Flamingo Road

by Sasscer Hill

  “Fia,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. Mason wasn’t supposed to die.”

  What? Why was she talking about Dad?

  “Wendy, don’t try to talk.”

  She shook her head. “Please, forgive me, Fia. I didn’t know.” Her voice sounded so weak.

  “Wendy, do you know who killed my father?

  The man on the floor started to rise.

  “I still have my gun on you, fuckhead. Get down.” He sank to the floorboards. Wendy tried to speak. I leaned closer to her.

  “I’m sorry, Fia, I never thought…” Her breath caught and she closed her eyes.

  I clutched at her shoulders. “Wendy, if you know who killed Dad, tell me.” I put my ear to her lips.

  “The man … the man who—” she coughed and blood trickled from her mouth. A sigh escaped her before a glaze shut off the light in her eyes.

  Goddamn it. I stared at the man who’d shot her. Something … his scent when he’d tried to rush past me. Recognition clicked into place. I reached over, grabbed his hair and wrenched it. The shaggy wig came off in my hands.

  Fucking Morales. If I’d disliked him before, I hated him now. I had played him for a fool, busted him for murder, and I wanted him to know it.

  But as my glance shifted to Wendy’s crumpled body, my sense of satisfaction disintegrated. Unleashing my anger wouldn’t bring her back. There was a chance I hadn’t blown my cover with Morales, and this case was far from over.

  Still, I couldn’t resist nudging him with my boot. “The county prosecutor,” I said, “will love how your wig adds premeditated to his charges. Can you say murder one, asshole?”

  Morales remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. I took a deep mental breath and pulled my cell to call track security. I told them there’d been a shooting and to get an ambulance.

  * * *

  “Call the Broward County Police,” I said. “We need someone from homicide. A woman’s been murdered.”

  36

  Since Broward County’s Hallandale Beach PD is located just across South Federal Highway from Gulfstream’s main entrance, the cops arrived almost as fast as the racetrack security guards. It didn’t take long for the county police to stuff Morales and me into separate squad cars and hustle us over to headquarters.

  As we pulled away from Serpentino’s barn, I looked back to where crime scene lights already spilled from the stall where Wendy lay dead. I was still consumed by a desire to help her, and felt like I was abandoning her. How I wished she’d told me what she knew about Dad’s murder. Too late for any of that. I could only chill. Wait for that next opening.

  They put me in an interview room on the second floor in the homicide division. I sat there a long time while two detectives came and went, alternately questioning me, and making calls to the Baltimore PD and the TRPB to verify my story.

  One of the homicide detectives, a woman named Bailey, entered the room not long before they finally released me.

  “You got any idea,” she asked, “what this Morales guy is so afraid of?”

  “Afraid?”

  The detective had short, spiky red hair, with a personality to match. “I’m asking you,” she said, “if you know why he’s so afraid to talk?”

  “He doesn’t want to go to jail?” Fia, queen of the smart answer.

  Bailey rolled her eyes. “Come on. Help me out here. It’s more than fear of prosecution and jail time. He’s afraid of something else.”

  And suddenly I knew. “That would be Luis Valera,” I said, and told her what I knew about the man and his operation.

  “Okay,” Bailey said, “we’ll try and see if Valera’s name gets a response out of him.” But when Bailey finally released me, she told me that Valera’s name had resulted in Morales lawyering up and refusing to say another word.

  Around eight thirty that evening, a beat officer drove me back to my Mini, where I checked my cell and found a text from Gunny asking me to phone him. I could only imagine the calls he’d gotten from the Hallandale Beach PD. As soon as the Mini was rolling out of the backstretch, I pressed his speed dial.

  He wouldn’t let me talk about Wendy until I assured him I was okay. After that, I plowed in. “Morales was the blue juice man. He’s the one who gave it to Wendy, then she’d provide it to trainers like Serpentino and Roger Copper.”

  “That solves part of our puzzle,” Gunny said, “but the police will be more interested in proving their homicide case than helping us or the Florida Division of Pari-Mutuel Wagering.”

  “True.” I paused a beat. “I’m not sure where we go from here. Morales isn’t talking and Wendy’s … dead.”

  I had to brake for an older woman who’d slowed her car to a standstill in the lane in front of me. I’d seen a lot of old-timers driving like lost turtles in South Florida. As I drove around her, she was squinting through thick glasses, sticking her neck forward to peer through her windshield like she wasn’t sure where to go. She could get in line behind me.

  “Gunny,” I said, “Valera will have to find a way to sell this drug.”

  “He will.” He paused and I was pretty sure I heard him going for his antacid tabs. “Fia, do you think Morales recognized you as Kate?”

  I thought a moment. As Kate, my voice had been breathless and flirtatious. Today, Morales had heard a tough, angry Baltimore cop, and I didn’t look or act like Kate.

  “No.”

  “Okay then, you stay on top of Serpentino. Like you said, Valera and the others are greedy. They’ll have to make a move. We’ll need to be ready.”

  By the time I parked in front of Patrick’s house, I was beat. Too much thinking, too much action. So many memories of Dad and the past had been raked up throughout the long day and now they simmered on a mental back burner. As I stared through the dark yard at the warm light spilling from Patrick’s windows, his house suddenly felt like my home. My thoughts distilled into a sharp realization—Patrick and Jilly were not only family, they were precious, and not to be lost.

  I hurried across the terrace, and when I opened the front door, I was startled to see Zanin sitting on the orange and cream couch with Patrick. They were drinking beer and watching a football game on Patrick’s big-screen TV.

  With all that had happened, I’d forgotten I’d asked Zanin over. At the moment, he seemed totally absorbed by the game. Patrick appeared more involved with trying to ignore Jilly who stared at him from a cross-legged position on the carpet. She looked like she was trying to kill him with stony eyes and silence. She did not greet me.

  “Don’t everybody jump at once,” I said.

  Jilly scowled.

  Zanin held up a hand in greeting, or maybe it was a just-a-minute gesture. “Thirty seconds left in the game,” he said.

  “Jilly’s not speaking to me,” Patrick said.

  I should go back to the track. Maybe the horses would be glad to see me. I went into the kitchen, washed my hands, and made a stiff vodka with lots of ice and a juicy squeeze of lime. Returning to the living room, I sat in a turquoise chair and put my feet up on the matching leather ottoman. At least Rebecca’s stuff was comfortable.

  I sipped my vodka until a roar from the TV accompanied by those obnoxious horns indicated the game was over. Zanin slumped with disappointment. His team must have bombed.

  Zanin rose, stretched, then walked across the room. He pushed my feet to one side of the ottoman before sitting on the other edge.

  He glanced at Jilly who was still glaring at her father. “So, Jilly, I guess you’re pretty upset about that horse being claimed today.”

  “What do you care?” She impaled Zanin with a nasty look.

  Zanin shrugged. “I’m sorry you lost her, Jilly. It always hurts to lose a friend. But at least she’s not being starved to death or mistreated like some animals I’ve seen lately.”

  “You don’t get it. I love that horse. If Dad had only—”

  “Jilly,” Patrick said, his voice sharp, “you told me you didn’t want a horse
until we caught whoever’s killing them around here. Zanin told me three more horses were killed just last week, before Christmas.”

  “So what? It’s not like you knew that when you refused to claim her. Did you?”

  “No,” Patrick said. “But I told you I didn’t want you owning a hot-blooded racehorse, and I still don’t!”

  “Screw you,” she shouted, storming away from us and disappearing down the hall.

  “Jesus, Patrick,” I said, “you didn’t have to run her out of the room.”

  Patrick rose abruptly from the couch, stalked across the carpet, and went out the sliding door to the pool terrace. Before he closed the door, I heard an engine idling out on Lead Pony Lane. Then a car door slammed. Probably someone dropping off a neighbor.

  “That went well,” I said to Zanin before dropping my head into my hands and massaging my sore temples with my palms. “It’s been a really bad day, Zanin.”

  “I could tell that when you walked in. It looked like something was going on beyond the Jilly thing. What’s up?”

  I gazed at his face a moment. Sitting close to this man who was straightforward and kind was a nice change. No hidden agenda, just a good guy who wanted to save animals. I made a decision. I wouldn’t be working Gulfstream as Kate anymore, and Zanin knew as much about Valera as any of us. I told him.

  He stared at me like I was as odd a specimen as the Bluesters. “Damn, Fia, you could have been shot by this Morales guy.”

  “Well, I wasn’t.” I closed my eyes a beat. “If only I could have stopped what he did to Wendy.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe you’ve been working double undercover. This whole Kate act, the danger you put yourself in. Are you going to be safe from this Serpentino guy at the track?”

  “Sure. He still thinks I’m an exercise rider.”

  “But the woman, Wendy. She knew you used to be a cop. Don’t you think she might have told someone?”

  “I think she was too afraid to say anything, and even if she did, I’ve been open about quitting the department and going back to my racetrack roots.”

  Zanin lay a calloused hand on my arm. “Just tell me you have no reason to go back to Flamingo Road.”

  “No way,” I said, “that place gives me the creeps. We’ll have to wait for Valera to come out of the basin with his blue juice. Once we catch him in the act, we can get the cops to raid the place.”

  Zanin rubbed at his forehead, his expression doubtful. “That may be harder than you think. You know they hate going into the basin, and a drug that’s used on horses ain’t gonna be high on their priority list. Nothing to do with animals ever is.”

  I sighed. “I can’t think about this anymore. My brain is fried.”

  He nodded and squeezed my arm gently. “Let me know if I can help you, Fia.”

  As Zanin spoke, Patrick came in through the sliding door. “You two look cozy,” he said. “I’m going to check on Jilly, see if she’ll at least say good night to me. Then I’m turning in.”

  Zanin stood to leave, and the three of us made good-bye noises. Patrick headed down the hall, and as I walked Zanin to the front door, Patrick thundered back into the living room.

  “Jilly’s gone!”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “She’s not in her room, I didn’t see her outside, and her backpack’s gone.”

  I remembered the car I’d heard on Lead Pony Lane. “Is there anyone that might have picked her up?”

  “At ten o’clock at night?” Patrick’s voice was shrill. He called Jilly’s cell. It went directly to voice mail. He left an angry message telling her to call him immediately.

  That would help.

  “Did she leave a note?” Zanin asked.

  Patrick rushed back to Jilly’s room while Zanin and I searched the kitchen. We didn’t find a note. But when I checked my room, I saw Jilly’s handwriting on a yellow sticky pad on my desk.

  Angel called. My filly bowed and Copper is getting rid of her. We are going to rescue her.

  As worried as I was about her, if I could have somehow reached out far enough I would have smacked her.

  37

  The three of us read Jilly’s note and Patrick’s face flushed with anger. “Damn it, Zanin, this is your fault. You’ve infected her with all this ‘save the animals’ bullshit.”

  Zanin stared at Patrick without answering.

  “That’s not fair,” I said. “Zanin’s got nothing to do with her being so headstrong.”

  “Well, if anyone knows about headstrong, it’s you, Fia.”

  “Are you two going to fight, or look for Jilly?” Zanin asked.

  “You’re right,” Patrick said, visibly deflating. “I’m sorry.”

  Zanin held up the keys to his Tahoe. “I’ll drive you both to the track.”

  “There may be no point,” I said. “The horse may be gone already. Let me try to reach Copper.”

  I switched my phone to speaker and called the stable gate where the duty guard gave me a cell number for Copper. When he answered his phone, I explained the situation and asked if Last Call was still in his barn.

  “Oh, that one. Dumbest claim I ever made. Tendon big as a grapefruit by the time we got her to the barn.” He paused, as if contemplating his bad luck. “I already shipped her out. And those kids have no business going into my barn, anyway.”

  “You know how kids are,” I said, hoping to defuse him. “They’re crazy enough to try and find her. Can you tell me where you sent her?”

  A cold silence. Then, “That’s my business.”

  “Mr. Copper,” I said, “they’re just kids, and it’s late at night. Please, if you know anything…”

  “If they’re out joy-riding and getting into trouble, that’s your problem.”

  Nice, Copper, really nice. “If they go missing, the police may be coming to you with questions. Why not just tell me what you know?”

  Copper hung up.

  “What a prick,” Zanin said.

  Patrick’s shoulders sagged, as if he were already defeated.

  I called the stable gate duty guard back and asked if he had an address for Angel.

  “Serpentino’s groom? He lives here, in the groom’s quarters.”

  “Does he have a car?”

  “Let me see,” the guard said. “Yeah, he has one listed. You want the tag number?”

  “Please.” I wrote it down, thanked him, and hung up.

  “Between us, we’ve got three cars and three cell phones,” I said. “Let’s map out some areas to search. We can split up. I’m going to the track.”

  Patrick frowned. “But that guy said the horse isn’t there.”

  “But Angel might be in his room.”

  “With Jilly? Forget it, Fia, I’m coming with you.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said with a sigh. I hoped he didn’t mind participating in a little breaking and entering, because I planned to search Copper’s office.

  A few minutes later, as we parked outside the stable gate, Patrick tried Jilly’s cell again, but the call routed to voice mail. We approached the guard and explained our predicament. He placed a call to his supervisor, then gave us Angel’s room number.

  We hurried up a set of stairs on the side of the groom’s concrete building to the third floor. Hustling down a motel-like walkway, we searched the room numbers until we found Angel’s.

  A light from inside filtered through makeshift curtains along with the sound of salsa music. I knocked on the door, and the groom with the thick mustache who worked for Serpentino opened it. I should have realized Angel would have a roommate. The last time I’d seen this guy he’d been pushing a wheelbarrow and smirking at me when his boss had told me not to mess with his help. Peering over the guy’s shoulder into the tiny room, I didn’t see Angel.

  “Hola,” I said. “We’re looking for Angel.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “No.”

&nbs
p; Gritting my teeth, I said, “Does Angel have a cell phone?”

  “No. He pay to use kitchen phone.” With a smug look and a classic Latin shrug, he said, “I can’t help you.”

  Next to me, Patrick seemed to expand. “Listen, jerk, he’s got my daughter with him, and I’m not leaving here until you tell us where he is!”

  Go, Patrick.

  Like a typical bully, when seriously confronted, the groom scuttled back, dropping his gaze to the floor. Not smirking now.

  He darted a worried glance at Patrick. “Angel didn’t say where he was going. I haven’t seen him since this afternoon. I don’ want no trouble.”

  “You think he’s telling the truth?” Patrick asked me.

  “Yeah.” It wasn’t like we could beat more information out of him. “Let’s go.”

  We raced down the stairs and back to the car. After rolling through the gate into the deserted backstretch, we headed for Copper’s barn. We climbed from the Mini and walked to his shedrow.

  At eleven at night, the only occupants were the horses, a scrappy stable cat, and a few chickens roosting above our heads in the rafters. Like most stable offices, Copper’s was safely shut with a padlock.

  Reaching into my tote bag, I pulled out the Phillips screwdriver I’d tossed inside before leaving the house. No way I could unlock the heavy padlock, but it would be easy to loosen the screws that fastened the hasp into the door frame. I started twisting the first one.

  “Fia! What are you doing?”

  “You want to find Jilly or not?” I kept turning the Phillips.

  “Yes, but you can’t break into this guy’s office.”

  “Watch me.” A few minutes later, the screws loosened their grip on the frame. I tugged them out of their holes, leaving the hasp and the lock swinging uselessly against the door. On either side of us, Copper’s horses had their heads out, watching me curiously. I turned the doorknob and walked in.

  “You coming or not?” I asked.

  Outside on the dirt aisle, Patrick glanced nervously up and down the shedrow. “I’ll stay out here and keep watch.”