by Sasscer Hill
Outside, the salty ocean air enveloped me with warmth. I drew in a long breath, and for a wild moment, I wanted to laugh. I stifled the urge.
A cab drove up to the entrance and I climbed in. Giving the address of the TRPB rental, Kate made her permanent exit from South Florida.
34
As soon as I got to the rental, I stripped and took a hot shower, relieved to shampoo my hair where the wig had left it sweaty and plastered to my scalp. If only I could erase the memories of Morales’s soft hands as easily as the streaming water rinsed the soap from my hair and skin. I couldn’t wipe out the desperate look on Wendy’s face, either.
Wouldn’t the FBI step into the arena if this blue juice showed up out of state? Couldn’t they give Wendy immunity if she turned on Morales and the rest of them? Yes, I nodded to myself as I cranked off the water. That’s how this should play out.
As soon as I was dressed, I called Gunny and dove right in.
“I’ve got Morales on tape talking about the new improved dermorphin.”
“Fia … that’s excellent.” I’d never heard him sound excited before. He also sounded relieved. After a beat, he said, “And you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, but I’m done playing Kate. Morales’s sexual expectations are already out of control.” I stared at the red wig I’d tossed on the bed.
“You’re right. That job is over. Now tell me what happened.”
“I will,” I replied, “but first, where was Calixto today?”
So briefly that I wasn’t sure it even happened, Gunny hesitated. “He got called away on another job.”
“More important than this?”
“Equally important, Fia. He’s…”
“He’s what?” I asked.
“Let it go. Besides, after what you accomplished today, we don’t need him trailing Morales so closely.”
After what I’d risked earlier, I did not like being left out of the loop. Didn’t Gunny trust me yet? I gritted my teeth. “Won’t Morales wonder where Calixto disappeared to?”
“Calixto can stay in touch by texting.”
I dropped it and asked him about Wendy receiving immunity.
“It doesn’t work like that, Fia. You know the TRPB has no power to make arrests. We are mainly an information gathering agency. We will take this to the Florida Division of Pari-Mutuel Wagering. Then it’s in their hands.”
So the information I’d worked so hard to obtain would be left to the decisions and actions of political appointees? People who ran the gambling machine for horse racing, dog racing, and Indian gaming? I hated this. How corrupt were these people likely to be?
“But what about the FBI, or the DEA?” I asked.
“What Morales said to Doctor Warner was right,” Gunny replied. “The drug isn’t illegal yet. It has to be added to the Association of Racing Commissioners International’s list and to the Florida Division of Pari-Mutuel Wagering’s list of prohibited substances. And it takes time. Bills have to be passed at the state level. There’s a lot of expensive testing that will have to be done.”
His words made me squeeze my eyes shut in frustration. “But horses are dying.”
“We do what we can, Fia.”
His resigned tone made me furious. “Racing needs a single authority with consistent rules,” I said. “Why couldn’t the TRPB be that authority?”
“I hear you, Fia, but there are too many fiefdoms, too many people determined to control money they can use to feather their own nests. People are working on change, but the money and politics stretch across dozens of states and hundreds of jurisdictions … it’s an uphill battle.”
I felt deflated. It was time to go home and drink the vodka I’d avoided all day.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I stood in Patrick’s kitchen, tossing back Stolichnaya on ice. The drink helped so much, I decided to make a second one. Feeling slightly more optimistic, I wrote up a report for Gunny about the events with Morales, and sent it as an encrypted e-mail. After making a copy of the tape recording, I forwarded it as well.
I wondered how the Bluesters were doing. The pathologist at the University of Oklahoma would probably think I was crazy checking on their welfare, but I planned to call his office the next day.
I lay in bed that night with too many scenes playing in my head. Cody’s body in the barn, Primal’s death, Wendy’s frightened face in the mirror, and Morales’s disgusting hands and hot, polluted breath. I tried to quiet my mind, and think how to proceed.
The evidence I’d found linking Morales to Valera, and his voice on tape talking about “blue juice” was huge. If I could find a way to help Wendy escape Morales’s tangled net, maybe she would talk. And what was with him threatening to blackmail her for a connection to murder? I wanted to sit down and brainstorm again with Gunny and Calixto. Where was Calixto, anyway?
Sometime in the middle of the night, I finally fell asleep.
* * *
At the track the next morning, Rosario took me aside and spoke quietly.
“The secretary put a five-thousand claimer going six furlongs on the overnight.” If there were such a thing as a guilty-looking rabbit, Rosario’s face would be the perfect illustration. “I entered Last Call in the race, Fia. She’s running tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I stared at the ground. Jilly will freak. I looked along the shedrow, and saw her walking toward us. She was leading Last Call who’d galloped a few minutes earlier. Jilly stroked the horse’s neck as they walked toward us.
This wouldn’t be pretty. “I’ll tell her,” I said, “after she puts the filly away.”
He nodded, no doubt relieved not to be the messenger bearing bad news. He disappeared into his office. When Jilly finished with Last Call, I just wanted to get it over with and told her.
Her eyes heated with anger. “I can’t believe you people are doing this!”
“It’s not Rosario’s choice, Jilly. It’s what the owner wants.”
“Then the owner’s an idiot!”
“That may be true, but it doesn’t change anything. Anyway, Last Call might not get claimed.”
The flicker of hope in Jilly’s eyes made me feel treacherous. Had I just set her up for more disappointment?
Jilly glared at me. “If nobody takes her, the next time, I swear I’ll claim her myself. But tomorrow … there’s no way.” Her last words were almost a wail.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could change this.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.” Jilly pivoted away from me and stalked off toward Angel’s side of the barn.
I sank onto a nearby hay bale, hating that I’d let Jilly down, feeling like I had no control over anything. Pulling my phone, I placed a call to Zanin, hoping he was safely back from his undercover job.
“Hey, Fia,” He sounded so happy to hear from me, I almost felt guilty.
“Good to hear your voice,” I said. “I get worried when you go undercover. Is it over?”
“Yeah. It was a farm where they were starving the animals. I documented it. Film and audio. The SPCA raided the place yesterday and removed the livestock. Dogs, too.”
“People are really sick,” I said. “Those horses that were killed before Christmas? I never heard any more about that. You got anything new?”
“I know it was Valera or his people. Those assholes butchered three horses in three locations and left no evidence. Nothing to track them with.” He made a little noise of frustration. “Fia, when can I see you?”
I didn’t want to lead this man on, but I did want to see him. “Um, how about tomorrow? Could you come over in the evening?” I asked.
“To your brother’s house? I was thinking about taking you out somewhere.”
“The truth is, we could use your support.” I told him about the probable claim and the effect it would have on Jilly. “If that happens, it would be really nice to have you around. She’ll probably be at Patrick’s throat and you could—”
“Defuse the situation?”
/> “Exactly,” I said. “But there’s something else. Remember when I told you I’m still in law enforcement?”
“Yes.”
“Some things have happened that might tie in with Valera. We may be able to nail the son of a bitch.”
“Music to my ears. Tell me.”
“I’d rather not on the phone.”
“Fine. I’d rather hear it in person, anyway. Tomorrow evening, babe.”
I remained on the hay bale for a while, looking along the line of stalls as the horses tugged on their hay nets, grinding the grass with their molars. Luceta’s nose and lips worked at the bottom of her net. She snatched at the tufts so vigorously bits of hay fell from the top, decorating her ears and forelock like mistletoe.
Nothing could soothe me like the sounds and scents of a barn full of contented horses. I let the relaxation and sense of peace restore me before rising to round up Jilly and head home.
35
That night a cold front blasted down the East Coast from Canada, and the day of Last Call’s race dawned chilly. A stiff wind blew dark clouds over Hallandale Beach until a dismal lid covered the racetrack and colored it gray.
After I gave Last Call an easy jog, it was painful to watch Jilly’s face as she cooled out the filly for what would probably be the last time. We had decided to stay at the track until the race went off at two, and I used the time to call the pathologist in Oklahoma and inquire about the well-being of my Bluesters.
“They’re fine,” he said when I reached him. “Quite extraordinary, really. I still haven’t been able to identify the species. But I did reach a colleague in Paraguay. He looked at the photos, and he’s never seen anything like them before, but he’s making inquiries.”
“What happens to the frogs?” I asked.
“Do you need them back?”
Need them? Hardly. “Um, yes,” I said. “They’re evidence.”
“We’ll get them to you when their tests are finished.”
“They need to be alive,” I said.
“No problem.”
I thanked him and disconnected. I was such a sucker for animals.
* * *
That afternoon, as post time drew close, I thought about the Not for Love filly my dad had trained before he died. I’d been smacked so hard by his murder, I didn’t know what had happened to the horse. Probably Dad’s whole string had been picked up by new trainers. While grieving for my life that had changed forever, I’d set about divorcing myself from the backstretch. I’d been so lost back then.
Dwelling on the senseless murder had stoked the rage that still burned inside, and left the acid question “why” unanswered. That year, I’d enrolled in the criminal justice program at Towson University in Maryland, and after obtaining my degree, I’d applied to the Baltimore PD.
My thoughts were interrupted when a horse rattled a feed bucket, and a loudspeaker clicked on, calling horses for the first race. With a sigh, I made an effort to let go of the past. Maybe Gunny was right, and we should do what we could. It was better than nothing.
When post time drew near, Jilly and I walked up to the grandstand and stood along the rail waiting for Julio and the other grooms to lead the horses over from the backstretch. Ten horses were entered, and Last Call’s odds were eight-to-one.
Eager, beer-swilling fans milled around us, munching on fries and hot dogs. As they chattered happily in the warm sun that had broken through the clouds, Jilly and I stared glumly at the long stretch of empty sand before us.
Rosario was watching from a box seat with Last Call’s owner. Knowing it was useless, I glanced through the crowd to see if I could spot a trainer who might have put in a claim. I couldn’t, and all too soon the horses appeared.
During the post parade, Last Call’s coat gleamed, and she held her head high, surveying her competitors with interest. Jilly’s teeth chewed so hard on her lower lip, I almost expected to see drops of blood. Moments later, the field was sent to the gate to fight to the finish.
When the race went off, Last Call’s jockey sat chilly, like he’d been instructed. The filly surged into third place as the field raced up the backstretch, and the horses maintained that order to the top of the stretch where Last Call’s jockey put his whip into action, striking her twice. Her tail lashed like an angry cat. She stopped running.
“What’s wrong,” Jilly cried. “Is it her tendon?”
“She doesn’t like the whip,” I said. Rosario had instructed the jockey not to use the whip, but apparently the rider thought he knew better.
The guy hit her twice more before he decided to follow instructions. Once he started hand riding the filly, she came back like a bullet, regaining ground, and finishing second.
“Damn, she would have won if he hadn’t hit her,” I said.
I was excited to see our filly run so well, and I felt like celebrating. Until I remembered. With Jilly on my heels, I hurried to where Last Call’s number was posted on the rail, the spot where her jockey would dismount, and Julio would remove her bridle before leading her home. She galloped back looking pleased with herself, her nostrils blowing, her neck arched. Jilly’s face glowed with pride as she watched.
Two men approached as our jockey dismounted. One was a track official, the other a groom I didn’t know. The official spoke to Julio, who nodded with resignation. The other groom put his halter on Last Call and led her away.
“No,” Jilly said softly. “No.”
But she stood still, remaining quiet, apparently realizing that histrionics would serve no purpose. I was proud of her. She was growing up.
“Julio,” I said, “who does that groom work for?”
“Copper.”
“Who is Copper?” Jilly asked quickly.
“He’s a good trainer,” I lied. No point in making it worse.
The groom had led Last Call about fifty feet away when she stopped, turned her head back to stare at Jilly, and whinnied anxiously. My view blurred as my eyes filled with tears. Next to me, Jilly started sobbing. The new groom jerked Last Call’s head forward and got her walking again. Then she was gone.
As soon as I could, I drove Jilly home, but not without an argument. She’d wanted to go to Copper’s barn to see Last Call and I’d refused. Rosario had patiently explained that having run second, Last Call would be in the test barn, and Jilly would not be allowed in there.
“Besides,” Rosario had said, “she belongs to a new owner now, has a new trainer, and he won’t want you in his barn.”
As I drove north, Jilly’s sorrow hardened into anger and she refused to speak. I tried to think what words would have soothed me at her age and came up empty. Arriving home, Jilly ran to her room. She closed her door and I heard the lock click. Shrugging, I decided I needed some alone time myself and went to my room.
I’d just turned on my laptop when my cell rang. The caller’s number was not familiar to me. The voice was.
“Fia, I’m in trouble,” Wendy said. “I don’t know who to call.” Her voice faltered. She sounded so desperate. “You used to be a cop, so I thought … oh, maybe this is a mistake.”
“Wendy, wait. Let me help. What’s wrong?”
“I … I’m scared.”
“Are you in danger? If you are, you should go to the police.”
“No! No police. If I could just talk to you. I need to think this through with someone. Someone I can trust.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“I’m still at Gulfstream. I have to stay until after the last race. I could meet you somewhere.”
I didn’t want to wait. “I’ll come to you. I’m leaving now.”
“Oh, God, thank you, Fia.”
Her voice broke and I could hear her crying. How does a person dig a hole so deep? Could I help her climb out? I scribbled a note for Patrick and Jilly, shoved my gun, handcuffs, and digital recorder into my purse, and fired up the Mini. Moments later, I zoomed out of Southwest Ranches.
When I sped through Gulfstream’s stable
gate into the backstretch, I called Wendy’s number. It rang about six times and went to voice mail. She might be scoping a horse, and unable to answer. I left her a message, then started searching for her white truck along the dirt lanes crisscrossing the backstretch.
When I found her truck, I wasn’t pleased to see it parked outside Serpentino’s barn. Why his barn? He hadn’t had a horse running, and his truck wasn’t there. I drove around to Rosario’s side, cut my engine, and slid my gun and handcuffs into my vest pockets. I climbed out of the Mini and walked around the end of Rosario’s barn to Serpentino’s shedrow.
It was after five thirty, and Serpentino’s help had already come and gone. The horses were finishing their feed, rattling their buckets as they licked out the last bits of grain. Their hay nets were full. The aisle had been watered and raked, leaving the sandy dirt smooth and clean, which is why the two sets of footprints were as obvious as road signs.
My gaze followed their path. They led to Serpentino’s office. Instead of being locked, his door was ajar. I didn’t like it and pulled my gun. I crept closer, staying near the barn wall. Reaching the door, I strained to listen. I heard scuffling noises and a muffled sound of fear followed by two soft cracks.
A man with long shaggy hair and yellow-tinted goggles burst from the office so close to me I could smell the gunpowder on him. He had a semiautomatic with a suppressor shoved in the waistband under his open shirt. Shock froze his expression when he saw me. He grabbed for his gun.
But mine was already against his temple. “Forget it, asshole,” I said. “Hands behind your back. Do it!” He did, and I cuffed him. Then I snatched his gun, shoving it into my waistband. “Turn around,” I said. “Back inside. Move it!” Why did I feel like I knew this guy?
My thoughts slammed to a halt when I saw Wendy lying face down on the floor. Blood was pumping out of an exit wound on her back. She was still alive.
“On your knees,” I shouted at her assailant. “All the way. Face down!”
I twisted back to Wendy. The son of a bitch had tied her hands and as I gently turned her over, I found duct tape covering her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open and she tried to speak. I knelt next to her and pulled the tape back.
