by Sasscer Hill
I considered Joan and Rich. They had to be exhausted and in shock from the day’s events. I’d been through this kind of trauma before and believed I had the advantage. Rich’s guard would be down. Who knew what incriminating files he might still have in his office, files that he would soon shred?
I called Calixto, and left a text. “Feeling better. Going to check on Joan. C U at Adelphi.”
I put my trash in a nearby waste barrel, drove back onto Broadway, and headed back north.
38
As I pulled in to the Gormans’ driveway, only a few lights were visible inside the house. After parking beneath the outdoor lighting next to Joan’s Maserati, I was dismayed that the car’s slick red paint brought the image of Percy’s blood circling the drain. Didn’t I have enough horrific pictures in my head for one day?
Walking to the front door, I heard raised voices inside. As I rang the bell, the voices escalated into a shouting match. If Joan and Rich were going at it, they apparently couldn’t hear the bell, or my subsequent rap with the door knocker. Just for the hell of it, I tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. I eased the door open, and stepping into the hallway, I remained perfectly still.
My mother and stepfather stood with their sides to me in the living room, facing each other. Their legs were planted wide, their chins held high, and Rich’s face was red with anger. He had a gash on his neck that was bleeding. They were too intent on each other to notice me.
Joan held a wicked-looking serrated knife. She was yelling.
“Who but a bumbling idiot would cut themselves with their own knife? And you lied about the knife. Telling me your brother sent it to you as a gift. Why would he send you a knife? You don’t even hunt!”
Was she holding the murder weapon? For one confusing instant I imagined she’d killed Percy. Then I remembered her expression when I’d described the knife to her, Rich, and Savarine. She had known something. She’d known the knife belonged to Rich.
One of them was likely the killer. If it was Rich, Joan was oblivious to the danger she was in. Or was she too angry to care? I stared at Rich, suddenly focusing on his hands.
A spider of fear crawled on my skin as I saw he was wearing rubber gloves.
He took a step toward her. “Of course, I don’t hunt. I make money. And all you do is spend it. You silly cow! You and your tennis courts, decorators, and cars. Swallowing up the dough like you’re at a feeding trough.”
His nostrils flared like a bull, his buck teeth were bared. And when he spoke again, his voice was deadly quiet.
“You are so stupid, you don’t even realize you’ve put your fingerprints on the knife that killed Percy. How fun it will be to say you killed him. That you attacked me tonight. Tried to slit my throat like you slit Percy’s.” He touched a gloved finger to the gash on his neck and smiled at the blood staining the rubber. “I’ll be forced to hit you in self-defense.”
Joan’s eyes widened as she realized what he had planned for her. He saw her fear and laughed.
“The only thing you’ve ever wanted is my money, right? Who won’t believe you wanted to kill the goose that laid your golden eggs?”
He twisted suddenly, lunged at her, hand-chopping her wrist. The knife flew from her hand. Before she could move, he slammed his fist into to her jaw. She went down fast, sprawling onto the floor.
Rich lifted his foot in the air, raising it over Joan’s neck. He would crush the life out of her.
What could I use?
I darted across the carpet to the credenza. At the sound of my footsteps he whirled in my direction, finally aware of my presence.
Grabbing the heavy bronze statue of Behold the King, I said, “Behold this, asshole.”
I swung the statue into his face. The blow reverberated up my arm to my shoulder. It knocked him flat. Blood spurted from his nose, pooling onto Joan’s carpet, staining it red. I stood over him, panting. I suddenly felt invincible, as if I’d been injected with a large dose of speed.
I got a grip on myself, called 911, and dropped to my knees on the floor next to my mother. She was coming to, starting to move.
I pressed my hands to my temples, tried to breathe normally, and waited for the distant sound of police sirens.
39
I was so sleepy and relaxed, I didn’t want to wake up. With my eyes still closed, I stretched. Instead of the endless expanse of the Adelphi’s king bed, one arm fell off the edge of the mattress, and my hand touched cold metal.
Something wasn’t right. I opened my eyes. I was in a hospital room? The light streaming through the window told me it was morning. The previous day rushed back to me. The gunfire, the blood, the bodies. Rich and Joan. What had happened after that? I couldn’t remember.
I sat up, pushed the covers back, and started to swing my legs off the bed.
“Easy, Fia. Take your time.”
I recognized the voice and stared at the source in the corner of the room. Gunny.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Drugged.”
“I’m not surprised. They had to sedate you last night.”
“Why?”
“Your doc and I think you had a flashback from your Dermorphin episode.”
I was starting to remember. I’d felt that invincible high, felt like I wanted to laugh and never stop. Like I could take on the world.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “Did I hurt anyone?”
“Let me see,” he said, “the last normal thing you did was to pull the voice recorder from Joan’s purse. That was a great move on your part, getting everything on tape. You handed the recorder to the first cop to arrive at the scene. Then you went berserk and tried to hit him with a statue. Of course, there was no Dermorphin in your system. After the day you’d had, it’s not surprising your brain pulled up the memory and took you there. Fortunately, you were weak as a kitten, easily subdued.”
I pulled my legs back onto the hospital bed and lay my head against the pillows. Months earlier, I’d been injected with the drug that was up to a hundred times stronger than morphine. While on the Dermorphin, I’d felt no pain, experienced tremendous strength, and fought my way out of a terrible situation. Afterwards I’d had flashbacks for a while, but they’d stopped. I was not happy to hear I’d had a reoccurrence.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Just past nine. It’ll be fine, Fia. You just relax and take some time off for a week or two.”
He was such a liar. He didn’t think it was fine. I could tell by the way he pulled out his plastic bottle of antacids, rattled two out, and popped them into his mouth. How was I supposed to take it easy? I didn’t know who was dead, who was alive, the status of Rich or Joan, and I wanted to see Calixto.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I can see by the look on your face you’re not gonna relax. So here’s the rundown. Your mother is fine.”
Of course she is.
“Calixto’s buddy, Special Agent Meloy, and some agents from the United States Postal Inspection Service, found enough information in Rich’s office last night to put him in jail for a long time. He helped Onandi with that Jamaican pyramid scheme. They defrauded Onandi’s wealthy clients. Funneled more than $120 million of those people’s money to Savarine Equine Acquisitions in exchange for millions in bogus fees. Almost two million of that was drained from SEA.”
As he spoke, I got a whiff of his spice cologne and found both the familiar scent and his presence wonderfully comforting.
“Turns out,” he said, “the boys from the U.S. Post Office and the investigators for the United States Attorney’s Office have been jointly investigating Onandi for a while. With a little help from the Securities and Exchange Commission, your Mr. Gorman is going to federal prison.”
“Good,” I said. “And he’s not my Mr. Gorman.” How long, I wondered, would it take Joan to find another sugar daddy?
“So, you don’t have an inclination to leap from your hospital bed and throttle anyone, do you, Fia?”
“N
o, I’m okay. I appreciate you coming up, Gunny.”
“Had to check on my girl.”
I didn’t respond. I was too busy fighting an urge to cry.
“You know,” he said, “Calixto was here all night. He was pretty worried about you.”
“Oh.” I felt a surge of happiness, but refrained from asking where Calixto was and if he was coming back. It seemed unlikely that Gunny would appreciate an ongoing affair between two of his agents.
There was a knock on the door. It swung open about a foot and Becky Joe Benson stuck her weathered face, wispy gray hair, and beat-up Stetson into the room.
“Heard you was shooting up the town yesterday, taking out the bad guys.” She pushed the door wide and came in. “If that don’t beat all, Fay. Only now I hear your name is Fia. You are something, girl. How you feeling? I can see you ain’t dead yet.”
Gunny had risen from his chair and was fast approaching Becky Joe. “Hold on a minute. Miss McKee needs to rest, and you need to—”
“It’s all right, Gunny,” I said. “Becky Joe is a friend.”
Gunny backed off, and Becky Joe called to someone in the hall. “It’s okay, kid, you can come on in.”
Stevie Davis walked in, his steps hesitant, but his face was free from fear and the tension that had plagued him.
“I’m glad you’re all right, Fay. Story was all over the track early this morning. I heard you was shot, then I heard Rico is dead. Not that that’s a bad thing. Then they said all kinds of people were shot and killed. I’m … I’m so glad you’re all right. You are all right, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine, Stevie. It’s good to see you. Are you still riding for Mars?”
“No, ma’am. I quit that job, I’m riding for Linda Wheat. Besides, Mars quit. He said NYRA was breathing down his neck, and his days as a trainer were numbered anyway. He wanted to get out before he got more charges or fines.”
“Good, and Wheat is a fine trainer. What happens to Ziggy Stardust?”
“His owner, Savarine? He sold the horse to a Kentucky stud farm and they are going to race him in the Travers.”
“Who has him?” I asked.
Stevie’s mouth creased into a grin. “Just so happens Linda Wheat has him. ’Course I won’t ride Ziggy in the Travers, but she puts me on him in the mornings and has a couple of nice ones she plans for me to ride in the afternoon.”
I was glad for Stevie. “And Lila?”
“Lila’s fine. We’re going to stay with Lou until Wheat takes us to Gulfstream for the winter. Lila will go to school in Hallandale Beach.”
“Excellent,” I said.
I heard the click of boot heels in the hallway and Calixto walked in. His white shirt was pressed, his jeans perfectly creased, and his Lucchese boots polished to a mirror finish.
Becky Joe’s eyes were all over him. “Ain’t you something. I swear I have never seen a better lookin’ man.”
Stevie squirmed a bit, Gunny rolled his eyes, and I studied my hands on the bedsheet.
When I looked up, Calixto’s expression hadn’t changed, but there was a slight gleam in his eyes. “Fia, what are you doing tonight?”
“Oh, lordy,” Becky Joe said. “Do you have to even ask?”
ALSO BY SASSCER HILL
The Fia McKee Mysteries
Flamingo Road
The Nikki Latrelle Racing Mysteries
Full Mortality
Racing from Death
The Sea Horse Trade
Racing from Evil
About the Author
SASSCER HILL was an amateur steeplechase jockey, as well as a horse owner who bred, raised, and rode racehorses for thirty years in Maryland. Her first published novel, Full Mortality, was nominated for both the Agatha and Macavity Best First Mystery Awards. Born in Washington, D.C., Hill earned a BA in English literature from Franklin and Marshall College. She now lives with her husband, dog, and cat, in Aiken, South Carolina, where she still enjoys horseback riding. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Also by Sasscer Hill
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DARK SIDE OF TOWN. Copyright © 2018 by Sasscer Hill. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Rowen Davis
Cover art: photograph of sunrise at Saratoga Race Course © ZUMA Press, Inc. / Alamy Stock Photo; texture © Eky Studio / Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Hill, Sasscer, author.
Title: The dark side of town / Sasscer Hill.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, [2018] | Series: A Fia McKee Mystery
Identifiers: LCCN 2017045714 | ISBN 9781250097019 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250097026 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Thoroughbred Racing Protective Bureau—Fiction. | Government investigators—Fiction. | Undercover operations—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction. | Horse racing—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.I43773 D37 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017045714
eISBN 9781250097026
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First Edition: April 2018
