Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  His gaze switched to me. “Fia, your Kate is going to work Morales. He might say something to you he wouldn’t to Calixto.”

  Except that usually involved pillow talk, and I wasn’t going there with Morales. But I didn’t mind making him think I would go there.

  “And I still feel, Fia,” Gunny continued, “you’re most valuable on the backside, watching Serpentino. See who comes and goes at his shedrow.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Okay, then,” Gunny said, pushing back from the table. “We know what we’re doing?”

  Calixto and I nodded.

  Before I stood to leave, a little warning bell rang in my head. With the dramatic shift in my relationship to Calixto, I’d have to remember that only Kate knew him. Fia had never met the guy, and couldn’t afford to let his name slip out.

  My fear of messing up released a tiny adrenaline surge that I liked. I’d always been a bit of a thrill junkie, and in my line of work that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  28

  The next morning when I shuffled into the kitchen seeking my first shot of caffeine, Jilly was already up and raring to go. She’d fixed coffee, and two bowls of yogurt with nuts and fruit on top were set on the kitchen table. She’d just taken a large bite, and since her mouth was full, she waved her spoon at me.

  “Morning,” I said, hustling over to the coffeepot, and grabbing the clean cup she’d set out. I filled it to the top, breathing in the aromatic steam. After stirring in a dab of cream and some sugar, I took the first sip and closed my eyes in ecstasy.

  “Think you’ll live?” Jilly asked.

  “Yeah, thanks. What is this?”

  “Hazelnut cream mixed with Colombian.”

  I took another long sip, and felt the caffeine rushing into my system. But looking at Jilly, I decided the way her blue eyes radiated energy, there wasn’t enough coffee in Broward County to raise me to her level.

  “So, how long,” she asked, “does it take to get there? I mean, we have to be there at, like, six, right?”

  I nodded and finished my coffee before pulling the breakfast bowl closer. I dug in, liking the sharp tang of yogurt liberally laced with sweet honey.

  “So, I’m gonna, like, walk horses around the—what do you call it, shedrow?”

  When I nodded, she continued.

  “To cool ’em out after they gallop, right?

  “Mmm.”

  “And I always stay on the right-hand side of all the horses, and when I’m walking around, I stay close to the inside wall of this shedrow thingy, and if I’m gonna stop with my horse, I say, ‘Whoa back, ’right?”

  The kid was making my head spin, but I was pleased she’d listened to the advice I’d doled out the night before.

  “Right,” I said. “Finish your breakfast, you’ll need it.”

  After we scraped up the last of the yogurt, I made a to-go cup of coffee, we piled into the Mini, and headed for Gulfstream Park.

  * * *

  Four hours later, Jilly stood outside Last Call’s V, stroking the filly’s white blaze. “Wow. She’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, but pretty is as pretty does,” I said, “and this lady has some issues.”

  Last Call pushed into her V as far as she could and pressed her face into Jilly’s shoulder. Jilly blinked once, and burst into tears. “God, I miss Cody so much!”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I put an arm around Jilly and for a few moments, we seemed to have a group hug. Jilly got a grip, I stepped back, but Last Call never stopped pressing her face into Jilly’s stroking palm. She closed her big eyes almost blissfully.

  Most of the Not for Loves I’d seen had those big, intelligent eyes and were good horses. But this filly was a puzzle. I hoped my efforts had unlocked her ability, or Rosario would banish her from his barn. I didn’t want to think about the dim future awaiting a flighty horse that didn’t want to run.

  “So, I did pretty good this morning, huh?” Jilly had recovered, and her smile was impish.

  “You did,” I said, pleased with the natural ability that had quickly surfaced when she’d led her first horse round the shedrow at six thirty that morning. The horses seemed to relax in her hands, she was a quick study, and most important, Rosario had appeared pleasantly surprised by the fifteen-year-old.

  “The kid’s all right,” he’d said.

  But since Julio was approaching us with Last Call’s tack, I shifted my attention back to the present.

  “Track closes at ten,” I said to Jilly. “We don’t have much time to get her out since she needs the round pen first.”

  Turning Last Call loose to release her evil spirits was working so well, Rosario and I weren’t ready to abandon the pen just yet.

  “I want to watch,” Jilly said.

  I didn’t want her near Serpentino, but what could happen if she stayed close to me outside the pen?

  She did, and Last Call put on quite a show, rearing and bucking, flying in a tight circle around the pen, her black tail flaring behind. When movement caused me to glance beyond the fence, I saw Angel, his gold earring gleaming beneath his jet-black hair. As he approached the pen, his eyes were not on Last Call. They were on Jilly.

  “Hola,” he said, giving her a tentative smile.

  “Hi,” she said, pivoting away from me and taking two steps toward Angel.

  I couldn’t see her face, but Angel’s hopeful smile lit up like a breaking dawn. Oh, boy.

  Time to go. I clicked the shank’s snap in my hand, and Last Call came to a stop, waiting for me to approach her and lead her from the pen.

  By the time I walked her through the gate, Jilly and Angel were giggling, talking fast, and using hand gestures as they tried to work through the language barrier. Jilly turned toward me, her hair a black cloud framing huge blue eyes, the color echoed by the sapphires in her ears. She was so alive.

  “Hola, Angel,” I said. “Come on, Jilly. You can help me take her to the track.”

  “Can Angel come, too?”

  “No es posible,” Angel said quickly, suddenly downcast, looking toward Serpentino’s office. “I better to go. Pero le vere otra vez?” Asking if he would see her again.

  “Sí,” Jilly said with a huge grin that caused Angel to blush.

  As we walked the horse away, I asked Jilly if she spoke Spanish.

  “Some, I take it at school. His English is kind of limited, so this is a great opportunity for me to practice.”

  Of course it was.

  “He’s so cute. Did you see his earring? It’s so cool!”

  Unsure about any of this, I did what all grown-ups do. I nodded and smiled, while inside I could almost hear Patrick yelling at me, “How could you let this happen?”

  But I was being ridiculous. Jilly would only be here during the Christmas break. What could go wrong?

  When we reached our shedrow, Rosario gave me a leg up on Last Call while Jilly held her. Looking down, I saw how pumped and well-defined the filly’s muscles were. Her neck was crested, her coat damp from exertion.

  A cooling breeze drifted past, carrying the scents of grain, molasses, and hay. Tiny bits of straw particles floated along with it. Restless, Last Call shifted her legs and raised her head high.

  “Better lead her toward the track, Jilly. Down that path there, past the big palm. If she gives you any trouble, let her go.”

  “Okay,” Jilly said, and walked forward. To my relief, Last Call went right with her. By the time we passed the palm and stepped onto the bridle path leading to the track, the filly was practically dragging Jilly.

  “Let her go!” I called. Jilly did, and Last Call rushed forward. She was anxious to go, but I kept a snug hold on her, which caused her legs to move rapidly up and down without much forward motion—like sewing machine needles.

  When I let her loose on the backstretch, she stretched out as smooth as glass, performing an excellent two-minute lick until I set her down the last eighth. She ignited forward, and the wind rushed my face so hard
it snatched my breath away. The sound of air pumping in and out of her massive lungs was music to my ears. This filly had talent.

  After I stood in the stirrups, got her settled, and walked to the gap opening to the bridle path, I found Jilly waiting for us. Last Call was pumped, breathing a little hard, but still dancing and eager to go.

  “She was flying at the end!” Jilly said, rising up on her toes.

  “Oh, she can run,” I said.

  As Last Call’s long legs churned me forward through the deep sand, Jilly struggled to keep up with us.

  “So,” Jilly gasped, “is she, like, a stakes horse?”

  “Not even close. She won a few cheap claimers. But her current owner saw her zip from last to first and win one. Her late speed figure in that race was off the charts. So the guy had his previous trainer claim her. Next time she ran, she was nowhere. So the owner switched her to Rosario.”

  “But what happened in that last race?” Jilly asked.

  “Who knows? Like I said, she has issues. It’s all about figuring them out.”

  By now we had reached the end of the bridle path and passed the big palm tree. When our barn came into view and I stared ahead, a sudden jolt of tension in my hands and legs caused Last Call to surge forward, leaving Jilly behind.

  Shyra Darnell stood on our shedrow. She was wearing a Coastal Transport jacket and talking to our other exercise rider, Meg Goffman. I wasn’t surprised that Rosario’s exercise rider from Maryland knew a former Pimlico groom. The racing world is that small. But still. Maybe I should mention her presence at Gulfstream to Gunny.

  She glanced up and saw me riding toward her. Her immediate grimace was followed by a resigned shrug, as if maybe I wasn’t her favorite person, but there was no reason to bolt. I wasn’t a cop anymore, just another backstretch worker.

  I rode the filly into her stall, and since Jilly trailed behind, Meg stepped inside and held the reins while I dismounted. Shyra moved into the doorway. Her hand held a folder of papers.

  “Hey, Shyra,” I said.

  She nodded and gave me a cold stare.

  As if sensing the tension between us, Meg threw me a bright smile. “Shyra’s got a van meeting her at Serpentino’s in a few minutes. He’s got three horses coming in, right, Shyra?”

  She nodded.

  Probably new candidates for frog juice. I pulled the bridle and saddle from Last Call as Julio came inside and slid her halter on.

  Stepping past Shyra onto the shedrow, I heard the sound of a truck engine and saw Wendy Warner’s white truck rolling past the edge of our barn toward Serpentino’s.

  “I gotta meet the vet,” Shyra said, taking a step toward the end of our shedrow. She waved the folder. “Doc Warner needs these papers.”

  As if on cue, I heard the deep whine of a diesel engine in first gear. A Coastal van eased toward us on the road between the barns.

  Jilly watched its approach for a moment and moved into the filly’s stall, knowing Julio expected her to cool out Last Call. I put my tack away and walked toward Serpentino’s side. I wanted to see Wendy Warner again, get a sense of what she knew about Serpentino.

  As for Shyra, I wanted, but knew I wouldn’t get, additional information about the man I had killed. Still, it was a puzzle I itched to solve.

  When I rounded the corner onto Serpentino’s shedrow, the two women stood close together, speaking in low tones. Suddenly, Wendy’s voice rose.

  “This isn’t good. You should have told me about this sooner. I—” She stopped abruptly when she saw me.

  “Fia, hi.” Wendy’s quick smile faltered.

  I kept my expression neutral. “I didn’t know you knew Shyra. Figures since we’ve all spent time at Pimlico.” I smiled at Shyra. “Like old home week. Wendy used to work with my dad when he was a trainer.”

  Shyra stood still. I watched her eyes go almost as dead as they did the night the man tried to strangle her. A moment passed before she regained focus. I could see thoughts starting to spin inside her head. Not good thoughts, apparently, since the blood left her face, leaving her skin a brownish gray.

  Shyra’s voice was so low I could barely hear her. She said, “You’re Mason McKee’s daughter?”

  “Sure,” Wendy said, stepping closer to Shyra, momentarily blocking my view of the other woman’s face. “You probably just didn’t recognize Fia. She used to have long brown hair and she wasn’t so thin.” She glanced at me. “Right?”

  “Yeah, that’s probably what it is.” Why would knowing I was Mason McKee’s daughter make Shyra act like she’d seen a ghost?

  “So, Shyra,” Wendy said. “Those papers you got there are for me, right?”

  “Yeah.” Shyra’s expression and voice were lifeless enough to cast in a zombie movie.

  “So let me have them,” Wendy said, briskly reaching for Shyra’s folder. “I’ll check ’em out, and you should probably meet the van, right?”

  The vet was working so hard to get Shyra away, she actually gave the taller woman a little push toward the van easing to a halt nearby.

  Still in zombie mode, Shyra wandered toward the rig, where the driver was already out, dropping the side ramp.

  Beside me, Wendy made a show of flipping through the papers in the folder. “Did you need anything, Fia?”

  “Not really. I just came over to say hi.”

  “Oh, you’re sweet,” she said. “But I gotta get these horses straightened out. They’ve been having trouble with shippers coming in without the right vaccinations.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll catch you later.” I sketched a wave at her and left.

  I’d just rattled a skeleton and wondered what else might be lurking in Wendy’s closet. I planned to let the TRPB computers run a background check on Ms. Warner. She was hiding something.

  29

  That evening, I sat at the orange-topped kitchen table with Patrick and Jilly, eyeing an order of hot pizza that had just been delivered. As I pulled my first slice from the box, Jilly was bubbling with enthusiasm, talking about her day at the track.

  “Racehorses are so beautiful! And I got to walk five of them. And Rosario was really nice and—”

  “Are you keeping an eye on her, Fia?” Patrick said, giving me a sharp look. “I don’t want her getting hurt by some hyper horse.”

  “Dad!” Jilly rolled her eyes. “Everyone was looking out for me. And the horses are so cool. They have, like, their own personalities. There was this one horse that had a chicken sitting on his back in the stall and—”

  “A chicken?” Patrick appeared doubtful.

  “Actually, a lot of people keep chickens at the track,” I said, blowing on my hot slice.

  Jilly sent Patrick a dirty look. “You always tell me not to interrupt. But you just did. Anyway, this first horse thinks it’s totally cool to have this chicken on his back. But when I take Last Call down the shedrow, this little rooster comes out from under the railing and the filly freaks. She leaps straight up in the air!”

  Patrick set his drink down abruptly. “That’s just the kind of thing I’m worried about.”

  “She’ll be fine,” I said.

  “I am fine,” Jilly said, standing up and making a little pirouette while holding her arms out. “See?”

  I almost felt sorry for Patrick. “Eat your pizza, Jilly. You have to get up early.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. But she sat and forked up a bite of salad.

  Watching her, it occurred to me Patrick had done a great job with her since Rebecca walked out. I felt myself smiling at him. Maybe spending time with him wasn’t such a bad thing.

  We finished dinner, I helped with the kitchen cleanup, and when I reached my room, my cell rang. Zanin.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You and your family okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got more dead horses.”

  “Oh, no.” Had I really thought it wouldn’t happen again? “Where?”

  “
About ten miles north of Southwest Ranches, and this time a girl got hurt.”

  “Is she—”

  “She’s okay. But they knocked her lights out. Then they killed her horse. I know you don’t have a horse there anymore, but I was worried about you. And Jilly.”

  “We’re fine,” I said. “And I’ve got my gun.”

  “Yes, I remember it well. Just wanted to give you a heads-up and check on you before I disappear.”

  “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “Undercover. You won’t be able to reach me for a few days. Fia, be careful. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I will. Zanin … thanks.”

  “Sure, babe.” He hung up.

  I hated thinking about another kid with a butchered horse. I didn’t like thinking about Zanin putting himself in harm’s way either. There wasn’t anything I could do about it at the moment, so I booted up the laptop and connected to the TRPB’s search site. I typed in “Wendy Warner, D.V.M.”

  A recent news article appeared about her donating time to a Maryland horse rescue operation near Baltimore. I didn’t find much else except an old two-line mention in the business section announcing her partnership with Dr. Chambers.

  Telling myself not to feel guilty, I looked into her bank records, which I could do through my secure link to the TRPB server. I was surprised to discover a measly $115.00 in her checking account and only $345.00 in the companion savings account. She had to have more money somewhere, didn’t she?

  Without being at my Fair Hill desk and directly connected to the TRPB server, I had limited access to search further. I sent a query e-mail to Brian, hoping to hear back from him the next morning. I was startled minutes later to receive a reply.

  “You got lucky tonight, Fia, I’m working late. Interesting history here. Read attached.”

  I did, and could feel my mouth drop open. It appeared Wendy had a little gambling problem with the stock market. She had a brokerage account with Merrill Lynch and had bought stocks on margin that had not served her well. She owed Merrill Lynch almost $40,000.