by Dave Daren
My phone buzzed. Bill.
“Hey, Bill,” I answered. “What’s going on?”
“Got good news for you,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you found the zebra that fast,” I said.
“Nah, I wish,” he said. “We got a lead. Elena confirmed that the Black Horse logo was what she saw.”
“So then we should be able to get a probable location?”
“Well,” he said. “Black Horse is a network of horse breeders. They use ranches all over the state.”
“So, we just need to find out all the Black Horse breeders then?”
“Right,” he said. “But these guys are a big network. They’re like the Masonic Lodges of the horse breeding world. There are many, but they all know each other and more or less work together.”
“Is there a centralized office or organization?”
“Well,” he spoke slowly as if he were thinking. “There are chapters. You could find a Black Horse dealer by contacting the local chapters. But, let me tell you, these guys don’t mess around.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well,” he said. “Black Horse was started back in the 1900s, by a bunch of rustlers who would steal from Southwest Cattle. These guys were the original rustlers. Black Horse breeders are fierce. They’re into illegal trade and animal abuse.”
“Abuse?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said. “It’s out there. There’s a lot of money to be made from soring horses, or other things.”
“Soring?” I asked.
“It’s terrible,” he said. “Makes me so mad I can’t even talk about it. It’s a practice where you torture the horses so that their limbs grow unnaturally, and it makes them walk with a gait that’s better for showmanship. It’s illegal and inhumane, but it’s still out there. I can’t stand those assholes.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’ve traced the disposable phone to Holbrook. So that should narrow it down.”
“Right,” he said. “Black Horse breeders in Holbrook. Sure thing.”
We said our goodbyes and ended the call. I looked at my phone and realized I needed to leave for Dr. Wallis’ office.
“All right,” I began, “we’ve got confirmation that the logo was Black Horse.”
“What does that mean?” Vicki asked.
“According to Bill,” I started, “Black Horse is a network of horse breeders who are into animal cruelty.”
“What would they want with a zebra?” AJ asked.
“A couple of things,” I said. “It sounds like they’re so well connected, they could sell it to an exotic animal trader.”
“But they wouldn’t, because there’s so much money to be gained, right?”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Apparently these guys have connections that go back to Blue Matador and Southwest Cattle.”
“Quentin Alucio,” Vicki said.
“Exactly,” I said. “So they steal Neptune, get back at Quentin for ten million.”
“And if they can’t get the money,” Vicki said, “there’s still money to be made from selling it.”
“Not nearly as much,” I said. “I don’t know how much a poached zebra can go for on the black market, but I wouldn’t think ten million is anywhere in the neighborhood.”
“A poached, trained zebra, though?” AJ asked.
I shrugged. “What we need to do is find out all the Black Horse breeders in the area. At least we have a starting point.”
I looked at the time on my phone. “I’ve got to go meet Dr. Wallis.”
Vicki said, “We’ll work up some maps on Black Horse.”
I nodded, grabbed my bag and headed out the door. The GPS took me to a converted wooden house with a massive pond and fountain behind it. A painted wooden yard sign red, “Dr. Robert Wallis, M.D.”
I walked into a waiting area that was laid out like a living room, with beige leather sofas, a coffee table, and surrealist art on the walls. A five foot ceramic sculpture that looked like a bad copy of a Picasso took up an entire corner.
Brenda, I presumed, was about twenty one, had light blonde hair, and wore a fuzzy pink sweater and gray skirt. She had an ever-present smile and sat at a luxurious corner desk.
“Hi,” I said. “You must be Brenda.”
“Yep,” she said. “That’s me.”
“I’m Henry Irving,” I said, “here to see Dr. Wallis.”
She picked up the phone. “Dr. Wallis, that lawyer guy is here to see you... Thanks.”
“You can go back now,” she pointed.
I went down the hallway where she pointed and came across a small office. Dr. Robert Wallis stood and greeted me.
He was a smaller man, looked to be about ten years older than me. He had closely trimmed light brown hair combed neatly off to the side, and he wore black-rimmed glasses and had an open smile and awkward manner that I bet got him bullied quite a lot as a kid.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” I said.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Have a seat. I’ve treated Alister for many years. It’s always hard to have a patient go, especially a long-term one like that. So what can I do for you?”
“As you know,” I said. “There has been a lawsuit challenging the will.”
“I’ve heard that,” he said.
“He left his entire fortune to his zebra,” I said.
“I also heard that,” he chuckled.
“I was his attorney,” I said, “and we are representing the estate. I had a couple of questions regarding his health.”
Dr. Wallis shifted in his seat. “I can’t tell you anything without a court order.”
“I understand,” I said. “And I could get that, but I just wanted to have an off the record, informal chat.”
He sighed. “Off the record, I think Mr. O’Brien was a classic narcissist. I associated with him a few times on a personal level. We are a concierge firm, which means we work more like you. Patients pay a regular fee, not unlike a retainer, and we make house calls as they see fit.”
“So he didn’t come into your office?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I traveled to his mansion frequently and was also able to see some of how he handled his private relationships. In his relationships, he was cold, withholding, and distant. But he was your best friend when he needed something. He was an expert at gaslighting, that is, saying one thing, and then contradicting himself, and making you think your own memory was the problem. If he didn’t like something you said or did, he’d cut you out of his life.”
I thought about how I had gotten him as a client in the first place, over a frisbee golf game.
“Was he ever diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder?” I asked.
“Alister O’Brien? Are you kidding? No,” he said. “He would never admit that he needed that kind of help. I could barely get him to admit he needed the basic medical attention that a man of his age should have. But that’s all off the record. On the record, I would say that I never noticed anything in his medical history that would prevent him from making a sound judgment.”
“Would you swear to that in court?” I asked.
“Yes, I would,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “Because we’re going to need it.”
Chapter 15
Later that night, Vicki and I rendezvoused at the Craft Beer Fest. The Sedona Craft Beer Fest was held in a park area near downtown with all the local breweries and wineries in attendance.
The event was something between a trade show, a wine tasting, and a frat party, and everyone in town seemed to understand the balance perfectly. The dress code could loosely be defined a “Sedona Formal.” That is, a choice of high heels and evening wear, or leather vests and cowboy boots, or just plain boho style shorts and sandals.
Once I arrived, I browsed the booths in search of Vicki and surveyed the scene. Tonight, the Mercedes dealership had a drawing for a show car going, and the Harley dealership was giving out Visa gift cards for people to take a te
st drive on a new bike. I thought it was a nice promo, but test driving and beer didn’t mix. I didn’t know what they were thinking.
The park overlooked an LED lit fountain that shot impressive water sprays twenty feet high, and the party goers took selfies and group shots. On stage, a Kings of Leon cover band set the energy, and everyone was already getting buzzed and letting loose.
I finally found Vicki in the crowd chatting with a representative from 1912 Craft. I caught her eye, and she ended the conversation and came out to meet me.
“Hey handsome,” she said and gave me a peck on the cheek. “It’s a packed event.”
“Looks that way,” I said loudly. It was hard to hear or speak over the music and the crowd of people. Two college girls in tight mini-dresses bumped into us, and they spilled a drink of my arm.
“Sorry,” they laughed and walked on. I rolled my eyes and wiped it off.
“I thought you said Sedona was a small town,” Vicki said.
“It was,” I said. “Until about ten minutes ago. Where did all of these people come from?”
“I guess when you advertise free beer, people come out of the woodwork,” Vicki answered.
“Who knew?” I laughed.
Two girls in short shorts, halter tops and cowboy boots seductively danced together, and a cheering crowd gathered around them. The way they danced, I half expected a Girls Gone Wild film crew to show up any minute.
“Where’re the McGraths?” I asked Vicki.
“I haven’t seen them yet,” she said.
We picked our way through the field where games ranging from ring toss to darts, and various raffles would run throughout the night. I searched for the McGraths in the crowd. Vicki didn’t make it easy, stopping to exchange small talk and laughter with every person she encountered along the way. I started to feel a little irritated.
“We need to find the McGraths,” I said.
“Sometimes, Henry,” she said. “You take yourself too seriously. It’s not always about work.”
“I never said it was,” I said. “How do you know I’m not just super excited to have some kombucha?”
“Oh please,” she said with a laugh. “When we went to painting class, all you did was talk about work. When we went riding with Phoenix, you talked to your sister about her job. When we went to Adobe last night, all you did was talk about work. You can’t loosen up.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I can do other things.”
“Yeah?” she said. “Prove it.”
The cover band started an energetic version of their tributary’s smash hit, Use Somebody. Half the festival cheered, and we were near enough to the stage now that people were dancing.
“Come on,” Vicki laughed and grabbed my hand. “Dance with me.”
I looked around and caught various members of the business and legal communities in the crowd and on the sidelines. She was right. Normally at an event like this, I would be so concerned about networking and talking people up looking for leads, that stopping to enjoy the party wouldn’t even be on my radar.
I eyed her up and down, and she raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged, took my girlfriend’s hand, and we danced on the grass. I’m not going to lie, my lady’s got some moves. I couldn’t believe I didn’t know that already. A small crowd formed around us, and they cheered and whistled. I saw the flash of cell phone cameras and even heard my name a few times.
Another couple started to dance next to us, and the crowd grew bigger and more enthralled. Somehow, I guess we were in a dance competition because the guy kept catching my eye and then one-upping me. The band caught on and drew out the song in a long guitar driven instrumental run. When the band finally finished, Vicki and I dramatically bowed to the crowd and left to find our clients.
“See,” I told her, “I can to loosen up.”
“Yeah?” she asked, her face flushed from a combination of the exercise and the public spectacle. “And how hard was that for you to do?”
“Pretty hard,” I admitted.
She laughed and punched my arm. “You’re gonna go far, Irving.”
I winked at her. “I told you, stick with me, and I’ll hook you up with that mansion.”
She laughed. “You did tell me that, the night of the party.”
“And see,” I said. “Now, I technically own that mansion. All it took was a little rat poison in the zebra feed.”
“The sinister truth comes out,” she joked. “‘Well, you see Your Honor, there was this girl and uh...”
“It was all for you,” I laughed.
We reached the Coconino Brew booth, and Kristen, Perry and Robbie were swamped handing out an alcoholic kombucha along with a coupon for online orders.
“Hey, guys,” Vicki greeted them. Perry and Kristen were handing out paper cups to attendees, and Robbie was engrossed in a deep conversation with another young hipster.
“So good to see you,” Kristen gushed when she saw us and stroked her baby bump under her blue sundress. “We are so excited about everything happening! Come on. We’ve got to get pictures. Everyone crowd in.”
She pulled out her phone, and Vicki and I leaned into the group with Perry, Kristen and Robbie, and she shot a selfie.
“Looks so great,” she gushed, and her eyes welled up with tears. “I just… love these days. These are just such exciting days.”
Robbie ruffled his hair. “We literally spent twenty-four hours getting ready for this thing,” he said to us. “I haven’t slept in two days.”
“I didn’t get to call you,” Perry said. “Earth Market is coming down next week. They want to meet all of us, get the final deal all wrapped up.”
“Great,” I nodded. “Send me the details, and we’ll be there.”
He handed me a paper cup. “Try this, man. This stuff, is the… shit.”
I smiled, downed the whole thing in one gulp, and held back a grimace. It tasted like putrid whiskey mixed with chamomile tea. “Wow,” I said.
“I know, right?” Perry’s face lit up with delight. “This is our new Tennessee blend. It’s off the charts.”
“Yeah,” Robbie mumbled. “Should be. That was what I traded for sleep last night.”
Perry rolled his eyes. “You did that by choice, Rob. You were all like, ’we should have a new blend.’”
“I didn’t know it would take me all night,” he said.
“Well that’s what your twenties are for,” I said. “To pull all-nighters at work. So that in your forties, you can go home, make the twenty-year-olds stay late, and still make money off it.”
Everyone laughed at the comment. “See, this is why I don’t join the work world,” Robbie said. “It’s not worth the trade off.”
“Communal living, huh?” I said. “What did you do before you moved to Serenity?”
“I was a software engineer,” he said simply.
“Are you kidding me?” I replied.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I graduated high school early, I was sixteen, and then I went to college. I did an accelerated college load and graduated in two years. So, I was eighteen, and had a Bachelor’s in computer science. So, I got a job, went to work every day in full business casual, the whole thing.”
I was taken aback at the image of Robbie in business casual.
Robbie continued. “I did that for a couple of years, and I totally hated it. I was good at it, but I just wanted so much more from my life and I just saw myself sitting there in twenty, thirty, forty years. And I was like, this is it? It almost seemed morally wrong to spend all my life sitting in an office.”
I watched his body language. He was so free and relaxed, I could imagine it would kill his spirit to confine him to a desk and an office.
“Like, every time I punched a time clock,” Robbie said, “I felt this knot in my stomach. It was like I agreed to sell pieces of my life away, hour by hour. It creeped me out.”
A crowd formed at the booth, and Robbie passed out a couple of drinks. A biker de
cked out head to toe in leather approached me.
“Now,” he said, “what’s the deal with this here mushroom tea?”
“Uh…” I turned to Vicki who chimed in quickly.
“It’s a fermented tea that aids in digestion and promotes overall good health,” she said.
The biker shrugged, smiled, and rubbed his wide abdomen. “Eh, good health? Nah. I prefer cholesterol and calories.”
We all laughed, and he continued, “How I figure it, my heart only has so many beats in it before it stops. I want them to be happy ones.”
“Well,” Vicki said. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Why not be?” the biker said. “Life’s too short not to eat well. I want my food going through my veins dodging blockages saying, ‘excuse me,’ ‘get out of the way, please’.”
We all laughed, and he walked on. Perry, however, had an odd look on his face. “‘Life’s too short, eat well’ That is the perfect slogan.”
“We don’t have one,” Kristen said. “What about Life’s short, drink well?”
“Eh,” Perry said. “Not quite right.”
He grabbed a pen and paper, and he and Kristen mulled over variations of the biker’s slogan.
Now with the booth empty, Robbie sat down and continued his story. “So, I’m originally from Kansas City, and there’s an underground scene there, if you’re looking for it. I got in with a lot of fringe people, and they were always talking about Sedona, like it’s this Holy Grail. It was on everyone’s bucket list to go. I had never even heard of it.”
The two dancing girls from earlier in the evening stopped at the booth for a sample, and Perry broke away from Robbie’s story to serve them. They laughed and flirted, and Perry seemed oblivious to their charms, but still extolled to them ad nauseam the virtues of the product. Robbie watched them for a few minutes.
“Why did you finally decide to come?” I asked.
“I wasn’t planning to, honestly,” Robbie said. “There was this group of friends I had who were going on a road trip out here. They planned it for months, and I wasn’t going to go, but they talked about it all the time. Then, the day before they were going to leave, I had a super bad day at work.”
