Dark Horse (30 page)

“We had no reason to believe Van Zandt was an immediate danger to anyone,” Armedgian defended himself. “I hadn’t been made aware of the Seabright girl’s kidnapping.”

“I’m sure that will be a comfort to Jill Morone’s family.”

“Your concern for the family is touching, Ms. Estes,” Dugan said. “And surprising, considering the way you’ve treated the Seabrights.”

“I’ve given due courtesy to the Seabrights.”

“Not according to Bruce Seabright.”

“He wasn’t due any, as you’ve probably found out for yourself by now. Frankly, I’m not convinced he isn’t involved in the kidnapping.”

“I’m not interested in your theories, Ms. Estes,” Dugan said.

“Then why am I here?”

“The Seabrights want to lodge a complaint against you. Seems you’ve misrepresented yourself to them.”

“Not so.”

“You are not a private investigator,” Dugan said.

“I never told anyone that I was. The Seabrights have made an erroneous assumption.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me with semantics. If you want to play word games, become a lawyer.”

“Thanks for the career advice.”

“Too bad she couldn’t have taken it before she got one of ours killed,” Weiss muttered behind my back.

I kept my focus on Dugan. “I got into this to try to help a little girl who believed her sister was in trouble when no one—including this office—believed her. That’s my only purpose in this, Lieutenant. If Bruce Seabright somehow feels threatened by that, you might want to have a hard look at why.”

“We’ve got it under control,” Dugan said. “I want you out of it. Now.”

I looked around the room. “Gee, did I miss something? Have I been rehired by this agency? Because, if I haven’t been, then I’m pretty certain you can’t tell me what to do or where to go or with whom I might have a conversation. I’m a private citizen.”

“You’re impeding an official investigation.”

“There wouldn’t be an investigation if not for me.”

“I can’t have a citizen running loose, breaking and entering homes, tampering with evidence—”

“Breaking and entering is a crime,” I said. “If you have some kind of proof I’ve committed a crime, then you should arrest me.”

“Say the word, Lieutenant,” Weiss offered. “I’ll do the honors.”

“Van Zandt is our business now, Elena,” Armedgian said. “The sheriff’s and the FBI’s.”

I looked at him, bored. “Uh-huh. Great job. He came to my house this morning and threatened me. Where were you then, Wayne? And you know what? I’ll bet a hundred dollars you don’t know where he is right now. Do you?”

The look on his face spoke for him.

“The Seabrights intend to file a restraining order against you, Ms. Estes,” Dugan said. “If you go near them, their home, Mr. Seabright’s place of business, we’ll have to pick you up.”

I shrugged. “You could have sent a deputy to tell me that. Unless you really want to talk about this case, Lieutenant, you’re wasting my time.”

Dugan arched an eyebrow. “You have pressing business somewhere?”

I pulled my cell phone out of my jacket pocket, scrolled through a few numbers, and hit the call button. I kept my gaze on the lieutenant as the phone rang on the other end.

“Van Zandt? Elle. Sorry I had to rush off this morning. Especially after you took all that time to scream at me and make me feel like I couldn’t ride a bicycle, much less a horse.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Only background noise. He was in a car. I figured to proceed with the conversation even if Van Zandt hung up on me. I wanted Dugan to know he didn’t own me, and at the same time know that I could be an asset, whether he liked the idea or not.

“You think I was too tough on you?” Van Zandt asked.

“No. I like it rough,” I said suggestively.

Another pause, and then he chuckled. “I don’t know anyone like you, Elle.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I think that remains to be seen. I’m surprised you are calling me.”

“The moth to the flame,” I said. “You exercise my brain, Z. Sean and I are going to Players for a late dinner and a drink or three. Are you free?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Later?” I suggested.

“I don’t think I should trust you, Elle.”

“Why not? I don’t have any power. I’m the odd one out.”

“You don’t trust me,” he said. “You think bad things about me which are not true.”

“So convince me you’re a good guy. It’s never too late to make friends. Besides, it’s only drinks, for God’s sake. Bring your friend Lorinda. You can sell her Sean’s horse over dessert. See you later.
Ciao.
”

I ended the call, put the phone back in my pocket.

“Yes,” I said to Dugan. “I have pressing business. Seems I have a date with Tomas Van Zandt.” I turned to Wayne Armedgian. “Do you think you can pick up the tail from a dead standstill in a parking lot?”

I didn’t wait for an answer.

“It’s been real, guys,” I said, and with a wave of my hand, I left the room.

I felt dizzy. I felt like I had walked up to a giant and spit in his eye. I’d managed to alienate the head of Robbery/Homicide and a regional supervisory special agent of the FBI in one fell swoop.

What the hell. I’d been the alien going in. They had excluded me, not the other way around. I would have happily told them anything about the case I could, but they didn’t want me. I had just put them on notice I couldn’t be bullied. I knew my rights, I knew the law. And I knew I was right: They wouldn’t have had a case if I hadn’t badgered Landry into it, if I hadn’t called Armedgian looking for information. I wouldn’t let them pat-pat me on the head now and send me to the sidelines.

I walked up and down on the sidewalk outside the building, breathing in the thick, warm night air, wondering if I’d played it right, wondering if it would even matter or if it was already too late.

“That’s some set you’ve got on you, Estes.”

Landry came toward me with a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other.

“Yeah, it’s a wonder my pants fit.”

“Think Van Zandt will show at Players?” he asked, lighting up.

“I think he will. He likes the game too much. And it’s not as if he’s in imminent danger of arrest. He knows you don’t have anything on him or he’d be in jail already. I think he’ll show to rub your face in it—and mine.”

On impulse I took the cigarette from his fingers and took a drag. Landry watched me, inscrutable.

“You smoke?” he asked.

“No,” I said on a trail of smoke. “I quit years ago.”

“Me too.”

“Desk pack?” I asked.

He took the cigarette back. “It’s this or a flask. I can’t get suspended for this. Yet.”

“Weiss has a real bug up his ass.”

“He’s short,” Landry said by way of explanation.

“I know I’m not welcome in this,” I said. “But it was my case first, and I can still serve a purpose.”

“Yeah, I know. You just slapped my lieutenant in the face with it.”

A hint of a smile pulled at his mouth. His approval meant too much to me.

“Subtlety is overrated and it takes too long,” I said. “We don’t have time to fuck around.”

I took the cigarette for one last puff, my lips touching where his had been. I didn’t want to let myself think there was anything erotic in that, but of course there was, and Landry knew it too. Our gazes locked and held, a current running between us.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, backing down the sidewalk.

Landry stayed where he was. “What if Dugan wants you back inside?”

“He knows where I’m going. He can come and buy me a drink.”

He shook his head in wonder. “You’re something, Estes.”

“Just trying to survive,” I said as I turned and went to my car.

As I pulled around past the sidewalk on my way out of the lot, my headlights flashed on Weiss standing in the doorway to the building. Little prick. I figured he would make trouble for Landry sharing his smoke with me, but that was Landry’s business. I had problems of my own. I had a date with a killer.

38

Women. Stupid, ungrateful bitches.
Van Zandt spent most of his life courting them, flattering them—no matter what they looked like—carting them around to look at horses, giving his advice and counsel. They needed him to tell them what to do, what to think, what to buy. And were they grateful? No. Most of them were selfish and silly and didn’t have a brain in their heads. They deserved to be cheated. They deserved whatever happened to them.

He thought of Elle. He still thought of her by that name, even though he knew it to be false. She was not “most women.” She was clever and devious and bold. She thought with the hard logic of a man, but with a woman’s slyness and sexuality. He found that exciting, challenging. A game worth playing.

And she was right: there was nothing she could do to hurt him. There was no evidence against him, therefore he was an innocent man.

He smiled at that, feeling happy and clever and superior.

He snatched up his cell phone, punched the speed-dial number for the town house, and listened to it ring unanswered on the other end. His mood spiraled back down. Another ring and he would get the machine. He didn’t want to speak to a fucking machine. Where the hell was Lorinda? Off somewhere with that obnoxious dog of hers. Horrible, flea-ridden beast.

The machine picked up and he left a curt message for her to meet him at The Players later.

Angry now, he ended the call and threw the phone onto the passenger’s seat of the cheap piece-of-shit car Lorinda had given him to drive. He hadn’t wanted to tolerate the police following him around. Following him for no good reason, he had told her. He was the innocent victim of police harassment. She had believed him, of course, despite the fact that she had seen the bloody shirt. He had excused that away, and she had believed him in that too.

Stupid cow. Why she didn’t rent a better car when she traveled was beyond him. Lorinda had money she had inherited from her family in Virginia. Tomas had taken it upon himself to do the research. But she wasted it on charities for abandoned dogs and broken-down horses, instead of using it for herself. She lived like a gypsy on the farm that had belonged to her grandmother, renting out the grand plantation house and living herself—with a pack of dogs and cats—in an old clapboard farmhouse that she never cleaned.

Tomas had told her she needed to get a face-lift and a boob job, and fix herself up or she would never get a rich husband. She laughed and asked him why she should get another husband when she had Tomas to look out for her best interests.

Stupid creature.

Women. The bane of his existence.

He drove east on Southern Boulevard, thinking about the woman he was to meet. She thought she could blackmail him. She told him she knew all about the dead girl, which, of course, she did not. But she had already become a problem before that, because of the lies she told the Americans about him. Bitter, vindictive cunt. That was the Russians. A more vicious race of people had never lived.

The death of this one would be, of course, the fault of Sasha Kulak. Tomas had taken her in, given her a roof over her head, a job, an opportunity to learn from him and take advantage of his vast knowledge—in the barn and in the bedroom.

She should have worshiped him. She should have wanted to please and service him. She should have thanked him. Instead, she had stolen from him and stabbed him in the back and spread stories about him.

He had, at great cost to himself, called any clients she might have known, might have contacted after she had left him, to warn them this girl was trouble, that she was a thief and probably on drugs; to tell them of course he hadn’t done anything wrong.

And now he had to deal with her friend, Avadon’s Russian girl. Avadon should have fired her on the spot Friday when the girl had tried to kill him in Avadon’s own stable. Incredible what these Americans would tolerate.

He’d had his fill of Florida. He was ready to go back to Belgium. He had a flight already lined up. A cargo plane traveling to Brussels with a load of horses. Going as a groom, he never had to pay. One more day he would do business here, showing everyone he had nothing to hide, no reason to worry about the police. Then he would return to Europe for a time, and come back when people had better things to gossip about than him.

He slowed the car as he looked for the sign. He had suggested meeting at the back of the show grounds, but the girl had refused, insisting on a public place. This was the place she had chosen: Magda’s—a shitty bar in an industrial part of West Palm Beach. A clapboard building that even in the dark looked as if it needed paint and had termites.

Van Zandt pulled in the drive alongside the bar and drove around back to find a parking place.

He would find the girl in the bar, buy her a drink. When she wasn’t looking, he would slip her the drug. It was a simple thing. They would talk, he would try to assure her there had been a misunderstanding about Sasha. The drug would start to take effect. When the moment was right and she was incapable of protest, he would assist her outside.

She would appear to be drunk. He would put her in the car and drive away to a place where he could kill her and dispose of her body.

He found a spot to park, backing in along a chain-link fence that separated the bar’s property from an auto salvage yard. The perfect place. Out of sight. This problem would be dealt with quickly and neatly, and then he would go to The Players to have a drink with Elena Estes.

I
went into The Players alone. If Van Zandt showed with Lorinda Carlton, I would make Sean’s excuses, but I wouldn’t drag Sean any further into the drama than I already had.

The club was busy. Celebrants from the showring and losers drowning their sorrows. Most stables are closed on Mondays so everyone can recuperate from the weekend’s competition. No reason to go to bed early on Sunday.

The place was a stage with a hundred players. Women showing off the latest in Palm Beach fashions and the newest plastic surgery. Swarthy polo players from South America hitting on every rich thing in a skirt. Minor celebs in town for a long weekend. Saudi Arabian royalty. Every pair of eyes in the place sliding to the next most promising conversation partner in the room.

I found a small table in the corner of the bar and settled in with my back to the wall and a view of the room. I ordered tonic and lime and fended off an ex-baseball star who wanted to know if he knew me.

“No,” I said, amused he had singled me out. “And you don’t want to.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m nothing but trouble.”

He slid into the other chair and leaned across the table. His smile had lit up many an ad for cheap long distance service and colorful underwear. “Wrong thing to say. Now I’m intrigued.”

“And I’m waiting for someone.”

“Lucky guy. What’s he got that I haven’t?”

“I don’t know,” I said with a half smile. “I haven’t seen him in his underwear yet.”

He spread his hands and grinned. “I have no secrets.”

“You have no shame.”

“No. But I always get the girl.”

I shook my head. “Not this time, Ace.”

“Is this character giving you a hard time, Elle?”

I looked up to find Don Jade standing beside me with a martini in hand.

“No, I’m afraid I’m giving him a hard time,” I said.

“Or something,” Mr. Baseball said, bobbing his eyebrows. “You’re not waiting for this guy, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Even after you’ve seen me in my underwear?”

“I like surprises. What can I say?”

“Say you’ll ditch him later,” he said, rising. “I’ll be at the end of the bar.”

I watched him walk away, surprised at myself for enjoying the flirtation.

“Don’t look so impressed,” Jade said, taking the empty seat. “He’s all hat and no cattle, as they say in Texas.”

“And how would you know that?”

He gave me a steady look that belied the drink in his hand. He was sober as a judge. “You’d be surprised at the things I know, Elle.”

I sipped my tonic, wondering if he knew about me; wondering if Van Zandt had told him, or Trey, or if he had been left out of that loop on purpose.

“No, I don’t think I would,” I said. “I’m sure there isn’t much that gets past you.”

“Not much.”

“Is that why you were with the detectives so long yesterday?” I asked. “Because you had so much to tell them?”

“No, I’m afraid Jill’s murder is a subject I don’t know anything about at all. Do you?”

“Me? Not a thing. Should we ask someone else? Van Zandt is coming later. Shall we ask him? I have a feeling he could tell us some stories to make our hair stand on end.”

“It’s not difficult to get someone to tell you a story, Elle,” Jade said.

“No. The hard part is getting them to tell the truth.”

“And that’s what you’re looking for? The truth?”

“You know what they say: the truth shall set you free.”

He sipped his martini and looked away at nothing. “That all depends on who you are, doesn’t it?”

T
he girl was waiting under the back-door light. Her hair stood out around her head like a lion’s mane. She wore black tights that clung to her long legs, and a denim jacket, and her mouth was painted dark. She was smoking a cigarette.

At least Van Zandt thought it was Avadon’s girl. They never looked the same, these girls, away from the stables.

Van Zandt opened the car door and got out, wondering if he should simply lure her away from the building, shove her in the car, and go. But the threat of a possible witness coming out the back door of the bar was too big a risk. Even as he thought of it, the door opened and a large man stepped out under the light. He took a position there, feet apart, hands clasped in front of him. The girl glanced up at him, smiled bewitchingly, and said something in Russian.

Halfway between the car and the building, a sense of apprehension crawled over Van Zandt’s skin. His step slowed. The big Russian had something in his hand. A gun perhaps.

Behind him, car doors opened and shoe soles scuffed the cracked concrete.

He’d made a terrible mistake, he thought. The girl was near enough that he could see she was looking at him and smiling wickedly. He turned to try to go back to the car. Three men stood in front of him, two built like plow horses standing on either side of a smaller man in a fine dark suit.

“Are you thinking you should not have come, Mr. Van Zandt?” the small man said.

Van Zandt looked down his nose. “Do I know you?”

“No,” he said as his associates moved to take hold of Van Zandt, one on each arm. “But perhaps you know my name. Kulak. Alexi Kulak.

D
o you believe in karma, Elle?” Jade asked.

“God, no.”

Jade was still nursing his martini. I was on my second tonic and lime. A couple of cheap dates. We’d been sitting there fifteen minutes with no sign of Van Zandt.

“Why would I want to believe in that?” I asked.

“What goes around comes around.”

“For everyone? For me? No, thank you.”

“And what have you ever done that you’d have to pay for?”

“I killed a man once,” I confessed calmly, just to see the look on his face. It was probably the first time in a decade he’d been surprised. “I’d rather not have that come back around on me.”

“You killed a man?” he asked, trying not to look astonished. “Did he have it coming?”

“No. It was an accident—if you believe in accidents. How about you? Are you waiting for your past deeds to ambush you? Or are you hoping someone else will have their markers called in?”

He finished the martini as Susannah Atwood came in the room. “Here’s what I believe in, Elle,” he said. “I believe in me, I believe in now, I believe in careful planning.”

I wanted to ask him if it had been in his plan for someone to murder Jill Morone and kidnap Erin Seabright. I wanted to ask him if it had been in his plan for Paris Montgomery to have an affair with Trey Hughes, but I had already lost his attention.

“My dinner companion has arrived,” he said, rising. He looked at me and smiled with a cross between amusement and bemusement. “Thanks for the conversation, Elle. You’re a fascinating person.”

“Good luck with your karma,” I said.

“And you with yours.”

As I watched him walk across the room, I wondered what had prompted his sudden philosophical turn. If he was an innocent man, was he thinking this sudden turn of twisted bad luck was payback for the things he’d gotten away with in his past? Or was he thinking what I was thinking? That there was no such thing as bad luck, that there are no accidents, no coincidences. If he was thinking someone was hanging a noose around his neck, who did he like for a candidate?

From the corner of my eye I could see the baseball player homing in on the seat Jade had vacated. I got up and left the room, my patience for flirtation worn thin. I wanted Van Zandt to show up for no other reason than to rub Dugan’s and Armedgian’s noses in my obvious usefulness.

I believed he would show. I believed he wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to sit in a public place, relaxed and pleased with himself, conversing with someone who believed he was a murderer and couldn’t do anything about it. The sense of power that would give him would be too intoxicating to pass up.

I wondered what his business of the evening entailed, if it had anything to do with the kidnapping. I wondered if he was the man in black Landry had described viciously beating Erin Seabright with a riding whip. Sick bastard. It wasn’t hard to imagine him getting off on that kind of thing. Control was his game.

As I stood outside the front doors of The Players, I pictured him in prison, suffering the ultimate lack of control, every minute of his life dictated to him.

Karma. Maybe I wanted to believe in it after all.

T
he beating wasn’t the worst of it. The worst thing was knowing that when the beating was over, so too would be his life. Or perhaps the worst thing was knowing he had no control in the situation. All the power was held by Alexi Kulak, cousin of that Russian cunt who had now ruined his life.