False Prophet (24 page)

The Sun Valley Animal Care Center was a two-story brown and tan California bungalow in the middle of scrubland. The bottom floor was leased to Dr. James Vector, Dr. Vera Mycroft, and Dr. Skip Baker — all DMVs, none of them professional corporations. The top section of the house was the animal hospital and the labs. Behind the bungalow were the barns, the kennels, and the stables. The vets made house calls — Decker had dealt with all three of them at one time or another — but sometimes animals needed surgery, extended treatment, and convalescence away from their pals. Vector, Mycroft, and Baker — VMB — was one of the few operations in the city set up to deal with large animals.

Decker stopped the unmarked on a dirt lot with no designated parking spots. Four-by-fours, flatbeds, and pickups were scattered randomly on the grounds, spaced so no one was hemmed in. He killed the motor, opened the door, and got out. A hot wind saturated with dust assaulted his face, followed by a melee of moos, bleats, neighs, and brays. He found himself whistling “Old MacDonald.”

It was after four and yet the clinic was still jammed with people. Lots of folks arriving with their animals after work. And not just dogs and cats. The place also held a skunk, a hutch full of rabbits, two newborn lambs, and a Guernsey calf. The reception area had once been the house’s living room, the old wood floors replaced with the vinyl tiles already discolored from animal “accidents.” The plastic chairs were mismatched and blanketed with fur and hair. The room gave off a distinct odor — antiseptics and urine. A couple of people were attempting to hold conversations over the yapping and yowling of their pets. They had to nearly scream.

The receptionist was a young, scrubbed-face blonde who wore jeans, a work shirt, and Reeboks. Her hands were squeaky clean, her nails clipped short and without polish. She held a German shepherd pup not much bigger than the hands that cupped him. She looked up when Decker walked in, kept staring at the door expecting an animal to follow on his heels. He went over to her and tickled the puppy at the scruff. The baby lifted his head and a tiny wet tongue moistened Decker’s finger. Before Decker could speak, a jowly woman holding a leash attached to a bulldog jumped up.

“Excuse me, I’m next!”

Decker held up his hands in defense. “I’m not butting in, ma’am. I’m looking for the lab.”

The secretary mouthed a silent O. “You’re the police?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said.

“’Cause of the crazy horse?”

Decker nodded.

“God, I heard Dr. Mycroft talkin’ to Dr. Baker about that. She said it was awful.”

“It wasn’t pretty,” Decker said.

“What happened?” asked the lady with the bulldog.

“Wish we could tell you, ma’am.” Decker dropped his voice a notch. “But it’s official business.”

The woman nodded gravely.

“Is Dr. Mycroft in?” Decker asked.

“Yeah, she’s up in the lab,” the secretary said. “She’s expecting you. Go through the back, up the stairs to the second floor. If the door’s closed, just knock.”

“Thank you,” Decker said.

The secretary kissed the sleepy-eyed shepherd and pulled the pup to her breast. “God, you expect people to do crazy things — drive too fast and plow into a mountain.” She shook her head. “But a
horse
?”

A throaty voice told Decker to come in. Vera Mycroft was at her microscope, her black and silver braid slung over her right shoulder, her knotted hands adjusting the scope’s eyepiece. Her glasses, sidepieces attached to a neck chain, had been tossed over her back and were resting between her shoulder blades.

She spoke without looking up. “I already gave at the office.”

“This
is
your office, Vera.”

She kept turning the eyepiece. “Aha!
There
you are, you little rascal. Thought you could hide from Mama Vera. Now I ask you, Pete, when one worm is there, can others be far behind?” She looked up and squinted. “That is you, Pete, isn’t it?”

Decker smiled. Vera’s eyes had become slits. She claimed she was part Aztec and her features backed her up. But she never did bother to explain her Southern drawl.

“Last time I checked.”

Vera returned her eyes to the scope.

“Here’s number two. And here? Oh my, oh my, we downright have a housing project. How y’all doing, little guys? Making life miserable for Pogo’s gut?”

“Do you always talk to your slides, Vera?”

“Worms are animals, too.” She sat back in her chair. “You ever get around to trimming the hooves of the little one, Pete?”

Decker smiled. “Now you’re checking up on me?”

“Checking up on my patient.” Vera stood, unbuttoned her lab coat, and fanned the sides to cool herself off. “You’re going to cripple the poor thing if you don’t.”

“Yes, I trimmed her hooves. Ornery little sucker. When she realized I wasn’t going to let her kick me, she rolled me. Just stiffened and fell on me. Took me over an hour and I was sweating like a pig by the time I was done.”

Vera’s laugh was deep. “You could have brought her in, Pete. Saved yourself some work.”

“Macho guys like me don’t do sensible things like that.”

“One would have thought Rina might have sweet-talked some sense into you.”

“One would have thought.” Decker stuck his hands in his pockets.

Vera swung her glasses onto her chest. “Would you like some mint iced tea?”

“Very much, thanks.”

“My, but it’s a hot one.” She opened the refrigerator, swinging the door several times, providing herself with a breeze of chilled air. Taking out a pitcher of iced tea, she poured it into a two-half-liter beaker and handed Decker some calibrated glassware. She held her container aloft, then gulped down her tea. Decker could just imagine her tossing down some brews with the good ole boys. She had to be close to sixty, but he’d lay money that she could drink a barroom of truck drivers under the table. He finished his tea and Vera took the beaker from his hands.

“Thanks for doing a rush job for me,” Decker said. “Are we in luck?”

“Yes, we are.” Vera perched horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. The chain that connected to her spectacles fell down her temples like gypsy earrings. “Come on over to my desk, I’ll show you my printout.”

The lab wasn’t Parker Center Forensics, but it seemed well equipped — a centrifuge for blood work and a half dozen microscopes. There were racks of Pyrex glassware, shelves of reagents and solvents. A waist-high table of clean white Formica provided the working area. Vera’s desk was a wooden table topped with an IBM PC, a phone, and a salad bowl filled with floral potpourri. The computer’s printer was spewing out data, screeching as the daisy wheel inked numbers on paper. Decker pulled a stool next to the table and sat. Vera took a folder and read its contents.

“It was an easy analysis. Your poisoner didn’t go in for exotics. Does the name phencyclidine mean anything to you?”

“PCP.” Decker took out a pencil and a notebook. “But that’s used as an animal
tranquilizer
, isn’t it?”

“Not that much anymore. We have much better drugs that don’t have the side effects.”

“What are the side effects in a horse?”

“Well, human and equine brain chemistries are very different as you can well imagine. A horse’s brain is less likely to self-destruct, I can tell you that.”

“No argument from me.”

“Yeah, we humans do the most ungodly things to ourselves.” Vera scratched her head. “Anyway, most of the time, you shoot a horse with PCP, the drug’ll just knock the poor thing out. But I’ve read more than one study where PCP can cause a paradoxical reaction even in large animals. Instead of being tranquilized, the horse metabolizes the drug as a hallucinogen. In that case, you’ll get reactions similar to those observed in humans — agitation, muscle rigidity, hyperreflexia, tachycardia…”

“Things that would make a horse bolt.”

“Things that would make a horse bolt.” She put the folder down and let her glasses fall onto her bosom. “Mr. Ed notwithstanding, nobody I know has ever heard of a talking horse.” She thought a moment. “Nobody who’s actually lucid, that is. Once I knew a fellah who claimed to be married to his horse… that’s another story. Since we regulars can’t communicate with our equine friends, it’s hard to know exactly what had transpired. But I’d be willing to bet that your suicidal palomino was seeing things that weren’t there. Poor thing was probably flying while he was bolting.”

Decker made a few chicken scratches on paper. “Let me ask you this. How long would it take for the drug to take effect?”

“That’s an ‘it depends’ question. How much is given, the body weight of the horse, the stomach contents, any other potentiating drug in the bloodstream — I didn’t find anything else out of the ordinary. It also depends if the drug is given intravenously, intramuscularly, or orally. Most of the time, it isn’t given orally, but if someone was out to sabotage, it’s conceivable that they could have mixed the powder into the horse’s feed. That being the case, it might take anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour for the drug to take effect.”

Fifteen minutes to an hour, Decker thought. From ten to eleven, Mike Ness was doing aerobics. Where was Jeffers?

“That’s a long-winded answer to a straightforward question.” Vera played with her glasses. “I hope it helps you out.”

“It sure does. Thanks a lot, Vera.” Decker tapped his pencil against his pad. “PCP. Person could pick up Dust anywhere.”

“Anywhere and everywhere. You’d be stunned at how many dogs and cats come in here freakin’ out because they took their owner’s dope.” Vera looked at him. “Are you on to something?”

“Just thinking.” Decker folded his notebook. “Even though PCP is everywhere… for a person to administer it IM to a horse… that person would have to be someone at ease with
large
animals. Most greeners find horses pretty intimidating because of their size.”

“That’s true. Horses are dumb but they are strong… and obstinate if you don’t know how to handle them.”

Decker folded his pad and nodded, thinking horses could get real obstinate. Took a firm, experienced hand to give them an injection.

An experienced hand… like Carl Totes.

Black coffee and
corned beef with mustard on rye. Decker stared at the sandwich, enjoying the feel of his mouth watering. Leaning back in his desk chair, he took a bite, chewing with near-orgasmic pleasure. His spine and neck were sore from this morning’s ordeal, his arms sunburned from exposure. But he was able to forget everything as soon as his teeth sank into the bread.

Treasure the simple things.

He took another bite and saw Marge enter the squad room, her hands shuffling little pink message slips. He whistled, she looked up, and he motioned her over. She pulled up a chair and Decker noticed his partner’s longing eyes. He handed her the other half of his sandwich.

“Are you
sure
?” Marge said.

“My mother raised me with manners.”

Marge bit into the bread before he could change his mind. “You know what I need?”

“You’re talking with your mouth full, Detective Dunn.”

“I need a wife.”

“I’ll tell Rina to make extra next time.”

“I don’t understand why her sandwiches are consistently better than mine. Why do I have such an adversarial relationship with food?”

“Lie on ze couch und vee can discuss it.” Decker sipped coffee. “How’s Lilah?”

“She was still freaked out. Can’t say I blame her.”

“Are you okay?”

“All in a day’s work, Margie.”

“I’ve seen mounted police,” Marge said. “You’re the first mounted detective so far as I know.”

“That’s me — a real trendsetter.” Decker finished his coffee. “The whole thing happened… what? Six hours ago?” He shook his head. “Surreal. Anyway, did Lilah tell you anything?”

Marge said, “I couldn’t get much out of her with Freddy staring over my shoulder. And when she did speak, her voice had that eerie calm that victims often have. Disbelief. She also kept asking where you were, Pete.” She licked her fingers. “She wanted to know if you were all right. Do you have a tissue or a napkin? I got mustard on my hands.”

Decker opened his desk, took out a short-order arrest form and handed it to her. “Did you tell her I was fine?”

Marge wiped her fingers on the stiff paper. “Sure. But it was more than just a query. She wanted
you
. She tolerated my presence but wasn’t happy about it. And then when I started asking her nuts-and-bolts questions, she spaced out.”

“Maybe Freddy had her sedated.”

Marge shook her head. “I asked Freddy if he’d given her anything. The doctor became
offended
. Freddy doesn’t believe in sedatives, tranquilizers, muscle relaxants, or anything else that artificially knocks out the body and/or mind. When I left, he was preparing a ginseng and gingerroot bath to soothe Lilah’s nerves. Then they were going to meditate.” Marge brushed hair away from her eyes. “Sounds rather peaceful, actually.”

“Did Lilah have
any
idea who might have tampered with the horse?”

“Only that if we found the men who stole her father’s memoirs, we’d find the demons who were plaguing her. Why are those damn memoirs so important to her?”

“It’s her father’s legacy to her. She’s placed inordinate importance on them, conveniently forgetting that there was also a million dollars of ice stowed in the safe.”

“But it does look like someone’s out to get her.”

Decker sipped coffee. “Maybe not
get
her, only scare her.”

“For what reason?”

“So she won’t testify against him — or them.”

“She knows who did it?”

“I said from the start this looks like an inside job.”

“An
inside
mill jewel heist with a rape to boot,” Marge said. “Stringers are gonna
love
it. The good captain, however, won’t be too pleased.”

“I’m hoping to solve the damn thing before it gets into the blotters. Look how far we’ve come in two days.”

“How far
have
we come, Pete?”

Decker thought about that and frowned. He took out his notebook. “Let’s start at the path of least resistance.”