Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  And I wanted to know whom I had killed.

  3

  According to the statement she’d made, Shyra Darnell lived in the on-site housing that Pimlico provided for its backstretch workers, the people who cleaned stalls, fed, and groomed the horses.

  To reach the racetrack, I drove north through Baltimore on 83. A sharp, cold wind scuttled trash on the edges of the freeway beneath a gray lid of dense clouds that covered the city. After exiting onto Northern Parkway, I passed by some of the priciest real estate in Baltimore, until the neighborhood disintegrated abruptly as I neared the track.

  I hadn’t wanted to ruffle anyone’s feathers by arriving in a police car. Of course my Mini Cooper wasn’t exactly stealthy.

  I’d seen it at a used car dealership, and immediately had fallen in love. Starlight blue with a black roof, checkered flag mirror caps and black bonnet stripes. I told myself it got great mileage and had aftermarket built-in OnStar, but who was I kidding—I’d thought the car was totally cool. Tricked out with after-factory dark-tinted windows and silver rims, the car was a wicked match for my radically short, electric blond hair and double sets of gold-and-silver earrings.

  But my present circumstances killed the happy-new-car buzz as dead as a swatted fly. Now I just wanted to keep my job. Yet here I was planning to question a hostile witness from an investigation I’d been ruled out of.

  When I turned onto Pimlico Road to reach the backstretch, I passed a huge parking lot on my left still there from the days when crowds had flocked to the Maryland races. The curve of the dirt track’s far turn rolled past me on my right and catty-corner across the track I could see the decrepit old grandstand so sadly in need of renovation.

  I ran my window down and the smell of horses drifted in, the memories galloping in hard behind. The last time I’d been here my dad was alive. We’d brought his best horse down from the farm, and I’d ridden her, busting that filly out of the gate for a speed work that had taken my breath away. I remember the grin on my dad’s face as he held up his stopwatch and gave me a thumbs-up. God, I missed him.

  I inhaled sharply and closed the past away. Pulling the Mini up to the stable gate, I parked to one side, and climbed out. A cocoa-skinned security guard ambled out of the gatehouse. Nodding at him, I stepped in close and showed him my badge.

  “How are you this morning?” I asked. I’d purposely not called ahead and timed my arrival for eleven. The track closed for morning exercise at ten, and most of the grooms and hot walkers were done by now. I hoped to catch Shyra in her room.

  The guard gave me a suspicious look. “What brings the city police to Pimlico today?”

  “Just some routine follow-up. I need to talk to Shyra Darnell.”

  The guard’s closed expression opened with interest. “Heard about that. She’s the one almost got herself killed.”

  “Interesting you’d put it that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Do you think she made someone want to kill her?”

  He took a half step back. “I don’t know anything about that. Let me get her room number.” He stepped into the guardhouse and leafed through a ring binder. “She’s in barn fourteen, room ten.”

  I thanked him, climbed into the Mini, and drove through the gate, past the receiving barn where my dad and I used to bring our horses in when they raced.

  As I drove by, a woman pulled an equine pulmonary scope from a Chambers and Warner vet truck. She was tall, with broad hips and light brown hair. Had to be Wendy Warner. She had been my dad’s vet. They’d worked hand in hand, were good friends, and after my mother walked out, I’d wondered if they might have been more than that. She must be almost sixty by now.

  I’d always liked Wendy, but I didn’t want her to see me. The Mini’s dark tinted windows solved the problem, and I rolled on by, leaving her in my rearview mirror. Ahead, the gravel road dipped sharply downhill and suddenly the long Pimlico barns lay below me like rows of dominoes.

  I arrived at barn fourteen and cut the engine. The grooms’ quarters crowded above the stables, looking like the second floor of a cheap motel. Clothing hung to dry on the railing, and after I climbed a set of steep metal stairs, I had to step around dirt-encrusted shoes set outside many of the rooms.

  There was no plumbing in the groom’s quarters, and the bathrooms on the backside turned pretty nasty when lug-soled boots tracked in sand and manure. Especially when it mixed with water spilled from sinks and showers. But the rent and utilities were free, and, for some of the inhabitants, Pimlico’s security and razor-wire-topped fence made it the safest place they’d ever know.

  I found number ten and knocked. Shyra swung the door inward and heat from her HVAC unit blasted across my face.

  She was tall and large boned with high cheekbones, a wide nose, and the almond-shaped eyes I remembered. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream. The wool hat she’d had in the church alley must have covered the tightly braided cornrows she wore today. Her turtleneck failed to hide the top edge of a reddish ligature mark.

  Her eyes narrowed in recognition. “What do you want, lady cop?”

  “Thought I’d check on you. See how you are.” I knew she was forty, but she looked fifty-five or more.

  The door to the room on the right opened and a Latino man stuck his head out. “You all right, Shyra?”

  “I’m fine.” The lines around her mouth compressed in irritation. Glancing at me, she said, “You’d better come in before anyone else sticks their nose where it’s got no business.”

  I stepped inside and she pushed the door closed behind me. The tiny room had a cot against one wall with an orange bedspread. The scent of pizza leaked from a microwave that whirred on a plywood shelf set above a small refrigerator.

  A chest of drawers, hooks on the opposite wall, and a desk with a metal chair completed the room’s decor.

  Except for the altar on top of the dresser. A bronze figure of Christ was mounted to a tall dagger that thrust so deep into the wooden chest it had splintered the surface. Wilted flowers surrounded the image of Christ and someone had draped strings of beads around the porcelain necks of what appeared to be Catholic saints. Weird.

  Not a room to sit down and have a cozy chat. I remained standing.

  “Ms. Darnell, you were pretty shook up the night you were attacked. Have you remembered anything about the man or that night that might help us identify this guy?”

  Shyra thrust her lips out slightly and raised her head defiantly. “Everything I know is in that statement I gave. Why do you care so much, anyway?”

  The room was hot, and the smell of manure, molasses, and hay that rose from the stables below grew thicker and heavier.

  “I never shot anyone before,” I said.

  For a moment she stared at me, startled, as if it had never occurred to her cops didn’t go around shooting people all the time.

  “What’s the name of the man I killed to save your life, Shyra?”

  Her eyes got that dead look I’d seen in the alley. “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do,” I said, pulling the fifty-dollar bill I’d brought with me from my Windbreaker’s pocket.

  Her gaze flicked to the bill, the momentary interest I saw in her eyes rapidly displaced by fear.

  “Nuh-uh. I don’t know nothing.”

  “What are you afraid of, Shyra? I can help you.”

  “No. You can’t. Nobody can. You don’t know him.”

  “Who?”

  She backed away from me. “Get out.” Her voice rose. “Get out!”

  I raised my palms face out. “Okay, okay, I’m leaving. In fact, I was never here.” I placed the fifty on her desk with my card. “If you need help, if you change your mind, call me. Use the cell. I may not be in the office.”

  “Get out,” she whispered.

  I pulled her door open and stepped onto the balcony. An icy wind hit the side of my face. I hunched my shoulders and headed for the stairs. I hoped the fifty would keep her from
mentioning my visit to anyone, especially someone from IAD like Gravelin.

  I’d taken a huge risk and learned nothing. Except somewhere out there was a man that terrified her.

  4

  Three days and more than a thousand miles later, I exited off Florida I-75 South onto Griffin Road, and after steering my Mini around a stubborn armadillo stationed in the middle of the pavement, I entered the township of Southwest Ranches, a community that lay fifteen miles southwest of Fort Lauderdale and thirty miles northwest of Miami.

  Patrick lived here with Jilly.

  Lowering the car’s window, I breathed in air warmed by the afternoon sun. After the leafless trees and frozen concrete of Baltimore, I found the scent of growing plants and damp earth intoxicating.

  Staring with interest as the Mini rolled slowly along Griffin Road, I passed one expensive-looking ranchette after another. Brick or stucco walls guarded many of the long, single-story homes. Some yards had hedges, bamboo, and palm plants so thick I had no idea what they hid on the other side. In spots where the vegetation grew sparsely, I saw white plastic or chain-link fences on the sides and backs of the properties—cheaper extensions of the expensive frontage walls.

  A few buildings looked like stables. As if in confirmation, a horse’s whinny echoed from behind a house on my left.

  Patrick lived in a horsey neighborhood? As a child, he’d been so jealous of the horses and had hated the endless hours Dad devoted to them. Me? I’d just gone to the track every chance I got and loved every second of it.

  My OnStar navigation voice broke through my thoughts, instructing me to turn right onto Thoroughbred Lane, left onto Lead Pony Lane, and stop at number seven.

  A prefab, sand-colored stone wall rose between me and my brother’s house, but the double wrought-iron gates guarding the drive stood open. A pair of cabbage palms flanked the entrance. A brass wall plaque read, NUMBER 7, MCKEE.

  As I motored between the gateposts, the house remained hidden. I drove along the drive as it curved around a splashing fountain before disappearing behind a jungle of greenery. Looked like brother Patrick’s real estate business was doing okay.

  After rolling past a perfectly mowed lawn, through the carefully manicured jungle of palms and waxy, thick-leaved bushes, I cut the engine before a smooth stucco house painted the color of butter.

  When I climbed out, the scent emanating from the purple flowers bordering the house was so sweet and heady, I knew how Dorothy felt when she arrived in Oz and passed out among the poppies.

  The front door opened, and Patrick stepped out beneath a portico. He walked across a stone terrace toward me. At thirty-eight, he was still lean, his hair glossy and dark, but his blue eyes had lines around them that hadn’t been there five years earlier. His lips that had been so full and smooth were thinner, and creases I hadn’t seen before bracketed his mouth.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, continuing to move closer until he stepped right into my no-comfort zone. He’d always treated me this way—as if being the older brother gave him the right to disregard my privacy. And he’d liked to tell me how to behave and what to think. Always a bad idea.

  A thin, leggy, teenage girl appeared in the doorway. Big blue eyes, dark hair. Had to be Jilly.

  “Hey,” she said, her expression guarded.

  I moved a half step back from Patrick and smiled at her. Glancing at my brother, I said, “She’s beautiful, Patrick. You did good.”

  Jilly’s body seemed to relax. She moved across the terrace and stood closer, on the edge of the drive. Three sapphire earring studs gleamed from the outside edges of her ears. A diamond stud pierced one nostril, and on her left breast, the ears and head of a small black-and-blue horse tattoo peeked above the edge of her skimpy tank top.

  Patrick frowned. “She’d look better if she’d get rid of some of that junk she wears. It’s not legal for her to have a tattoo at her age, but she got it done.” He shook his head at the hardship of having such a difficult daughter. He probably didn’t think much of my double set of gold earrings, either.

  Jilly acted like she hadn’t heard her father’s comment, looking at me instead. “Cool car.”

  “Thanks. We’ll have to go for a ride.”

  “But not now,” Patrick said quickly. “You probably need to decompress after that drive.” He stared at me, frowning. “Fia, what’s with your hair? Why would you cut it that short? You look like a man.”

  “Dad.” Jilly rolled her eyes. “It’s looks totally cool.”

  No wonder I’d avoided him for five years. I didn’t want to get in the middle of this argument and was almost relieved when I saw a police cruiser roll around the edge of the garden jungle. Almost.

  The white car with the words BROWARD COUNTY SHERIFF emblazoned on the side pulled up behind mine and stopped. The deputy in the passenger seat stayed in place, but the driver got out and walked around the hood of the cruiser. He appeared to be studying my car.

  Staring at him, I realized I didn’t miss the weight of the gear he had strapped around his waist or the nuisance of the wired radio clipped on his shoulder. I did miss the service Glock I’d had to turn over to Ladner, but I had brought another gun with me. And though I held a permit to carry for most every state, cops get a little edgy when they find a Walther PPK handgun stashed in your glove box. I hoped he didn’t have a reason to look inside the car. I’d just as soon avoid questions.

  “Good afternoon, Officer,” Patrick said, then waited for the other man to speak. The deputy nodded at Patrick. I couldn’t make out the name on the green and white badge pinned to his chest as he glanced at the Mini.

  “This car belong to you?” he asked Patrick.

  “It’s mine,” I said. “I just drove down from Maryland.”

  “She’s my sister,” Patrick said quickly. “Fia McKee. She’s visiting.” He introduced himself and Jilly.

  I noticed the passenger cop was typing on a laptop. Probably running my tag. “Is there a problem, Officer?” I asked.

  “We had a call,” he said. “People get anxious when they see an out-of-state car cruising the neighborhood.”

  I had stared at every house and yard I passed. Had someone thought I was casing the place?

  The deputy continued, “This horse killing has people unnerved.”

  Jilly’s face paled. “I hope you catch this guy before he comes here.”

  He smiled. “We’re working on it.”

  He glanced at the three of us and handed a card to Patrick. “All right, then. Keep your eyes open for anything unusual and call if you see something. You folks have a nice evening.”

  The passenger cop gave a brief wave from the cruiser’s window as it navigated the circular drive before disappearing into Patrick’s greenery.

  * * *

  An hour later, I sat on the guest bed gazing outside the sliding-glass door of the bedroom. A patio, pool, and a fenced-in paddock that was maybe an acre, lay behind the house. The drive ran alongside the enclosure and led to a prefab stable crowned with a brass cupola. More fencing and paddocks appeared behind it.

  Jilly leaned on the paddock railing watching a well-fed black and white paint as if nothing in the world existed but the horse.

  My cell phone rang and looking at the ID, I saw it was Ladner. When I answered, I heard him suck in some air. He must be outside with a cigar.

  “You enjoying the weather down there?” he asked.

  He wasn’t calling to talk about the weather. “You got anything for me on this IAD investigation?”

  “Gravelin’s fairly closemouthed,” he said. “But I did hear something about your witness, Darnell.”

  I gripped the cell harder, hoping IAD hadn’t heard about my visit to Pimlico.

  “She’s disappeared,” he said. “Her room at the track is empty, like she cleared out.”

  Had I driven her away? Or had her fear of the man she’d mentioned?

  “Any idea where she went?”

  “No.” He paused an
d I heard him take another puff on his cigar. “But the guy that lives in the room next door said a woman came to visit her. A woman with short blond hair. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Fia?”

  “No, sir,” I lied.

  “Sure you wouldn’t,” he said. But he let it go. “It’s good you’re down there. Stay put and keep out of trouble.”

  I released a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Yes, sir.”

  He disconnected, and I looked out the window. Jilly had climbed through the fence railing and had her arms around the neck of her horse, her face planted in the fur on his shoulder. I had always loved doing that, breathing in the rich horse smell. The horse curved his neck, and nuzzled the small of Jilly’s back.

  Deciding to shower and change, I padded across thick white carpeting through the room Rebecca had decorated in turquoise and white. I shook my head at the gaudy lamps and wall fixtures and could almost hear her decorator saying, “with gold accents.”

  I sighed, thought about my conversation with Ladner and wondered what had happened to Shyra. I wished she had let me help her. Maybe I had already helped her too much.

  5

  Around seven that evening the three of us went to a local Italian restaurant for dinner. We sat in a booth dipping crusty bread into olive oil, breathing in the scents of tomato and garlic that drifted from the kitchen to our table.

  To avoid land mines on our road into sibling territory, Patrick and I had a glass of the house Merlot, and I encouraged Jilly to tell me about her horse Cody. I hoped to keep the conversation in a demilitarized zone.

  But more than that, I loved talking about horses, especially after a couple glasses of wine. I listened to every detail about Cody, his new tack, what he liked to eat, his favorite naughty tricks.

  “You should have seen him the first time I asked him to cross this wooden bridge over the canal,” she said. “He put one hoof on the first plank and just sort of pawed like he was testing it. So, I clucked at him, and he went right over! He was so cool!”