Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  I scrolled back in time, and was able to follow the account to its inception almost ten years earlier. She’d been with Merrill Lynch when I first met her, back when she’d worked for my dad.

  I studied the history of her stock trades and fortunes over the decade. Before the time we’d met her, she’d had almost $225,000 in the account, with a lot of money in financials like E*Trade, Countrywide Financial, and Citigroup. Then, bam, they went down as much as 84 percent overnight and she sold them at a huge loss. She’d scrambled to buy other stocks, bad decisions that plummeted her further and further away from the financial security she’d once enjoyed.

  The year she’d started working as Dad’s vet, she’d been down to $8,000. In June of that year there was a $25,000 deposit made into the account. I’d like to know where that came from. She’d put the entire $25,000 into the clothing store, Chico’s.

  I didn’t know much about the stock market, but I knew better than to put all my eggs in one basket. And this basket had been a shooting star. The per share price had risen from $17 in 2004 to $49 by November of 2006. Two years later, with the 2008 crash, it was worth $2.55. Ouch.

  In January of 2009, Wendy had acquired another cash infusion. I stared at the date, my scalp tingling with recognition. She’d deposited $50,000 a week after someone knifed my dad to death and I had found his partially frozen body behind a Dumpster at Pimlico.

  The past crashed into the present, and I shivered. It had been so cold the day I found him, and my first reaction had been a crazy, desperate need to get his body to a warmer place, as if by doing so, I could bring him back to life.

  I shoved my chair away from the desk and turned my back on the computer. Fast steps to the sliding door. Stumbling into the night air, I wrapped my arms around my rib cage and looked up at the sky, soothed by the vast canopy of quiet stars.

  I stood for a while, breathing, letting myself settle. The sound of chirping crickets drew me back to the present. I should feed the Bluesters. I needed to go inside and finish my study of Wendy’s finances. This had to be a bizarre coincidence, right?

  Jilly and I had stopped at a pet store on the way home and picked up a small terrarium for the Bluesters. Even though they’d be going to the lab the next day, I hadn’t wanted to leave them in Rebecca’s shoe box another night. I went back to my room, grabbed my cricket glass, and returned to the pool. I caught four bugs and dumped them into the Bluesters’ glass house.

  I watched the brightly colored amphibians for a moment and shook my head. “That’s a good look for you, Blue. That cricket in the mouth thing.”

  I couldn’t believe I was becoming fond of two frogs, but that slow methodical way they walked was kind of cute. Except just then, Blue Two went after a cricket. I turned away. One could only take so much carnage.

  Having managed to bolt a door on the past, I went back to my chair and studied the screen. Wendy had enjoyed better luck with her $50,000. It appeared she’d put the money in high-yielding oil well trusts, transferring the dividends into her checking account on a regular basis for most of the past eight years.

  Then two of the oil trusts had bellied up, losing most of their value overnight. Had the wells run dry? She’d invested what was left in more stocks, followed by more bad luck, followed by buying on margin, borrowing from Merrill Lynch until she’d screwed herself to a wall of debt.

  But three days earlier she’d deposited $10,000 against the debt. So close to the day Primal died. The very day Roger Copper’s horse, Tumbling Dice, won at incredibly long odds. I couldn’t believe this was a coincidence. No way.

  Wendy, you fool, what have you gotten yourself into?

  * * *

  The next morning, we spun through training at Gulfstream. I brought Jilly home, grabbed the Bluesters’ terrarium, and headed for a local testing lab affiliated with the Florida Racing Laboratory, part of the University of Florida’s College of Veterinary Medicine up in Gainsville.

  Gunny told me he’d prefer the university lab, but it was hours to the north and his contact from the steward’s office at Gulfstream had suggested a lab in the outskirts of Miami. Said that the lab’s chemist, Dr. Steve Craigson, was excellent.

  I followed my GPS instructions as the Bluesters hung out in their terrarium on the Mini’s passenger seat. Exiting off 95 onto Dolphin Expressway, I soon turned onto a side street that led to an office park. I found TestTube lab sandwiched between a plumbing showroom and a countertop fabricator. Scraggly fan plants and bushes struggled to survive in the sandy spaces between the buildings.

  Outside the Mini, the warmth rose in soft waves from the lot’s asphalt surface as the heat continued to build in the mid-afternoon sun. I carried the terrarium through a glass door, hearing a bell announce my entrance somewhere in the back.

  I set the Bluesters on the green counter. A guy about my age with bright red spiky hair and glasses appeared from behind a partition.

  He stared at the Bluesters. “Help you?”

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Craigson.”

  The guy pursed his lips and frowned. “He’s not here.”

  “Do you expect him?”

  The guy took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “I couldn’t say. He hasn’t been here today. It’s kind of weird, because he didn’t come in yesterday, either.”

  “So, he’s missing?”

  “Now that’s what I’m wondering. His wife called this morning looking for him.”

  Great, a missing chemist. “Craigson was supposed to test these frogs for dermorphin. Is there anyone else that can test the wax they secrete?”

  He slid his glasses on and straightened. “I can do it. I’m Craigson’s assistant. Licensed chemist.” He pointed to one of the framed certificates on the wall.

  “You’re Michael Brewer?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let me make a call,” I said, before gesturing at the frogs. “Okay if I leave them here a minute?”

  “Fine by me.”

  I stepped outside, called Gunny, and explained about the chemist.

  “This Brewer guy have carrot red hair?”

  I said yes, and Gunny told me to go ahead and use Brewer. “He’s all right, but…”

  There was a pause. I was pretty sure I heard him opening a bottle of acid tabs. When he continued, he was munching on something.

  “Gulfstream’s stewards like this guy Craigson,” he said. “They use him a lot. My guy at Gulfstream says this is very unusual behavior for Craigson. His wife’s filed a missing persons report.”

  “Huh. Would you like me to ask Brewer if his boss has acted odd recently?”

  “Might as well. Let me know if you learn anything.”

  “Sure, Gunny.” I disconnected and went back inside.

  Brewer showed me where to leave the frogs. “You can pick them up tomorrow,” he told me.

  “Um, can you feed them? I have some crickets in the car.”

  “I can do you one better. Craigson keeps a Phyllomedusa sauvagei.”

  “A what?”

  “A tree frog. He spent so much time studying dermorphin, he wound up keeping a frog for a pet.”

  “Sounds like an interesting guy,” I said. “So, what do you think is going on with him?”

  “No idea.”

  “Has he acted preoccupied or has something been worrying him recently?”

  “Nope.” Brewer shrugged, dismissing the subject. “Anyway, Craigson’s got a bottle of frog food. Nasty-looking stuff, but I’ll give some to your guys.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Feeling better about the fate of my Bluesters, I headed back to 95. I wasn’t as optimistic about the fate of Craigson. Why would he suddenly disappear?

  30

  A few days later, I watched as Julio led Last Call for Love from her stall. She plunged out like she knew we planned to work her from the gate, making enough noise that the gelding next door snorted in alarm. In the distance, another horse whinnied anxiously. Bits of straw and dust swi
rled around Last Call’s legs, settling to stillness as she shifted into her statue pose.

  Jilly held her bridle, and Julio tossed me into the saddle. The filly didn’t feel like a statue, more like a small bomb with a lit fuse. Jilly led us off the shedrow, and Rosario came out of his office with a stopwatch, following us out to the track. Beyond the mile oval, palm trees rose in the morning sun against the backdrop of condos that lined the beach of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Once we hit the sand of the track, I warmed up the filly. Minutes later, an assistant starter led us into the three hole of the starting gate. Rosario had arranged with another trainer to work two of his horses with Last Call, and they were led into the slots on either side of us. I prayed Last Call wouldn’t freeze in the gate.

  The starter watched the traffic on the track, and when a gap in the merry-go-round of horses appeared, he hit the electronic switch.

  The bell clanged, the metal gates burst open, and Last Call exploded on to the track. She outbroke the other two, leaving them on her flanks as we blasted down the backstretch. My internal clock advised me not to urge her. She was fully detonated.

  I sensed the horses on either side dropping behind. Glancing back, I saw we’d opened up by three lengths. The rhythm of her pumping lungs and pounding hooves played my favorite kind of rock and roll. We busted through the turn, down the stretch, and at the wire we were four lengths ahead of the other horses.

  When I rode back to Rosario, he gave me a thumbs-up and said, “One minute flat for the five furlongs. Not bad.”

  Jilly stood next to him. “Not bad? She was awesome. She left those other horses in her dust!”

  Last Call was pumped, her walk fast, and Jilly and Rosario couldn’t keep up. I called back to Jilly, “Don’t get too excited, I’m sure at least one horse worked the distance in fifty-nine or less.” I didn’t want her thinking Last Call was the next Zenyatta because she would be sorely disappointed. This was a game where high hopes often led to crushing lows.

  * * *

  After training, Jilly and I went to the lab to pick up the Bluesters and the results of the chemist’s test. When we climbed out of the Mini, Jilly and I were confronted by a dazzling new display of chrome and stainless-steel kitchen sink faucets in the window of the plumbing supply next to the lab. There were enough levers, dials, and nozzles to seduce a rocket scientist.

  Jilly stared at the glittering array. “Wow. These are really cool!”

  I squinted at the price tags. “Not unless they come with a maid and a built-in bar.”

  The glass door to the lab opened and Brewer stuck his head out. “Hey. Wondered when you’d show up. Got some interesting results on your frogs.”

  We followed him inside. He told me he’d be right back, disappearing into the recesses of the lab. He returned carrying a file folder and the Bluesters in their glass terrarium. He set everything on the green counter and pushed the folder toward me.

  “Take a look.”

  I picked up the folder, but before opening it, I glanced at my frogs. I’d felt bad about leaving them with Brewer, which was ridiculous. I didn’t need to get attached to a pair of frogs. Still, the way they marched determinedly around the terrarium floor made me smile.

  Jilly peered at it over my shoulder as I opened the folder and read. “The amino acid sequence of dermorphin is H-Tyr-D-Ala-Phe-Gly-Tyr-Pro-Ser-NH2.” This fascinating revelation was followed by more scientific jargon with phrases about “receptors” and “peptides.” I looked at Brewer.

  “You’re going to have to explain this to me in English. I have no idea what it means, okay?”

  “Sure,” he said, taking the folder back. “First, I was unable to identify the species. I can’t find anything that accurately fits their physical description.”

  “Like, psychedelic?” Jilly giggled.

  “I suppose you could put it that way,” Brewer said, with a slightly sour expression. “There is another blue frog, but not with purple stripes. I assume these frogs are a rare subspecies, probably from South America. Now, interestingly, there is a subspecies that was once found in Africa—”

  “So what did the test show?” I asked.

  “I’m getting to that,” Brewer said, his body posture stiffening.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that we’re short on time.”

  “We are?” Jilly asked.

  I threw her a look. She began studying the frogs in their terrarium.

  “Fine,” Brewer said. “The DNA sequence in the secretion of these particular blue and purple frogs is different from that of dermorphin’s. While the sequence doesn’t match, it does contain a powerful opiate similar to dermorphin, only stronger.”

  “Stronger?”

  “Yes,” Brewer said.

  And in the hands of the worst kind of people. “Do you think it would affect the performance of a racehorse?”

  Brewer’s response was terse. “Ms. McKee, I’m neither a vet nor an animal behaviorist.”

  “But if you had to guess?”

  “Chemists don’t guess.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Fine,” I said, leaning forward to take the folder back. Then, remembering I’d been warned repeatedly about my smart tongue during my Baltimore PD days, I said, “Thanks for this and for turning it around so fast.”

  He nodded curtly. I started to walk out but paused halfway to the door and turned back. “Has there been any word from Doctor Craigson?”

  “No.” Brewer’s annoyed expression slowly dissolved. “It’s really weird. I’m afraid something has happened to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Will you let me know if you hear from him?”

  “Of course.”

  I headed back to the glass door and Jilly followed me out carrying the terrarium.

  * * *

  The next morning, Julio found heat in Last Call’s left front tendon, proving the accuracy of my warning about the highs and lows of horse racing. The groom held Last Call’s halter as Jilly and I watched Rosario kneel by the filly’s leg and run his fingers down the skin on the back of her cannon bone.

  Anxiety twisted Jilly’s face. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Working on a bow,” Rosario said.

  “You mean, like, a bowed tendon?’

  Rosario nodded.

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “It depends,” he said. “She’s not lame on it, and if we can get the heat out before it swells too much…”

  “But she won’t be able to run!” Jilly’s face crumpled with disappointment.

  “That still depends,” Rosario said.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Racing a horse with heat like this was begging for a ballooned-out tendon and a possible breakdown on the track.

  “Rosario,” I said, “don’t you think—”

  “I’ve got to call the owner.” Rosario stood up abruptly. “Julio, get an ice boot on that leg.”

  Julio hurried off to the supply room, and Rosario headed for his office, pulling out his cell phone as he walked. Jilly ducked into the horse’s stall and wrapped her arms around the filly’s neck. Last Call angled her head toward the girl and pressed her nose into Jilly’s side. Like Cody.

  When Jilly looked back at me, there were tears in her eyes. “Do you think the owner might sell her? She’s so sweet. I could nurse her at home and—”

  “I don’t know. Just play it by ear, okay?”

  Jilly scowled at me and turned away, burying her face in Last Call’s mane.

  I remembered my own impatience with adults. Always with the annoying phrases like “it depends,” and “we’ll see.” Getting a straight answer was like pulling teeth out of a chicken. I tried to think of something else to say, and couldn’t.

  Julio returned with the neoprene boots Rosario kept in his supply room freezer. Made to fit a horse’s front leg to the knee, it had numerous pockets for crushed ice on the inside. Jilly watched while I helped Julio wrap the boot around Last Call’s leg and secure it
in place with the attached Velcro straps. I hoped the ice would be enough to suck the heat out of the tendon.

  When we were finished, and I stepped outside the stall, Serpentino’s truck was leaving the barn area. Late in the morning, he was probably done for the day, and moments later, Angel appeared at the end of our shedrow. I knew who he wanted so I pointed at the stall behind me.

  He approached, his eyes widening as he saw the filly’s leg. “Qué pasa?”

  Jilly leaned against the stall gate and grasped the woven metal with her hands. As she explained about the tendon in careful Spanish, Angel brushed the palm of his hand across the tops of her fingers where they curled through the wire gate.

  “Lo siento,” he said.

  Feeling like an intruder, I left the two of them to commiserate. But as I walked away, an idea poked into my head. If Jilly hung out with Angel, she would be in a great position to learn things about Serpentino’s barn. As a teenage buddy to Angel, she’d be practically invisible. I gave myself a mental head slap. Why was I thinking like this again? Stop being a cop, Fia. Family first.

  As I walked past the large poinsettia Rosario had placed on a bench near his office, I paused to touch the soft blooms. Christmas was only a few days away. So much had happened, especially to Jilly. I should pick up something for her. Patrick, too.

  This was my first experience with a tropical Christmas, and the lights and decorations I’d seen in Hallandale Beach and Southwest Ranches seemed out of place surrounded by warm breezes, fan plants, and palm trees. The sudden vibration of my phone interrupted my musing. I glanced at the ID. Gunny.

  I answered, and he wasted no time. “We sent the TestTube lab results to a professor of pharmacology at Oklahoma State University. He helped bust the demorphin ring at Remington Park. He’s very interested in your frogs. Wants them shipped ASAP.”

  “Shipped? Won’t that kill them?

  “Says he wants them alive. Call him. He’ll tell you how to get them there. I’ll text his number.”

  “Okay.”

  “He thinks what you’ve found has disastrous potential. We need to stop it before it spreads to other tracks.”