by Nero Blanc
Rosco sniffed at the pungent air. “To each his own. I hope their house is upwind of the stables.”
Pete laughed. “You get used to it after a few years; actually grow to like it.”
“I guess that was some fire the other night.”
“Oh, yeah. The stable’s one thing, but they lost a bundle in saddles and equipment. Real bad timing, too, with the Barrington coming up in a few weeks.”
“The Barrington?”
“The Barrington Horse Show, out on the Cape? It’s one of the top hunter-seat competitions in the country. Certainly the biggest in Zone One. All three of Mr. C’s kids plan to ride in it. Mr. C used to compete in it, too, until he had his spill a few years back. He’s got a string of ribbons from all over the country. Anyway, gonna be a little tough for the kids to compete without proper saddles.” Pete laughed again, but this time the sound was edgy and hard. It gave Rosco the impression the guard had far more respect for “Mr. C” than he’d ever have for Fiona, Heather, and Chip.
“I understand the barn manager got banged up pretty bad in the blaze. Friend of yours?”
“Orlando? Not friends, no . . . I mean, I say ‘hey’ to him, goin’ in and out of the gate. Him and his wife, Kelly. Nice folks, but private and businesslike, which is fine by me. They keep to themselves most of the time, but Orlando’s The Man when it comes to keepin’ the place in top-notch condition. Not gonna be an easy fella to replace.”
“Well, he’s regained consciousness, from what I hear. Hopefully he’ll be back to work before long.”
Pete shrugged. “If you say so.” He then looked down the road at a car slowing. “This must be Mr. Mize now.”
Rosco turned. “You know Clint?”
“No. But the swells who come and go through this gate all drive tanks. You know, Range Rovers, Hummers, and whatnot. Only peasants like me and insurance adjusters drive cars that get sensible gas mileage.”
Mize parked his Toyota sedan in front of Rosco’s Jeep and approached the two men. He was carrying a manila file folder. Mize was probably the same age as the security guard but short and bulldog-shaped; what little hair remained was white-white and buzzed to a stubble-length bristle. Clint Mize was an ex-Marine; he took pride in the fact that most people could guess that part of his history without being told.
“It’s good to see you again, Polycrates. Been a long time.” Mize shook Rosco’s hand and added, “What was it?” He snapped his fingers. “That torch-job on the yacht a few years back, right? When I was with Shore Line?”
“Sounds about right.”
“I’m glad you could fit this one into your schedule.” That was enough small talk for Mize. “I’d like to go over the fire marshal’s report with you before we go in.”
“Lead on.”
They walked over to Rosco’s Jeep. Mize opened his folder and set it on the hood.
“Okay . . . Mr. Collins has been a grade-A client of the Dartmouth Group for a long stretch, so they’re not looking to make any waves.” He tapped the report with his finger. “The marshal’s classifying the blaze as an accident, ‘nonsuspicious, ’ and Dartmouth’s inclined to agree. I just need to look it over and come up with a dollar figure that everyone can live with.”
“So why bring me in?” Rosco asked as he scanned the report.
“S.O.P. It’s going to be a hefty check, and Dartmouth’s board could raise a stink if I didn’t have a PI with some arson know-how look it over for me. But our CEO wants to handle this one P.D.Q. Scuttlebutt back at the office is that him and Collins are longtime buddies. And to be honest, any stalling would look bad in a high-profile deal like this.” Mize put on a Waspy accent and finished with, “Of course, nobody likes it when dirty looks are exchanged between long-standing members of the Patriot Yacht Club.”
“No, we certainly can’t have that.” Rosco chuckled, then read from the report. “So the barn manager allegedly knocked over a faulty space heater, along with a bottle of booze . . . which provides us with our primary source as well as an accelerant.” He looked at Mize. “That’s pretty much what I got from NPD yesterday.” He flipped over the report. “I don’t see evidence that anyone’s talked to the barn manager, Polk, yet. I understand he’s regained consciousness. Can he corroborate these facts?”
Mize shook his head. “Apparently there’s a slight case of amnesia going on there. He doesn’t remember how it all went down, but my guess is he’s trying to save his own hide. I mean, supposedly it was his hooch that started the blaze, and his reputation for not being what you’d call a teetotaler is apparently common knowledge out here.”
Rosco closed the folder. “Well, you know me, Clint; if I smell a rat, I’ll go to the fire marshal with it. And the DA, too. I won’t bury anything.”
Mize raised his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, buddy. That’s why I called you rather than some PI who’s going to roll over and play dead for the fat cats. I don’t like games any more than you do. I just wanted to brief you on company policy before we drove in there.”
The two men returned to their vehicles, passed through the gate, and proceeded along the alley of copper beeches. After a quarter of a mile they came to a rise in the lane. When they got to the top of the hill, they could see the whole of King Wenstarin Farms stretched out below them. The Collins mansion commanded another rise. From this vantage point, the entire house was visible. Built in the early 1920s, the residence looked as though it belonged in New-port, Rhode Island, rather than on a farm in Massachusetts. Six stately pillars spanned the front elevation, creating an imposing entrance and broad portico. The remainder of the structure was mostly Georgian in design: Palladian windows, French doors on the lower level, a slate roof punctuated by six chimneys. It was clearly a comfortable and spacious home. A number of large and small ancillary cottages stood at a respectful distance; lawns of perfect grass rolled between each building.
Five stables lay below the farm residences, one of which was now half-destroyed by fire. Each barn was equipped with a paddock as well as a fenced exercise area. Within sight also were two professional-sized practice arenas; one was fully enclosed for winter use, and the other was open-air and equipped with a small grandstand. That ring was presently arranged in jumping-course mode, with fifteen obstacles set at varying heights. Four teenage girls and a boy were taking their mounts through their paces, as a trainer stood at the center barking orders alternatively to the youngsters and their horses. Three women, whom Rosco guessed to be the kids’ mothers, sat in the grandstand chatting and laughing and paying little to no attention to their children’s activities. To a person, the women were clad in woolens and tweeds that were intended to appear casually mismatched as if the costumes had been hastily tossed together; instead the muted colors, the buttery Italian leather, and quite obvious cashmere and silk bore the unmistakable stamp of wealth. The mothers had their backs to the burned building, and their animated conversation seemed to indicate that they either didn’t notice the acrid scent of fire still lingering in the air and the muddy landscape surrounding the charred structure or that they refused to do so. If it’s not pretty, their postures said, it’s not worth wasting our time.
Rosco followed closely behind Clint’s Toyota, and also parked by the ruined stable.
“Mr. Collins said he’d meet us down here,” Mize told Rosco as they stepped from their cars. He then nodded back toward the mansion. “That must be him and the missus now.”
Rosco turned and watched Todd Collins and his wife, Ryan, stroll down to meet them. Collins was exactly as he’d been described: tall, rangy, white-haired, and uncompromising, with a slight limp he seemed determined to ignore. Ryan also matched prior descriptions: a strikingly beautiful woman in her late thirties with blond hair braided into a single plait and sharp green eyes. As the couple neared, however, deeply etched lines in her face became evident, turning her expression into one of perpetual disappointment rather than ease, while the braid took on the tightly woven appearance of a show horse’s tai
l.
Mize conducted the introductions, and Ryan responded with a testy, “I don’t see why we need a private investigator. It makes us sound like we’ve committed some sort of crime, and personally I find it a little insulting.”
Mize’s response was conciliatory but assured. “Don’t think I’m being flippant when I say this, Mrs. Collins, but even though Polycrates and I are both working for the Dartmouth Group, we have cross purposes. My job is to assess damages, make certain that you get a settlement you’re comfortable with, and that we get it to you in a timely fashion.” He cocked his thumb toward Rosco. “My buddy here plays the bad guy. It’s his job to come up with a reason Dartmouth can use for not paying the claim. It’s S.O.P., standard operating procedure. Works the same with any large claim—fire, theft, personal liability, you name it.” He smiled his brisk, no-nonsense smile. “I want to be thoroughly up front with you both, because Dartmouth has every intention of making good on this claim. So please, don’t let anything Rosco asks insult you; he’s only doing a job. Dartmouth’s CEO has a board of directors to answer to, and if we didn’t play this by the book it would only raise more questions than answers.”
“Fine,” was her less-than-gracious reply, “but I still don’t like it. How long’s this going to take?”
Rosco opened his mouth to respond, but Todd jumped in with a placating “Ryan needs to leave shortly for Logan Airport. The wife of our injured barn manager has been away in Kentucky. She’s arriving in an hour, and she hasn’t yet seen her husband. Ryan’s taking her straight to the hospital.”
Clint glanced at his watch. “You can go now if you like, Mrs. Collins.” He then looked at Rosco. “Do you have anything to ask?”
Rosco pulled a small pad from his pocket. “Just one or two quick questions, if you don’t mind? Were you home when the fire broke out, Mrs. Collins?”
“What? You think I started it?”
“No, not at all; consensus seems to be that your barn manager was responsible. I only wondered if you were home, and if you might have seen or heard anything unusual prior to the onset of the blaze.”
“Yes I was home, but no I didn’t see or hear anything suspicious—if that’s what you’re getting at. Of course, I saw the stable burn. Everyone did.”
“And it wasn’t you who called the fire department?”
“No. Todd said I . . .” She stopped and looked at her husband, but his eyes were fixed to the charred and hulking building, and his expression gave no indication whether or not he’d heard her speak. She returned her concentration to Rosco, and gave him a small and chilly smile. “No. It wasn’t me who called.”
“The dispatcher said it was a woman. Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’d just like to talk to her, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Ryan Collins glanced at her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.” Then she headed back toward the main house without another word.
CHAPTER
7
Rosco, Clint, and Todd watched in silence as Ryan Collins’s blue Mercedes coupe roared down the lane.
“Sorry about all that,” her husband said after the car had disappeared, “this situation has been tough on her. On everyone actually. We lost a lot of good leather in that tack room. And with the Barrington coming up so soon . . . let’s just say we’re all extra tense.”
“Fortunately there was no loss of life,” was Rosco’s quiet response. “Human or equine.”
Todd regarded him, shifting his weight as if in pain. “You’re right, of course. What was I thinking?” Then he shook his head as though Rosco’s remark had finally sunk in. “We competitive riders tend to forget everything except the next show, the next event. Anything that causes even minor setbacks—damage to a lucky saddle, for instance—is a problem, and we act out accordingly. The days surrounding a major competition can be downright ugly; nerves are frayed; tempers are continually on edge. I’ve heard the world of professional yacht racing is the same, although I don’t have any firsthand experience since most of my life has been devoted to the fickle business of getting big and contrary beasts to run and jump as if they were circus-trained poodles.” Then he gave Rosco a crooked smile. “I know who you are. Are you aware of that?”
“Pardon me?”
“You’ve done a marvelous job of keeping your mug out of the newspapers, but I recognized your name immediately.”
Mize laughed. “Yeah, that chop-shop case Rosco cracked back in March got more press than a presidential visit. Guess you had to pull some major strings to keep the paparazzi off your front door, didn’t you, pal?”
“No,” Todd continued, “I was referring to who he’s married to. I’m a crossword puzzle addict, and I go to bed with your wife every night.”
Rosco laughed while Clint said, “I’m not going near that line with a ten-foot pole.” He pulled a small tape recorder from his jacket. “Getting back to business; I’m just going to poke around and make some verbal notes, Mr. Collins.” He began to head toward the stable. “I’ll need a list of everything that was in the tack room with a value placed on it. The policy was drawn up for a content value of three hundred thousand dollars. I assume that’s going to cover it, but we’re going to need to see some written appraisals or receipts. Whatever documentation you have.”
“I’ll have to look around,” Todd replied. “Most of the saddles cost upwards of four thousand dollars. They were French Bruno Delgranges and Luc Childérics as well as English Crosbies . . . but it’s not simply a matter of replacing them. Once a rider gets his—or her—rump into something he’s comfortable with, anything else feels like a wooden merry-go-round seat. Stupidly, most of the paperwork was kept in the filing cabinet right in the tack room—which wasn’t fireproof.”
“I think we’ll be able to give you some leeway there,” Mize told him. “I’m sure your supplier will have records on what you paid.”
“I’d like to take a look at what’s left of the tack room myself.” Rosco added.
“Sure.”
The three men walked through the mud and entered what was once the building’s west entrance. That half of the structure had collapsed into a pile of charred beams and ruined box stalls; the threatening odor of smoke and drenched wood and ash remained, while the burned leather of the saddles and bridles emitted a ghoulish stench of scorched flesh. Apart from the pervasive smell and a few blackened patches of wood, the eastern end of the stable remained untouched. Once the sprinkler system had been activated, the fire had been stopped dead in its tracks.
Collins shook his head as he stared at the scene. “I could just shoot that damn plumber.”
“As long as you had a work order for the sprinkler repair, you’re in the clear as far as Dartmouth is concerned, Mr. Collins,” Clint told him. “It shows intent.”
“I don’t give a hang about the insurance. I just hate to see the place torn up like this.” Collins kicked at a number of steel bits and stirrup irons lying near his feet, all that remained of some of the ornate trimmings that were as much a part of a horse show as rider and steed.
“Maybe you could tell me what happened the other night,” Rosco prompted.
Collins drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I had just finished watching the evening news, so I can place the time as being a bit after seven. I was in the den. The room looks out over this stable, which is damn lucky. I don’t know why I happened to glance outside, but I did . . . and that’s when I spotted flames kicking up through the window in the tack room. I saw the shadow of someone swatting at them with a large cloth, which I assume was a horse blanket; obviously that person was Orlando. I don’t know how he could’ve been so stupid; we had three-quarters of a million dollars worth of horseflesh stabled in this barn, and there he was trying to put out the fire before getting the animals to safety. Anyway, I just tore out of the house, bum leg or no. All I could thin
k about was, save the horses.”
“Which you did,” Clint said.
“Damn straight. I ran down here, yanked open one of the doors, and found Orlando standing there like a bump on a log. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking. Anyway, we got all the stock out. Then Polk ducked back inside to activate the busted sprinklers.” Collins abruptly ceased talking; his eyes moved past Rosco and Clint. “Ah, here’s Jack . . . Jack Curry. He’s the head trainer around here. He helped me drag Orlando out. Good thing he showed up when he did. I couldn’t have done it alone.”
Jack introduced himself to Clint and Rosco and finished with, “I saw you drive up. Just thought I’d swing by and throw in my two cents if you needed it.”
“Sure,” Rosco answered. He looked at Curry, who gazed affably back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Rosco’s suspicious nature made him wonder whether Jack had arrived in order to validate answers rather than supply them. “Perhaps you could tell me when you first noticed the fire.”
Curry pointed to one of the three largest cottages farther up the hill. “I’m staying up in Tulip House. The minute I saw the flames, I was out the door and on my way down here. I didn’t bother to look at the clock.”
“And you didn’t consider contacting the fire department.”
Curry shook his head. “I’m a horseman. If my animals are in trouble, I want to be with them. The fire department’s ten minutes away—if we’re lucky. A lot can happen in ten minutes.”
Rosco turned back to Todd. “Did I understand Mrs. Collins correctly when she began to say that you told her not to call the fire department?”
Todd’s jaw tightened, and his eyes turned slit-thin as though he were staring at the sun. Rosco recognized the expression; it was the look of a man trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth—or whether it was more expedient to simply belt the person who’d asked the question.
