by Sasscer Hill
“Thank you, sista, but I don’t want any more trouble. Please, forget about me.” She looked defeated as she stood up stiffly and walked away. She headed through the dark, back to the tent where Onandi drank liquor and smoked a cigar. The Rastafarian’s mouth split into a wide grin as he watched her approach.
16
At 2:00 A.M., I sat on Joan’s velvet couch with Calixto. Rich and Joan had collapsed onto a damask-covered love seat, Joan sipping a brandy, while Rich chain-smoked cigarettes.
Earlier, two additional detectives had arrived to assist Clark and Ferguson with the questioning of the Gormans’ guests. After the crime scene technicians gathered their initial evidence, Joan and Rich had undergone a second round of questioning, apparently about the people they’d invited to the party.
Now, everyone, from smartly dressed guests straight off the pages of Town and Country to the saxophone player and bartenders, had been interviewed and dismissed. Their buzzing cloud of suspicion, fear, and anger had departed with them.
Tiredly, Joan waved away Rich’s cigarette smoke. “I asked you once to put that out. You know better than to smoke those things in the house.” Like before, he ignored her request.
Still, their physical closeness while surrounded by adversity suggested their relationship might be a good one. Rich, who’d seemed calmer earlier, had grown more agitated, repeatedly rubbing his free hand over his face or tugging the pants’ fabric near his knees. Apparently, the murder of Matt Percy was sinking in.
Across from me, Joan took a large swallow of brandy, and gazed at Rich. “You don’t really think Sam or Jim could be involved in this, do you?”
He rubbed his forehead with weary fingers. “I don’t know what to think. This whole thing is … immense.”
I didn’t know who Sam or Jim were, but Calixto and I exchanged a look. We would find out. Calixto had been using his phone to contact the TRPB office in Maryland. He’d already run a number of guest names through the agency’s server and come up empty.
Now we waited for Clark and Ferguson to release the Gormans. The detectives had informed them their home, now a crime scene, would be off-limits for at least twenty-four hours. Rich had made arrangements for them to spend what was left of the night at the Adelphi. As Joan polished off the last of her brandy and Rich sucked on his umpteenth cigarette, I leaned close to Calixto.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems the one thing we haven’t found tonight is a connection to the Saratoga mob.”
“Not so far, leona. I don’t believe a link exists between Percy’s death and Mars or Rico Pizutti. But there is one odd thing.”
“What?”
“Ferguson told me that the limo Onandi arrived in is bulletproof.”
“That is interesting.” I sighed and sank back into the couch cushions. A moment later, Ferguson entered the room and told us we could leave.
* * *
In the morning, bleary-eyed from only two hours of sleep, I roboted my way through stable chores, glad news of the murder hadn’t reached the track grapevine yet. Though the papers carried the story, people on the backstretch were unaware of my connection to the Gormans, and the two horses owned by Percy and Rich were in a barn on the other side of the backstretch. Still, I was careful to Goth myself up with plenty of black eye eyeshadow, white makeup base, and a T-shirt featuring a coffin on the front and a skeleton on the back.
When I finally staggered back up the long staircases to my room, I sank into a short but deep sleep. When I awakened, I thought of how best to find information on the racing partnership between the murder victim and my stepfather. Knowing the Saratoga racing office would have a record, I called Brian at the TRPB.
Before I could get a word out, he said, “I heard about the murder up there at your mom’s house. That’s totally bizarre.”
“Very,” I said.
“Any news from the local police yet?”
“No. Calixto may have something. I’ll talk to him later, but I want to ask you about something else that might be related.” I told him about the partnership.
“Let me call the racing office. They can fax me a copy of what Gorman and Percy wrote about the partnership when he renewed their ownership licenses.”
While waiting for Brian, I pulled a small carton of coconut yogurt from the refrigerator and spooned into it. A half hour later, Brian called me back.
“The arrangement,” he said, “seems very straightforward. No other partners are listed and there’s no indication of a silent partner. I checked out the two horses and found no issues there, either. Your stepfather is listed as sole breeder and sold a forty-nine percent interest in both horses to Percy.”
This wasn’t unusual, as a lot of owners liked to keep a controlling percentage when they sold shares of a horse.
“Who’s the trainer?” I asked.
“Feinberg.”
“That’s a dead end.” Feinberg was a competent trainer who had no issues with either the NYRA or the TRPB. As I tossed my empty yogurt carton into the trash, I remembered I’d seen Al Savarine at the party.
“I need one more thing.”
“You always do, Fia.”
“Can I help it if I’m an amazing agent?”
“No comment,” he said.
Will you look to see if there’s a link between my stepfather, Percy, and Ziggy Stardust’s owner, Al Savarine?”
“Savarine? He the guy with the hedge fund?”
“He may be starting one,” I said.
“Where have you been, Fia? It’s a done deal. The fund was opened two days ago.”
“You got a file on it I can read? Is he calling it SEA?”
“No and yes. I should have something to send you tomorrow. It’s really taking off. Folks are pledging away their life savings.”
All the more reason to find out if Percy was involved with Savarine. Ditto my stepfather.
“Okay, Fia. I’ll get back to you.”
After disconnecting, I booted up my laptop and googled Savarine Equine Acquisitions. This time, I found a Web site for SEA with the familiar thuglike photo of Savarine. In addition, the page displayed a company banner, a picture of Ziggy Stardust winning the Derby, and a boatload of reasons why anyone with a grain of sense would be eager to invest in SEA.
Understandably, the fund was collecting management fees. But what were the performance fees they were taking? The Web site stated Mars Pizutti would pick out all future stock. Pizutti wasn’t that good. Who would fall for this?
I thought of Gunny’s words that day at Congress Park and how he’d reminded me of the thousands who’d eagerly stampeded into the tech bubble and mortgage banking scams. Fools have always fallen for get-rich-quick schemes and it seemed they always would.
* * *
When I arrived at Pizutti’s barn late that afternoon, Stevie was standing outside Bionic’s stall. When he saw me, his face broke into a grin.
“Fay, I got good news. I met with the stewards and they’re giving me three days, and—”
“How is not riding races for three days good news?” I asked.
“You didn’t let me finish. Mars is gonna enter Bionic in a fifty-thousand-dollar race tomorrow and name me as the jockey! My suspension doesn’t start for five days, and the race is in three!”
“You got lucky there,” I said. “I hope you win!”
“We got a shot,” he said, stroking Bionic’s reddish brown face before turning back to me. “You’re gonna watch us, right?”
“Absolutely.” As I spoke, Bionic raised his head, grabbed Stevie’s ball cap with his teeth, and jerked if off the boy’s head. Still grasping the hat, the horse nodded his head up and down. With his upper lip curled up and his teeth showing, Bionic appeared to be laughing.
“Give that back!” But Stevie was grinning as he tugged at the cap and snatched it from the horse’s teeth.
A moment later, Stevie told me he had to get back and fix dinner for Lila. I watched as powered by youthful exuberance, St
evie scooted across the grass, mounted his bike, and swiftly pedaled away. When he was gone, Becky Joe and Carl showed up, and we began the evening feed.
As Becky Joe and I lugged buckets down the aisle, she paused and stared at me. “I hope that kid gets a fair deal on this race.”
“I was under the impression Pizutti wants to win this one,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“Did you hear something? And don’t tell me you ‘can’t say.’” I’d be ready to smack her if she did.
“Didn’t hear anything. It’s just that boy is so happy, I hope nothing goes wrong.”
She stopped at Wiggly Wabbit’s stall and busied herself dumping feed into the filly’s tub. I kept going, hoping Becky Joe was only exhibiting the glass half-empty side of her nature. But even if Pizutti wanted the horse to win, like my dad always said, “There’s only one way to win a race, and a hundred ways to lose it.”
A minute later, Calixto came around the corner of the barn, but stopped when he saw me brandishing a rake at Ziggy Stardust. He understood the importance of focus when I was around a colt as fierce as this one. When I had the horse’s feed in his tub, and had stepped away without sustaining teeth marks, Calixto continued toward me, making a wide arc around Ziggy. The colt pinned his ears and snapped his teeth at Calixto.
“I think this horse won the Derby through intimidation,” he said.
“No doubt.” I glanced around and lowered my voice. “Any news on Percy’s death?”
“You know it is too soon, but I admire your eagerness.”
His eyes drifted from my head to my toes, admiring more than eagerness. I felt myself flush.
“However,” he continued, “I did place a call to Detective Ferguson, which he has not yet returned. Brian tells me you have already asked him about a Percy-Gorman connection.”
“Anything new there?” I asked.
“No. There is not.”
I shrugged, picked up Bionic’s feed pail, and headed toward his stall. The scent of molasses rose from the grain, enticing and sweet. I glanced back at Calixto. “There’s something I forgot to tell you last night. I saw Al Savarine at the party. Did you?”
Calixto’s nostrils flared slightly. “No. But that is interesting, yes?”
“Very. And Brian told me that Savarine’s fund is off and running. Did you know that?”
“Gunny told me earlier. It is one of the reasons I came to talk to you. You need to spend more time with your mother, Fia. Find out why Savarine was at her party.”
Spend time with Joan?
He held up a hand. “I know you don’t want to, but Joan is a window to questions that need answering. You have access to her, and no one else does.”
Terrific. I dumped Bionic’s feed into his tub, banging my rubber pail sharply against the wire stall gate. “I’ll do what I can, but this is tricky. It was one thing to go to her party as her well-dressed daughter, but if people see me with her at the track or downtown in Saratoga, they might realize I’m also the Goth they’ve seen on the backstretch. I can’t risk that.”
Calixto folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the barn wall, his eyes never leaving my face. “That goes without saying, pequeña leona. But you are far too clever to allow that to happen, are you not?”
I hoped so.
17
I spent a frustrating evening on my laptop researching the names Matt Percy, Richard Gorman, Al Savarine, and Darren Onandi. Brian was already working on this and had access to far more information through the TRPB servers than I’d be able to find, but I couldn’t leave it alone.
The only relationship I saw was what I already knew—the partnership between Rich and Percy. Though I unearthed no other affiliation between these men, I’d bet my paycheck something hid below the surface. When I saw Brian’s name pop up on a secure e-mail a moment later, my fingers flew to click it open.
“Sorry, Fia. So far no ties between these four men.”
Damn. “There must be something?” I typed back.
“Nope. Will keep digging.”
I thanked him, then stretched out on the merry-go-round comforter and stared aimlessly at the ceiling. As so often happens when I’m not focused on anything in particular an idea presents itself. Patrick. He might know something about Rich. I grabbed my cell and called my brother.
“Fia?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Are you going to hang up on me again?”
I couldn’t blame him for the cheap shot. “Sorry, Patrick. When you called about Joan, it caught me off guard. Some of the things she did in the past left me pretty angry. I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have.”
He was silent a moment, then, “Apology accepted. How are you?”
“Worried. Did you know a man was murdered at Joan’s house last night?”
“What?”
I told him about the homicide, standing up and pacing around the room as I related the gruesome events.
“My God, Fia, is Joan all right?”
Wasn’t she always? “Physically, she’s fine. But she and Rich are pretty upset. They’ve had to leave their house until the Saratoga PD finishes working the crime scene. They’re at the Adelphi.”
“Jesus! I’m going to call her right now.”
“Patrick, wait.” My pacing had taken me to the window. I looked down at the streetlights. A stiff breeze stirred the treetops below me, causing eerie shadows to scurry across the ground.
“I want to call Joan, Fia.”
I drew back from the window. “Let me ask you something first. What do you know about Rich?”
“Rich?”
“Yeah, you know, our stepfather?”
“He’s a great guy. Why?”
“Have you met many of his friends? Some interesting people were at the party, and I was wondering if you knew anything about a man named Matt Percy, or Darren Onandi, or Al Savarine.”
“I met Matt. He was very personable and a good friend to Rich. I don’t recognize those other two names. But don’t worry about Rich, he’s a good guy. He’s been wonderful to Joan. Still, I know you, Fia. You shouldn’t be snooping into Rich’s business.”
“A man was murdered in his home last night!”
“I get that, but shouldn’t you leave it to the Saratoga PD? You’re not with the police department anymore, remember? Aren’t you still working at the track?”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Our conversation was going nowhere and arguing with Patrick was pointless. “Yes, you’re right. How is Jilly?”
“She’s great. Since we gave her that filly, her grades are up, and she’s staying out of trouble.”
I was happy to hear this, especially since family history had repeated itself for my niece. Her mother had walked out, too. But Patrick owned a prosperous real estate company and unlike Joan, Patrick’s wife hadn’t cleaned out his bank accounts when she left town.
“Give Jilly my love,” I said.
After we disconnected, I reviewed the events of the previous evening. I thought about the Rastafarian, and the conversations I’d heard between Onandi and Rich, hoping a clue might reveal itself. No such luck. I was glad Patrick thought Rich was okay. Though we didn’t get along that well, Patrick had pretty good instincts about people, probably one of the reasons his business was doing well.
Remembering Gunny’s request that I stay close to Joan, I called her cell, hoping she’d finished talking to Patrick. She answered on the second ring.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m … managing.”
Her voice sounded shaky, the usual confidence gone. Having a murder in your home could do that.
“I’d like to come see you,” I said. “Will you be back in your house tomorrow afternoon?”
“I don’t know.”
I heard a noise in the background and Joan drew in a quick breath as if startled.
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “That was pretty awful what happened last night.”
“Yes. Well, t
hank you for calling,” she said and abruptly disconnected.
What was that about? It had almost had sounded like she was afraid to talk to me. I called her back, but was sent to voicemail. I called Patrick again with the same result.
I left him a message. “Did you talk to Joan? She sounded weird when I called her, like she was afraid or something. Let me know how she seemed to you. Thanks.” I tossed the phone on the bed, wandered back to the window, and stared out.
On the far horizon, a jagged bolt of lightning lit the outline of the Adirondack Mountains, and the trees below began to whip back and forth. A strong gust rattled the old windowpanes, and I drew the curtains against the coming storm.
* * *
When I awoke in the morning, I checked for messages. Patrick had not returned my call, and there was no word from Joan. I didn’t like the way she’d hung up on me. A person or unexpected incident had alarmed her the night before and I was curious to know what. But as soon as I opened the bedroom curtains, another event captured my attention.
A huge oak had crashed on the lawn below. I’d never heard it fall. The thunder and wind had been so loud the previous night, it must have obliterated the sound. One gigantic limb had narrowly missed crushing my Mini.
After dressing, I hurried outside to check the car for dents or cracked glass. I’d been lucky, the Mini was fine. After cleaning leaves and twigs from the windshield, my drive to the backstretch took longer than usual. So many trees had come down during the storm, I had to abandon my normal route more than once in a search for passable streets.
On the backstretch, men with chain saws were cutting limbs and the trunks of trees that had fallen in the high winds. It looked like a small twister had ripped through. The damage was widespread, and the noise of wood chippers was deafening. Track management was lucky it was a “dark day” with no live racing.
Stevie was just disappearing into Pizutti’s office when I arrived at the barn, and Becky Joe was walking Glow West, whose heaving sides told me he’d just finished galloping on the track. Pizutti’s door closed sharply behind Stevie, and Becky Joe glanced at Pizutti’s office with a down-turned mouth.
