Shedrow (11 page)

“First Mr. Pawlek, I want to thank you for coming in today; it shows a lot of courage and integrity on your part.”

He hated to be called Mr. Pawlek by anyone, but he was too scared to say so right now. He nodded, his eyes shifting between Hollis and a photo on the wall. The photo depicted Hollis with the U.S. President. The President was shaking Hollis’ hand and presenting some sort of award or plaque.

“You know your father is one of the suspects in the murder of that famous stallion he owned.”

“Yes I do.”

“And you’re willing to help us?”

“Willing to try.”

“I understand you and your father aren’t exactly getting on very
well right now.”

“We never did, actually.”

At that moment, a recollection took John back many years, breaking his concentration. He was in the Emergency Room at Englewood Hospital, his face battered and his lower lip cut. Fortunately, there had been no broken bones, and once again his mother had concocted the alibi—a scuffle with a friend, and no one suspected otherwise.

“So why are you willing to help us?” Hollis asked him for the second time.

John snapped to attention. “Because of the horse. I watched that horse grow up, watched him win the Preakness, went to visit him at the barns when he was stabled in Belmont or Saratoga. Some of the only good times I had with my father seemed to revolve around that horse.”

“Do you think he could have had the horse killed somehow?”

“I know he talked about it.”

“When?” the fed asked.

“A few weeks before the Chief died.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“Something about the horse getting sick. That if someone could make the horse get sick, then he would get all the insurance money.”

“Do you and your father still talk much?”

“Yeah, some.”

“Does he ever talk about…business…in your presence?”

“Sometimes, usually if he’s had a little too much to drink, which seems to happen a lot these days.”

“So if he had, say, a little too much to drink some night, and you
asked some questions about…business…you think he’d talk some?”

“Probably.”

“And you told the agent in our Louisville office that you’d wear a wire for us, and record what he says?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“John, I have to ask you again. Why are you willing to do this?”

“Because I want to find out myself if he was capable of killing that horse and if he did, he deserves to go to jail. And because I’ve been told about the witness protection program. About how I could go to a new state, and start a new life away from my father and all the lousy thugs he calls friends. I think I want that too.”

“Okay then, I think we may have a deal in the works.”

“Equine herpes virus?” Gianni asked Highet. “That was the cause of death? I didn’t know it could be fatal in the adult horse.”

“It is typically a disease that can be fatal to newborn foals, same as in humans. But there have been a few deaths recently in adult horses. It causes a condition known as peracute pulmonary vasculitis, essentially a widespread vasculitis, especially in the lungs. It can literally kill a horse overnight, and that’s what happened here.”

“How in hell did he contract it? Gianni asked.

“Anthony, that’s my concern. I don’t think he acquired the virus by any natural mode of transmission.”

“What?”

“He had been screened for the virus, so we know he wasn’t a latent carrier. And there are no other sick horses, not at Midway, anyway.”

“So how could it have occurred?”

“Look, I may be way out on a limb here, and this is still preliminary, but if the horse was susceptible, it wouldn’t take much more than a nasal swab, or something saturated with secretions from an actively infected horse or foal.”

“God Almighty, Steven, we need to meet soon. I haven’t told you about some of the darker moments in my dealings with Chiefly Endeavor. I know at least three people who wanted that horse dead. I think I should fly down so we can meet face to face. Will you have some time this weekend?”

“I’ll make time.”

“I’ll let you know the details as soon as I make my reservations. I’ll probably reserve a room at the Griffin Gate in Lexington.”

After he hung up the phone, he thought about calling Chet.
Not yet. I need to know a little more first.

The large sign at the exit to Lexington’s Bluegrass Airport read:

Welcome to Lexington Kentucky
Sister City to Newmarket, England
County Kildaire, Ireland
Shinhidaka, Japan
Deauville, France

This listing was not just a passing reference to some of the world’s greatest racing destinations. Lexington was part of Sister Cities International, a non-profit organization with a goal of fostering diplomacy between U.S. and international communities. Gianni knew this because of his involvement with a volunteer program that the New York City Department of Health had sponsored for one of its sister cities, Rome, Italy.

This was the heart of Bluegrass Country, the landscape dotted with magnificent thoroughbred farms. Driving down Route 60,
Gianni admired the red and white colors adorning the gates and the buildings of Calumet Farm. The white fences went on endlessly.

In the 1990s, when Calumet was under different ownership and financially troubled, it didn’t appear as resplendent. That was the year when Alydar, one of Calumet’s best-known stallions, had died under very mysterious conditions. Some felt that the horse had been murdered in order to recover insurance monies, though foul play was never proven and the insurance company ultimately paid more than $35 million.

Gianni had read several accounts of the story, like Ann Hagedorn Auerbach’s
Wild Ride
, and he thought Alydar had in fact been murdered. Though Chiefly Endeavor was worth far less than Alydar at the time of his death, Gianni anticipated that the investigation surrounding Chiefly Endeavor would be more thorough. These were different times, a different horse and another farm.

He settled into his room at the Griffin Gate, showered and walked across the expansive lawn towards the Mansion, an adjacent restaurant in a two story, white antebellum mansion. On the open lawn, a boy was playing with a golden retriever. Gianni stopped to admire the dog and the retriever approached him, tail wagging with friendly enthusiasm. He paused and scratched the dog between the ears, then resumed his walk across the lawn.

He had asked for a table in the outdoor lounge area, expecting that his troika would have sufficient privacy. It was late in the afternoon, sunny, but too cool to expect anyone to ask for an outdoor perch. There would be no real crowd in any case. Keeneland’s racetrack was closed and there were no sales or special events under way.

He sat facing the door that led from the bar out to the courtyard
and continued to watch for Highet. The wind was unusually cool for early May, and he tightened the collar of his flight jacket.

He recognized Highet, a few pounds heavier, the face still youthful, weathered and suntanned. The purplish hemangioma around his left eye seemed to have faded some.

“Steven! I’ve just been reminiscing. I just calculated that it’s been twenty-six years. We last met in Florida during our first winter vacation after finishing college.”

“Right, and we went deep sea fishing with that lunatic out of Stuart,” Highet said.

“Captain Wade! He’s still at it. I almost went out with him last time I was in Florida, but the seas were too rough. Talk about a crazy bastard, but he knows how to catch fish.”

“You look the same, really, Anthony.”

“Oh sure!” Gianni replied. “I think maybe my patients are aging me faster than yours are aging you.”

“I’m happy with my four-legged patients, but the hours are hell.”

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Gianni said.

“I know,” Highet said. “Terri Jones should be here any minute and she’s anxious to talk to you. She needs any leads she can get at this point. You’ll like her…big, ballsy brunette with a good sense of humor, easy to talk to. An ex-New Yorker, too.”

Lt. Terri Jones walked out the door of the restaurant into the courtyard. She was a tall, dark-haired woman who looked more like a model than a cop, Gianni thought. Highet rose to make the introduction.

“Detective Terri Jones, this is Dr. Anthony Gianni.”

She shook his hand firmly. When she spoke, a slight Long Island accent was still detectable. Gianni thought that her penetrating gaze, coupled with the accent and the handshake, declared a clear message:
Don’t fuck with me
.

“Dr. Gianni, tell me if you will, how you got involved with the ponies?”

“I worked with thoroughbreds in the summers during high school and college. I did the hands-on, everyday stuff. I always loved the animals and the sport, so once I found myself with enough time and a little money, I looked at the various options for partnership.”

“And you’ve only been with Bushmill, as an owner, I mean? Tell me about Stuart Garrison Duncker.”

“Southern gentleman, very smooth. Very well regarded in the business. He’s the patriarch of these racing partnerships, really.”

“So you found yourself in a good one with Chiefly Endeavor?”

“I would say so.”

“And who were the other partners?”

“Originally there were four. But after he won his second race, Chester Pawlek bought out two of the original partners. So that left me, Bradford Hill, Chester, and then Bushmill always keeps a minority interest and acts as the managing partner.”

“Then the horse eventually went to Midway as a stallion. So who owned him at that point?”

“Chet owned half and Midway half. My ownership and Bushmill’s were bought out by Midway, except for some breeding rights that we retained. And Bushmill continued to help with some of the promotion and PR work.”

“Then all of the stud fees that the horse generates go to Midway
and to Chester, or Chet you called him. Are you friends with Chet?”

“We’re not friends.” Gianni paused and Lt. Jones remained silent, as if she expected him to say more.

“Actually, I despise Chester. I was forced into partnership with him because he bought out the other partners in Chiefly Endeavor. In a way, though, I suppose I also pity him. I think he may be one of those people who’s trapped in a life he can’t stand. And he worked so goddamn hard to get it. Do you know anyone like that, Detective?”

She seemed a bit surprised by the question and the candor. “I suppose I do, Doctor.”

Gianni was thinking of his wife, Janice, thinking how she too had wanted a certain lifestyle so badly, and now that she had it, it brought her no real happiness or fulfillment.

Terri Jones looked intently at Gianni. She waited awhile before she resumed her questioning. “So the only connection you had to the horse once he was at Midway was the breeding rights, worth how much?”

“Forty thousand per year. I can use them or I can sell them to a breeder.”

“Did you maintain any kind of insurance connected to the horse?”

“Not once he stopped racing. The sole beneficiaries now are Midway and Chester.”

“Dr. Highet told me you were willing to talk to me because you said you know that three people wanted the horse dead. Who are those three and why would they want to kill the horse?”

“Chet for one, because he is in deep financial trouble. A guy named Sal Catroni, because Chet owed him a large sum of cash that
he seemingly couldn’t pay. And an accomplice of Catroni’s whom I only know as Hector. They work together.”

“How about the folks at Midway? They obviously stand to gain once the insurance money comes through?”

“Not at all. This is a huge net loss for them, as far as I can see. They are a solid operation with many good stallions and good cash flows. Chiefly Endeavor was just getting started and stood to generate huge earnings. Plus, the negative press is already killing them, the fact that a young, presumably healthy stud dies on their farm. That certainly won’t help their future business.”

“You should also know that I am working in cooperation with the FBI on this case,” she said. “They may want to speak with you at some point as well.”

“That’s fine. I want to see the murderer of that horse put away for life.”

“We don’t know yet if the horse was murdered, Doctor.”

“Well what’s your hunch?” Gianni asked. “I don’t work from hunches. You’ve given me three possibilities to investigate.”

Gianni said, “I just think that one or more of them are involved. Dr. Highet doesn’t think the horse died a natural death and I agree.”

She said, “So maybe we’re dealing with some random, deranged, horse slayer. Like in the play,
Equus
. My only point here is that all possibilities are still on the table.”

“Detective,
anyone
that wanted to kill that horse was deranged,” Gianni said.

Highet stood up and led the way through the courtyard, back inside and through the bar. Gianni continued talking to Terri Jones
and didn’t notice the man sitting at the bar. He sat alone at one end, watching the television above the bar. He wore a baseball cap with the logo of Churchill Downs and large wraparound sunglasses. After the trio walked past him, he turned to consider them. On the right side of his face was a long vertical scar, at least six inches in length.

Lexington, KY

Joe Travers, the general manager at Midway Farm, and Ryan Fischer were walking down one of the shedrows when Ryan paused at a stall where a large, thick-necked horse had his jaw around the edge of the stall window.

“Cribber,” Travers said. “Likes to chew things. And when he grunts like that he’s also swallowing air, which can be dangerous for some horses. So we always want to be sure the cribbers are eating okay. Plus, he’s a Dynaformer.”

“A what?” Ryan said, petting the sleek black head.

“A Dynaformer,” Travers said, as the horse snapped his powerful jaw in the direction of Ryan’s outstretched hand.

“Jesus! I thought you said you’ve been around horses. His sire… his papa was the great Dynaformer, which means he can be pretty rough on the mares, and it means he’ll bite your goddamn hand off if you let him. So keep your hands to yourself. He doesn’t like it when you try to pet him. Ask my foreman, Arturo, to tell you the story he
heard from his brother. His brother worked with the big horse himself. As the story goes, Dynaformer once bit three fingers off some poor groom. Swallowed them in one gulp too, never to be seen again.”