him.

  I hadn't seen Sherri since the wedding, and I wondered when I ever would. I closed my eyes and felt the chill in the air and the warmth of the sun on my skin. Behind me, a bus accelerated through the intersection, and a grate rattled under the heavy wheels of a truck. As far as I was concerned, the harbor and Foxdale could have been on different planets.

  The man and boy headed toward Rash Field, and after a while, it was time for me to go. I left the harbor behind and headed north on Calvert Street.

  Five blocks later, I stopped in front of the wide plate-glass windows of a jeweler's store and glanced at the sign above the door. Geoff and Teal Jewelers. Behind me, a horn blared, followed by the high-pitched squeal of poorly-adjusted brakes. The sound bounced and ricocheted off high walls of concrete and glass. I looked at my watch and saw I was ten minutes early.

  "Steve?"

  I turned around.

  She held out her hand. "Marilyn," she said. "Nick's sister." She kept her blond hair short, and a pair of large wire-rimmed glasses couldn't hide a dusting of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Based on Nick's comments, I assumed she was in her early forties, but the animation in her eyes made her appear younger.

  "Thanks for taking the time to meet me," I said.

  "No problem. Let's go inside." Marilyn turned without waiting for a response and strode briskly down the sidewalk.

  She was wearing a navy blazer with gold piping and a skirt that reached her knees. The cut looked expensive, but the length accentuated her thinness. She looked prim and professional, the opposite of Nick in every respect. And she was my height. Taller than her brother.

  At the corner, she pulled open the door to a dingy-looking cafe and chose a table at the far end of the room. Only then did the logistics of our meeting become clear. I sat across from her, realizing she was taking a chance talking to me and didn't want anyone to overhear our conversation. If she was nervous, though, she didn't show it.

  She shifted in her seat, crossed her legs, and opened her menu. "How do you like working on a horse farm?"

  "I like it." I thought about how frustrated I would have been if I'd gone through two or even six more years of college only to find that I hated the actual job. "It suits me."

  She nodded. "Nicky, too. Now, me." She crinkled her nose. "By the time I was eighteen, I'd trudged through enough mud and muck to last me a lifetime." She saw the blank look on my face and said, "Dad used to train timber horses and steeplechasers. He even trained a Maryland Hunt Cup winner."

  "I didn't realize."

  "Nicky loved it, of course. Anyway," she said, "what do you want to know about insurance fraud?"

  "Well, uh, for a start, how would Mr. Sanders profit--"

  She raised her hand. "Hold on a sec. It would be unethical for me to talk specifically about one of our clients, but there's nothing wrong with discussing insurance in general, is there?"

  I grinned. "I suppose not."

  A waitress came over and took our drink order--iced tea for Marilyn and a Coke for me--and before she could leave, Marilyn ordered a chicken salad sandwich on wheat. I asked if they could do a BLT. They could. She scribbled
down our order, then tucked her pencil behind her ear and the pad under the ties of her apron.

  "Okay," I said when our waitress was out of hearing range. "If I had a horse I wanted to . . ."

  "Defraud an insurance company with?"

  "You said it."

  She grinned. "Of course, like everything else, there's more than one way to skin a cat, or should I say, lead a horse to water?"

  "Ugh."

  The wrinkles that radiated from the corners of her eyes when she smiled disappeared as her gaze swept the room. Except for an elderly man in a booth by the front window, we were alone.

  "One of the most common frauds in equine mortality insurance starts out innocently enough," She said. "You buy a horse with no thought of defrauding anyone, then the horse's performance, for whatever reason, starts to slide. The horse suffers an injury of some sort, or develops a subtle lameness, or some condition becomes evident that you know won't respond to treatment. The horse is no longer doing his job, and you know you'll never sell him for what you dished out. Instead of taking it in the teeth, you eliminate him before the problem becomes too obvious and collect on the insurance. As far as everyone's concerned, you're just another poor slob with bad luck. A victim."

  "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." She 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.