Dark Horse (11 page)

11

I dressed in black from head to toe,
slicked my hair back with a handful of gel, put on a pair of narrow black wraparound sunglasses, and stole Sean’s black Mercedes SL. I looked like a character from
The Matrix.
Serious, mysterious, edgy. Not a disguise, but a uniform. Image is everything.

I had asked Berne to meet me in the parking lot at Denny’s in Royal Palm Beach, a fifteen-minute drive from the show grounds. He had groused about the drive, but I couldn’t take the risk of being seen with him near the equestrian center.

Berne arrived in a Honda Civic that had seen better days. He got out of the car looking nervous, glancing around. A private eye, a clandestine meeting. Heady stuff. He was dressed to ride in gray breeches with a couple of stains and a red polo shirt that clashed with his hair.

I buzzed down the Mercedes’ side window. “Mr. Berne. You’re here to meet me.”

He squinted at me, doubtful, uncertain, unable to get any kind of a read on me. An agent for a shadow organization. Maybe he’d been expecting Nancy Drew.

“We’ll talk out here,” I said. “Please get in the car.”

He hesitated like a child being offered a ride by a stranger. He looked around the parking lot again as if he expected something bad to happen. Masked operatives creeping out of the shrubbery to ambush him.

“If you have something to tell me, get in the car,” I said impatiently.

He was so tall, he had to fold himself in to fit into the Mercedes, as if he were getting into a clown car. What a contrast he was to Jade’s handsome, elegant image. Howdy Doody on growth hormones. Red hair and freckles, skinny as a rail. I’d read enough about Michael Berne to know he’d been a minor contender in the international show-jumping world in the early nineties, when he had ridden a horse called Iroquois. But the biggest thing he’d done was a tour of Europe with the second string of the U.S. Olympic team. Then Iroquois’ owners had sold the stallion out from under him, and he hadn’t had a big winner since.

When Trey Hughes had come into his barn, Berne had been quoted in an interview saying that Stellar was his ride back into the international spotlight. Then Stellar went to Don Jade’s barn, and Michael Berne’s star dimmed again.

“Who do you work for again, Ms. Estes?” he asked, taking in the pricey car.

“I didn’t say.”

“Are you with the insurance company? Are you with the police?”

“How many cops do you know drive a Mercedes, Mr. Berne?” I asked, allowing the barest hint of amusement to show. I lit one of Sean’s French cigarettes and blew the smoke at the windshield. “I’m a private investigator—
private
being the operative word. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about, Mr. Berne. Unless, of course, you’ve done something wrong.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said defensively. “I run an honest business. There aren’t any stories going around about me killing horses for the insurance money. That’s Don Jade’s territory.”

“You think he had Stellar killed?”

“I know he did.”

I watched him from the corner of my eye, and when I spoke I used a flat, monotone, business voice. “You have something to back that up? Like evidence?”

His mouth turned down in a sour pout. “Jade’s too smart for that. He always covers his tracks. Last night, for example. No one will ever connect Don Jade to it, but he had my horses turned loose.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because I confronted him. I know what he is. It’s people like Jade that give the horse business a bad name. Crooked deals, stealing clients, killing horses. People turn a blind eye as long as they aren’t the victims. Someone has to do something.”

“Did Trey Hughes ever approach you about doing something to Stellar?”

“No. I had Stellar on track. He was making progress. I thought we had a shot at the World Cup. I would never have anything to do with a scheme like that anyway.”

“Why did Hughes take the horse away from you?”

“Jade poached him. He steals clients all the time.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you weren’t winning?”

Berne glared at me. “We were getting there. It was only a matter of time.”

“But Hughes wasn’t willing to wait.”

“Jade probably told him he could do it faster.”

“Yeah, well, now Stellar is going nowhere.”

“What about the autopsy?”

“Necropsy.”

“What?”

“It’s called a necropsy when it’s a horse.”

He didn’t like being corrected. “So what did it show?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge those details, Mr. Berne. Were there any rumors going around before the horse died? I heard he wasn’t sound.”

“He was getting older. Older horses need maintenance—joint injections, supplements, things like that. But he was tough. He had a big heart and he always did his job.”

“No one was hinting anything hinky was going on in Jade’s barn?” I asked.

“There are always rumors about Jade. He’s done this before, you know.”

“I’m familiar with Mr. Jade’s background. What kind of rumors lately?”

“The usual. What drugs his horses are on. Whose clients he’s after. How he’s got Trey Hughes by the balls—pardon my language.”

“Why would anyone say that?”

“Come on,” he said, defensive again. “He must have something. How else is he getting that barn Hughes is building?”

“Through merit? Good deeds? Friendship?”

None of my suggestions appealed.

“You worked for Trey Hughes,” I said. “What could Jade have on him?”

“Take your pick: his drug du jour, whose wife he’s been sleeping with—”

“How he came to inherit so suddenly?” I suggested.

Berne tried to sit back and study me for a moment, his expression not unlike Jill Morone’s when she’d been trying to decide how to play me. “You think he killed his mother?”

“I don’t think anything. I’m just asking questions.”

He considered something and laughed. “Trey would never have the nerve. He stuttered whenever he talked about Sallie. She scared the crap out of him.”

I didn’t point out that Trey only needed nerve enough to hire someone else for the job. Delegating was something I was sure came quite easily to a man who had spent his entire life shirking any kind of responsibility.

“You haven’t heard any rumors up that alley?” I asked.

“People make jokes behind his back. No one really thinks it. Trey has all he can do getting himself through the day. He couldn’t organize his wallet, let alone plan a murder and get away with it. Anyway, he was with someone the night he got the call about his mother.”

“Really? Who?”

He looked away. “What difference does that make?”

“It makes a difference if that person is in fact an accessory to murder.”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“I’ll get the answer one way or another, Mr. Berne. Do you want me asking all around the show grounds, opening up old wounds, stirring up old gossip?”

Berne stared out the window.

“Should I start guessing?” I asked. “Maybe it was you. That would put a fresh spin on an old story, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m no fruit!”

“It’s hardly a stigma in the equestrian community, is it?” I said on the verge of boredom. “From what I’ve seen, maybe every third guy is straight. Think of all the new friends you’ll have if you come out of the closet. Or maybe you already have. I could look for an old boyfriend—”

“It was my wife.”

Who he gave up in a heartbeat rather than have a perfect stranger think his switch clicked the other way.

“Your wife was with Trey Hughes the night his mother died? With him in the biblical sense?”

“Yes.”

“With or without your consent?” I asked.

Berne turned purple. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“If you thought you were on the verge of losing a client, maybe you and the missus cooked up a little incentive plan for him to stay.”

“That’s sick!”

“The world’s a twisted place, Mr. Berne. No offense to you, but I don’t know much about you as a person. For instance: I don’t know if you’re trustworthy. I need my name and my job description kept out of the public forum. I find people to be more closemouthed if they themselves have a secret they’d like kept. Are you getting my drift here, Mr. Berne? Or do I need to be more direct?”

He looked incredulous. “Are you threatening me?”

“I prefer to think we’re reaching a mutual understanding on the importance of confidentiality. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

“You don’t work for General Fidelity,” he mused. “Phil would have said something.”

“Phil?”

“Phil Wilshire. The claims adjuster. I know him. He would have said something about you.”

“He’s talked to you about this case?”

“I want Jade caught once and for all,” he said, screwing up some self-righteous indignation. “He should be run out of the business. If there’s anything I can do, I will.”

“Anything?” I asked pointedly. “I’d be careful with my mouth if I were you, Mr. Berne,” I cautioned. “A case could easily be made that you so hated Don Jade, you killed Stellar and you’re trying to hang it on Jade in order to ruin him. There goes his career. There goes his position with Trey Hughes. You patch things up with Hughes, maybe you slip right back into the picture.”

Berne exploded. “You asked me to come here so you could accuse me?! What are you? Crazy?”

“My, what a temper you have, Mr. Berne,” I said calmly. “You should try anger management counseling. Rage is bad for your health.”

He wanted to scream at me. I could see him almost choke on it.

“To answer your earlier question: No. I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m blunt. I have to cover all the bases, and I don’t have time to screw around. I don’t make friends doing it, but I get the answers I need.

“Maybe you’re not guilty of a thing, Mr. Berne. Like I said, I don’t know you. But in my experience, most crime is underpinned by three motives: money, sex, and/or jealousy. You score in all categories. So let’s clear you right now, and I can concentrate on Jade. Where were you when Stellar died?”

“Home. In bed. With my wife.”

I took a last long drag on the cigarette and exhaled through half a smile. “She’s going to have to change her name to Alibi.”

Berne held up his hands. “That’s it. I’m through here. I came out of the goodness of my heart to help—”

“Put the violin away, Berne. We both know why you came here. You want Jade ruined. That’s fine with me. I have my own agenda.”

“Which is what?”

“My client’s interest. Maybe we can both end up with what we want. How long after Sallie Hughes died did Trey take his horses to Jade?” I asked.

“Two weeks.”

“And when did you hear Hughes had bought the property in Fairfields?”

“A month later.”

My head felt like it had been put in a vise. I didn’t want to know the sordid details of Trey Hughes’ life or Michael Berne’s life or Don Jade’s life. I wanted to find Erin Seabright. My luck she lived in Pandora’s box.

I pulled her photograph out of the inside pocket of my jacket and handed it to Berne. “Have you ever seen this girl?”

“No.”

“She worked for Jade up until last Sunday. She was a groom.”

Berne made a face. “Grooms come and go. I have all I can do to keep track of my own.”

“This one vanished. Look again, please. You never saw her with Jade?”

“Jade always has women around him. I don’t see the attraction, myself.”

“Jade has a reputation in that area, doesn’t he? Sleeps with the help?”

“The help, the clients, other people’s clients. There’s nothing he won’t stoop to.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Berne,” I said. I handed him a plain white card with a number printed on it. “If you have anything useful to tell, please call this number and leave a message. Someone will contact you. Thank you for your time.”

L
andry parked his car among the giant four-by-four trucks, BMWs, and Jaguars, and got out, already scanning the ground so he wouldn’t step in anything. He’d grown up in a city. All he knew about horses was that they were huge and smelled bad.

The day was bright and warm. He squinted even through the lenses of his aviator shades as he surveyed the scene. It looked like a goddam refugee camp—tents and animals everywhere. People on bicycles and motor scooters. Dust billowed in clouds as trucks rumbled past.

He saw Jade’s sign, went into the tent, and asked the first person he saw where Mr. Jade was. An Hispanic man with a pitchfork of shit in hand nodded to the side of the tent and said, “Outside.”

Landry went in the direction of the nod. Halfway between Jade’s tent and the next a man in riding clothes was sipping from a Starbucks cup, listening impassively as an attractive blonde talked at him. The blonde seemed upset.

“Mr. Jade?”

The pair turned and looked at him as he approached and showed them his badge.

“Detective Landry, Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, my God!” the blonde laughed, flashing a big smile. “I knew you’d get caught! You never should have torn the tag off that mattress.” She turned the smile on Landry. “Paris Montgomery. I’m Mr. Jade’s assistant trainer.”

Landry didn’t smile back. Three hours’ sleep didn’t supply enough energy to waste on phony charm. He looked past the woman. “You’re Mr. Jade?”

“What’s this about?” Jade asked, striding into the tent and past Landry, trying to draw him back away from where passersby might see them.

“Are you aware of what happened here last night?” Landry asked. “Some horses were set loose a couple of tents down the row.”

“Michael Berne’s,” Paris Montgomery supplied. “Of course we know. It’s terrible. Something has to be done about security. Do you have any idea what these animals are worth?”

“Their weight in gold, apparently,” Landry said, bored hearing about it. Why in hell should a horse be worth a million bucks if it wasn’t on a racetrack?

“He’s going to come after you, Don,” she said to her boss. “You know Michael will be telling everyone who’ll listen you did the deed—or had it done.”