Full Mortality (16 page)
I walked toward Vipe’s barn that afternoon, attempting to look casual — just out for a stroll. The building stood next to a sagging chain-link fence separating Dimsboro from the railroad behind. On the far side of the tracks a steep bank dropped into the unadorned backside of a Food Lion strip mall. A hole in the fence and a well-worn footpath provided access to a number of shops, the liquor store and Chinese takeout being the most popular.
Vipe’s barn upheld the Dimsboro standard. His shedrow wasn’t neat, his buckets didn’t match, his aisles weren’t raked, and, of course, his roof leaked. But his horses were well fed. If someone directed this scam from the shadows, they were sly enough to supply the speedy “Rocket” with the necessary fuel.
Past training hours, but too early for evening feed, the barn appeared free of humans. The Dimsboro shedrows lacked the customary concrete half-wall perimeter. Instead, wood posts and waist-high pine-rails confined the horses to the dirt paths running before the stalls. People said the state park stapled sheets of plastic over the wood frame in the winter, and I could just imagine the stuff tearing and flapping in the northwest wind.
I eased into the aisle facing the track, looking for the two plain bays. The horses I found had white markings. At the last stall on the aisle I turned left and moved around the barn’s end on to the side facing the strip mall.
I spotted Whorly’s unusual arrangement of twirling neck hairs in the first stall. Four doors down I found Rocket. The two horses were about the same size, with similar head shapes. Rocket’s muscle structure was more developed than Whorly’s, and his eyes held the proud determination that good racehorses so often have. He obliged me by thrusting his head over the stall door. I slid my hand onto the left side of his neck and scratched. His pleasure was evident, the way he pushed against my hand, nodded his head in time to my rubbing. I gazed at the neck fur, finding a single cowlick. Stepped sideways and inspected the right side. The fur ran smooth and even.
My heart kicked up. I looked around, didn’t see anyone. I slipped into Rocket’s stall, grasped his halter and led him away from the door. With my other hand I got a hold of his upper lip, tried to curl it up, read his tattoo number. He resisted. I needed two hands and glanced around the stall walls. In the back a tie chain hung from a screw eye. I led Rocket over and clipped the snap on the end of the tie chain to his halter ring.
This time I got his lip up and stared at the number: 0120661. That meant he’d foaled in ’01, and his specific Jockey Club number was 20661. Tattoo numbers become worn and harder to read as a horse gets older, but these were fairly clear, didn’t appear to have been tampered with. I released Rocket and headed for Whorly.
I heard a rattling sound and froze. Stood motionless a few moments, my ears straining. I heard nothing more and crept into Whorly’s stall. Being more of an old plug, he let me fold his lip up and read the number. My heart hammered harder in my chest as I stared. The exact same number, only the sixes were fuzzy. Did it look like the sixes were previously eights? Like the one was a seven with the top knocked off? I thought of Vipe’s prison teardrop, of the lasers that could remove tattoos. How hard would it be to change an eight to a six, a seven to a one?
Proving my theory left my hands shaking. I’d thought maybe it couldn’t be true. Time to get out. I slid from the stall into the aisle, my eyes searching. Hurried down the shedrow, ducked under the rail and moved away, slowed as the sensation of watching eyes reached my back. Turning around, I saw someone staring from the track side of Vipe’s barn.
The thin boy. Damn. Where had he come from? I walked on as if unconcerned. Had he seen me come out the far side of the barn?
That evening, Lorna called, told me Vernal had found one set of papers in Clements’ file in the Laurel Park ID office. The document described a bay horse with one left-side-of-neck whorl. “Did you get the tattoo number?” I asked.
“My brain didn’t come from Wal-Mart. Of course I did.” I heard her rustling paper through my cell phone. “Here it is — 0120661.”
“And I bet the name on the papers is ‘Noble Treasure’?” Holding my breath.
“How’d you know that?”
I explained about the name I’d seen on Whorly’s halter after Dennis brought him into Laurel. Told her about my recent sleuthing in Vipe’s barn. I needed to talk to Carla and began winding up the conversation, but Lorna wasn’t finished.
“Nikki, didn’t you say something about an insurance scam going on, too?”
Mental head slap. “
Yes
. I didn’t think about it when the three of us were talking. Remember the Dark Mountain horse that turned up dead with Dennis O’Brien’s body? Belonged to Janet LeGrange. She probably had insurance, like old lady Garner.”
“You mean like Gildy?”
A spurt of fear hit me. Was there a connection I couldn’t see between the betting scam and the horse fatalities? “Yeah, like Gildy.” A heavy feeling washed over me. I paused a beat. “Lorna, what are the chances of two rich widows winding up with two dead horses?”
“Wouldn’t get my two bucks,” she said.
We disconnected with me thinking how I never got beyond Martha admitting to her insurance policy on Gildy. I felt she had more to tell me. Hell, she wouldn’t give me the time of day now.
I reached Carla. Told her I needed to pick her brain. We decided to meet the next day at Annapolis Mall, a halfway point between Dimsboro and her Baltimore wholesaler’s.
In the morning I realized Hellish was coming around. Before long I wouldn’t be afraid to drop the daily dose of Acepromazine. She’d been like a human with a nagging headache. Cranky. But since Farino worked on this filly, her anger was slowly dissolving. She realized galloping didn’t hurt anymore. The urge to run had been bred into her for centuries. Who could blame her for being frustrated when the thing she’d wanted to do the most caused pain?
Jim always said a happy horse will run to their potential, maybe beyond. I skipped the grinding routine of the racetrack for the day and rode Hellish down a dirt path beside Tavern Branch, letting her canter near the water’s edge. Mist hung over the creek in the morning chill, and a few Canada geese spooned their bills into the mud on the bank. As Hellish warmed up I could smell her sweat vaporizing into steam. She rolled along effortlessly, rocking me into a state of calm euphoria.
On the way back we slowed to a walk, stopping to watch some teenage goslings waddle behind their parents. The family slid down the bank and splashed into the branch, honking about it and waggling their tails. A fish flipped out of the water, then folded back into the stream, leaving only a ripple to mark its brief emergence.
I gathered the reins and my thoughts, and headed back to our barn.
* * *
Carla and I worked on vanilla lattes at one of the small round tables on the white tile floor near the coffee bar outside Nordstrom’s. Skylights lit the high ceiling overhead, and a fountain splashed and soothed in a stone basin nearby. We studied a lined pad where I’d drawn the tattoo numbers and a picture of the whorls. Below that was a notation on the single set of papers in Clements’ ID folder. Then the words “Dennis brings three Dark Mountain horses to Laurel.”
I swallowed some coffee and swiped at a trace of foam on my upper lip. “Whorly is one of the three. The horse I found dead with Dennis is number two. I don’t know where the third one is.”
“It’s not the one you call Rocket?” Carla’s elbows rested on the shiny table surface. She wore the soft leather jacket and a short black skirt.
“No way. He’s the real deal, wouldn’t have been sent to that auction. Bet his name really is Noble Treasure.”
Carla studied the page, frowning. “You said there’s more. Something about insurance.”
“We have two dead horses, Martha’s Gildy and Janet’s Dark Mountain horse. I have to find out that horse’s name, see if he was insured and for how much. Martha told me she had a policy on Gildy for $150,000.”
“Did she collect?”
“Finally.” Seeing her next question forming, I said, “No I don’t think Martha’s the bad guy, and I have no idea how someone else would benefit.”
I turned at the commotion made by a woman shouting after a small boy who pounded away from her, making a beeline for the fountain. The woman rushed with a baby stroller containing a plump infant who soaked up the sights and sounds of the mall like a sponge. Her face relaxed when she realized the water’s fascination had checked the boy’s flight. She caught up with him and gave him some pennies to toss in the fountain. The baby stared at the splashing water, mesmerized.
“You know,” said Carla, pulling my mind from the fountain. “Anyone can take out a life insurance policy on just about anybody. What about equine insurance?”
“I don’t know.” But I sure as hell needed to find out.
“I’ll go online, get the name of an equine insurance agent, call and pretend I’ve bought a horse. See if I can get an answer.” Carla studied me a moment. “I know how to get you into Laurel Park.”
A shadow darkened the skylights above, graying the white tile floor, removing the warmth of the sun. I remembered Carla saying earlier that she’d get me in, but the rest was up to me. She sat opposite me, supportive and loyal, while nearby the small boy gurgled with delight at the fountain. So why did I feel so alone?
Carla met me at the Silver Diner in Laurel for a late breakfast the following Monday. A hostess walked me past a row of blue-padded counter stools into the dining area, and pointed out Carla, who sat in a booth upholstered in blue vinyl with retro silver flecks. She’d already ordered us pancakes, crispy bacon, orange juice, and coffee. A waitress with masses of mascara showed up right behind me with the food. Conversation waited while Carla dug in. Being nervous, I tended to pick more than dig.
Carla slid her plate aside and drained her juice glass. She heaved a shopping bag onto the Formica tabletop, pushed it across to me. Red print on the silver paper read “Baltimore Stage and Costume.”
I peeked inside, and pulled out a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap with a curly blond wig sewn into the lining. The hair appeared real. Folded in the bottom of the bag were a matching nylon jacket and running pants.
“The kind of stuff you’d never wear,” Carla said.
I’d kept on my fleece vest from the morning, a perfect match to the Oriole red. I pointed to my vest, held up the ball cap. Carla ignored me.
She waved a wand-type lipstick. “You need to let me put this on you.” I squinted at it, made out the name “PuckerUp” in purple letters.
“This is the greatest stuff. Permanent lipstick, has to wear off.” Carla shook the product, and I could hear a hard mixing ball rattling around in there. She unscrewed the top, pulled out the wand to show me the color on the sponge tip, then examined the label. “They call this Hearts-in-the-Snow. It’ll look great on you.”
This was so Carla. “You want me to look good to sneak into Laurel?”
“You should always look good.” She pulled me into the ladies’ room, had me clean my mouth with a wet paper towel. With precise strokes, she painted on the red, going just over the edge of my lips, making them appear fuller. She accentuated the cupid’s bow, then studied her work. “Didn’t I tell you? Great lips. A man could die for those lips.”
“Let’s hope no one else has to.”
The words startled Carla. “Maybe I should have used a different expression. You’re going to be careful, right? Just waltz in, look at a file cabinet and get out. Right?”
“Let’s do the wig and the other stuff,” I said. “I want to get this over with.”
I left my car at the diner. While Carla drove the short distance to Laurel Park, I pulled down my visor and peered into the mirror glued on the back. A cute blonde with big lips stared back at me. Didn’t look like anybody I knew.
Gucci sunglasses covered my eyes, and my head was buried in a fashion magazine when Carla stopped at the stable gate to show her license to Fred Rockston. My body tightened as his gaze swept over me, but his eyes held no recognition. Carla and I slapped palms as we left the security guard behind. I still wondered about Rockston’s appearance at both crime scenes. Always found it hard to believe in coincidences like that.
Monday was a “dark” day at Laurel Park, which meant no racing. We’d picked the middle of the day because there wouldn’t be much going on, and hopefully no people in Clements’ barn.
Almost three weeks since I’d been escorted off the grounds by Offenbach. A wave of nostalgia swept through me as I looked at the horse paths leading to the track, the attractive barns with their tight, secure green roofs. I missed Jim Ravinsky, the fat tabby cat, and the stable pony, Mack. Missed the daily wisecracking and gossip, the Mexican grooms with their laughter, flashing smiles, and gold earrings.
“Nikki.” Carla pulling me into the present. “I’ll park by the track kitchen, wait there. You’ve got your cell phone?”
I felt in the pocket of the new jacket and found the phone, held it up. Slipping it back, I felt a small object push against my fingers from the pocket of the vest underneath. Something from Dimsboro, no doubt.
“The Phillips?” Carla asked.
I withdrew the screwdriver from the jacket’s other pocket. Lorna had talked to a guy from her pre-rehab days. Apparently a thief, he knew how to pick locks and get into places. He’d told her to check out Clements’ office door, and after her description of the hasp and Yale padlock, he’d said a Phillips would do it.
Carla’s brown eyes were solemn. “Watch your back, Nikki.” I threw her a smile, grabbed the magazine, and climbed from the car.
Weird, being in disguise. I passed a few grooms who lived in the track’s backstretch housing on my way to Clements’ barn. I knew one of them, but he stared like I was a stranger.
Jim’s stable roof rose in the distance, and closer I could see Clements’ barn arranged in that catty-cornered angle. I headed for the rear side, not wanting to get near Jim’s, thinking I’d either be recognized or unnerved. I reached the entrance, leaned against the outside wall, and leafed through the magazine. My ears strained to listen, my peripheral vision surveyed the surroundings, and some extra sense kicked in, scanning the barn for human presence. At midday the big sliding metal doors remained open. When convinced anything alive in there had either four legs or feathers, I closed the magazine and stepped into the barn like I had an appointment.
To the right a row of stalls stretched into the distance. To my left was the short end of the long rectangular barn, its dirt aisle making a quick right turn over to the barn’s opposite side, and another row of 30 stalls. Farino’s space occupied the far end, where the metal door facing his stalls provided a view of Jim’s operation.
My interest lay in this end, where three doors opened into small rooms generally used for office, tack, or feed storage. Clements’ lair occupied the middle spot. Pausing outside his door, I listened. Horses stomped, munched hay, and bumped the occasional feed bucket. A few pigeons preened and pecked for grain, but most of them remained half-asleep in the rafters. The barn’s sour odor still festered beneath the rich scent of horses.
I turned, studying the hinged metal hasp. The end securing the padlock had a slot fitting over a metal loop. The Yale lock hung from that loop, closed down tight, unbreakable. But the other end of the hasp . . . I almost laughed. The Phillips screws fastening it to the doorframe were totally accessible. Oversight or arrogance? Whatever, I took out the screwdriver and removed the little buggers, then yanked the hasp off the frame, rendering the lock useless. I turned the knob and went in.
Clements’ office was surprisingly clean and neat. Probably on account of his allergies. A row of plastic eye-drop bottles, inhalers, and prescription pills lay on a stand directly behind his wooden desk. Horse periodicals and stallion directories filled a bottom shelf. I went for his metal filing cabinet, and jerked open the top drawer. Folders labeled with horses’ names in alphabetical order stuffed the inside. My fingers flipped to “N,” found “Noble Treasure.”
My heart raced as I pulled the horse’s file. His Jockey Club papers lay between some vet records. The neck whorl description matched my memory of Whorly’s spiraling cowlick. The name, registration number, date of birth, and breeder were identical to those of the horse I called Rocket. I folded the certificate into my coat pocket, thinking they’d done a good job, the papers looked genuine.
Pigeons flew up from the dirt to my right, their wing beats loud and startling. I grabbed some air and tried to replace the first screw with nervous fingers.
Soft Spanish words drifted from the corner to my right. My heart jigged, the hand grasping the Phillips felt suddenly weak. A young man with fussy blond hair came around the corner, something about him familiar. I dropped everything and took off.
“Hey!” The guy pounded after me.
I reached the left corner and bolted to the right down the long side of the barn. Footsteps hammered behind me, swift and closing. I didn’t waste time looking over my shoulder, just ran full-out. Daylight spilled through the metal door down in Farino’s end. I sprinted toward the sunlight, almost reached its safety, when Arthur Clements rounded the far corner and blocked my path.
Surprise killed my momentum, and the blond smacked into me from behind. We crashed in the dirt, a tangle of arms and legs. I got my hands under me, struggling to rise. He clubbed the side of my head. Grabbed my shoulder, rolled me over so I faced him. Those
eyes
. I knew this man, but the hair was wrong.
“Hold her down.” Clements’ voice.
The blond gripped my wrist, twisting it to a painful angle. I tried to knee him in the privates, but he caught my bent leg and flipped me back into the dirt.
A heavy boot pressed against my neck. Clements. He stood over me, his face dark with some emotion. The blond straddled my legs, snatched at my arms. We struggled until Clements shifted all his weight onto my neck, cutting my air. I stopped fighting.
“You stupid bitch,” he said. “Couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
A memory raced through my brain. Clements shouting at Dennis that he talked too much. Panic churned my gut.
“This chica, she think she know everything. I know girls had same problem.” He grinned and pulled a knife from his belt.
Vipe’s knife? My eyes found the prison teardrop, faint under some kind of greasepaint. Recognition froze me like a wave of ice.
“You like my disguise? Is good, no? Yours, not so good.” With an odd giggle, Vipe snatched the cap from my head, ripping hairs as Carla’s pins gave way.
“Put that back on,” snapped Clements. “I don’t want anyone recognizing her. We gotta get her outta here.”
Vipe pushed the tip of his knife against my cheek. My eyes slid shut. “I want to play with her. You no let me play with her?”
“Stop it, Vipe. You’ve already got her hairs all over the dirt. You think I want her blood?”
“Okay, man. Chill.” The knife eased away.
“Get some baling twine, tie her hands and ankles. Do it!” Clements’ angry shout almost sounded tinged with fear.
Vipe trussed me up like a Christmas goose and sealed my mouth with duct tape. Clements removed the crushing leather boot. I coughed, trying not to gag behind the tape. Clements pulled Vipe aside, whispering.
The Latino’s laugh made my skin crawl. “You wait for me there, chica.” He grinned like he’d made a joke. “I hurry back with something you like.”
I twisted, searching Clements’ face. His expression was like a door slamming shut.
Outside I heard a truck’s diesel engine clank by. I tried to make noise through the tape but Clements slid his boot back onto my neck and I gave it up. Vipe reappeared with a small plastic grocery bag. He knelt next to me, rustled in the bag and withdrew a small glass bottle and a syringe.
I exploded. Clements dropped to the ground, shoving one hand on my neck, pinning my left arm with the other. Vipe sat on my thighs, pressing the inside of my right forearm until the vein popped. He held up the needle, stared at it lovingly, then drove it into my arm.
I could feel their anticipation. The bastards were enjoying it. In seconds a warm, hot rush coursed through me. My head wanted to explode, then I sunk into an unseeing daze. I sensed them untying me, felt a sharp sting as they ripped off the duct tape. They must have half-carried, half-walked me out the door. I remember my arm over Vipe’s shoulder, him kissing me and laughing at someone, saying something about me liking to get drunk early. Then I was in Clements’ truck, wedged between them, incapacitated, slipping away.
