No Good Deed (13 page)

She looked at Sam to see if he was watching the woman. ‘We smell like manure.'

‘We're hard-working, honest cops. Let 'em smell that.'

She followed him into the building. ‘Believe me, they will.'

The elevator was slow. Sonora leaned back against the wall, met Sam's eyes. He looked tired. There were dirt stains on the knees of his khakis, one trailing up the left thigh. Hers didn't look much better.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Straighten your tie,' she told him.

‘Just as soon as I put one on. I just wish we could go to bed.'

‘Together, or to sleep?'

The elevator opened. Sonora looked at Sam over one shoulder. Saw the wink.

The homicide offices were fully jazzed, bulletin board full of crime-stoppers info, Janey waving from behind the glass partition.

Sonora opened the swing door into CSU, peeped into the offices. Skeleton staff. She squinted, looking to the back of the room. Field boots and overalls off their hooks, if she could trust her vision at that distance. Everyone out to recover Joelle Chauncey and her horse. Which was where she wanted to be.

The left swing door swayed. Sam, heading into Homicide. Sonora followed him through, smelled fresh coffee and the faint odor of cologne.

She checked the interview rooms out of habit. The light was on in Interview One, but the room was empty. Interview Two, next door, was dark.

Where had they put McCarty?

They better not have let him walk. Lawyer or no, Crick could have kept him. Should have kept him.

Sam stopped at his desk, leaned over the machine to pick up messages. Sonora passed her own desk, messy and depressing. Everyone looked crisp and pulled together this morning, or maybe she was just self-conscious because she smelled like manure.

There were green cans of Serge mixed with the usual Coke and Dr Pepper empties in the box outside the offices of the élite. Sonora grimaced. Her kids loved that stuff.

She wondered if Joelle Chauncey had been a Serge fan – all the rage with that age group.

The door to Crick's office was closed. Unusual. Sonora knocked, glanced once over her shoulder at the bull-pen.

Sanders had changed her hair again. She was on the phone, but her eyes were focused on a spread of tarot cards laid across her desk.

And her skirt was shorter than her usual conservative two inches below the knee. Sonora frowned. Did that mean the married guy was back, God forbid? Tarot cards and 1–900-PSYCHIC. Long, long talks over coffee and Cokes.

She had hoped the wailing and teeth-gnashing were finally over.

‘Get in here, Blair.'

Crick's voice. Sounding angry, but he always sounded that way, and she wasn't too happy herself if he'd let her suspect go.

‘How did you know it was me?' Sonora said.

Hal McCarty sat beside the desk parallel to Crick's. He had his left ankle across his knee, and he looked comfortable and more relaxed than anyone had a right to be with Crick in the room. He was drinking coffee, and Crick had given him one of the beige mugs, a clean one, which was a sign of the gracious camaraderie one might extend another cop … certainly not a suspect in the disappearance and brutal murder of a fifteen-year-old girl.

‘I can tell by the knock. Sounds more hollow when it comes from the lower half of the door.'

A short joke. For all she knew, it was true. She sat, folded her arms. Whatever was going on, Crick had evidently decided that Hal McCarty was not a suspect.

Both men watched her, and she caught a hint of apologetic amusement from McCarty. Sonora felt her face go hot. It was feeling like good-ole-boy time.

‘Is something funny? Mr McCarty?'

He sat up in his chair. It was the tone of voice that made him wary.

‘I'm sorry. Just your face when you walked in and saw me sitting here.'

‘Like a guest instead of a suspect?' Sonora looked at Crick. ‘This man is reading my mind.'

‘He's more of a colleague than a guest.'

‘
Is
he?' Sonora stood up so fast the chair behind her went over on its side. She looked at her watch. ‘We're twenty-four hours into this investigation and my prime suspect is a colleague? I don't think so. A
colleague
would identify himself first thing. A
colleague
wouldn't waste my time. A
colleague
—'

McCarty had set his coffee cup down on Crick's desk and was moving around behind her. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

‘A colleague will pick up your chair.' Which he did, dusting the seat with his hands. ‘Please. Please sit down.'

Sonora took a breath. Sat down because she felt stupid standing up and she had nowhere to go with this. She looked at Crick. ‘You know the first twenty-four hours are the most critical.'

McCarty held up a hand. ‘I know. You're right.' He sat back down. ‘I made a judgment call, a bad one. I'm sorry.'

Sonora folded her arms. Looked from one to the other. ‘So, who do you work for, Mr McCarty? You undercover for the ASPCA?'

‘He's a Fed,' Crick said. Set his coffee cup on the desk, next to a stack of print-outs, and a mess of folders.

‘Oh, happy day,' Sonora said.

‘Thoroughbred Racing Commission,' McCarty said.

‘On a mission from God?'

‘Higher than that. The Jockey Club.'

‘What are you doing in the middle of my homicide?'

McCarty spread his hands, let them rest on his lap.

Sonora nodded. Like most Feds, McCarty would love to hear anything they could tell him. But he'd keep his own stuff to himself.

‘Tell me about the horse she was riding,' Sonora said.

McCarty gave her a long look.

Something about his eyes, she thought. Something knowing. He was going to open up. Just a little.

‘Good question. No, Detective, don't set your lips, I'm going to talk to you. Joelle Chauncey. I can't wrap my mind around that part of it, but … you found the body?'

Sonora nodded.

‘What about the horse?'

‘Don't know yet.'

‘It makes a difference,' McCarty said.

‘You tell me why.'

McCarty put the left ankle down, crossed the other foot over in the wide-legged way of large and confident men. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‘I don't know what it is. But greedy people, helpless animals, and money … makes a bad combination, you know?'

Sonora sat sideways, watching him. She nodded. ‘Like the Calumet thing.'

‘The murder of Alandar? Never proven.'

‘And Jimmy Hoffa just got off on the wrong bus.'

McCarty gave her a half-smile that was more of a grimace.

She looked at Crick. ‘Brilliant stallion, breeding seasons oversold years in advance, money already paid. Well insured. Horse maybe worth more dead than alive. Same horse coincidentally dies under mysterious circumstances—'

Crick was nodding.

McCarty waved a hand. ‘I'm not going to argue. You're right, it's just the kind of thing I'm talking about. Sponges in the nasal cavities of racehorses, fraudulent birth-date registrations of yearlings—'

‘Delaney's involved in that kind of thing?'

‘Birth dates?' He grinned, shook his head. ‘That's like chasing down people parking in handicapped spaces. Happens all the time and you only go for the ones that are blatantly in your face.'

Sonora leaned back in her chair. ‘How to put this politely.'

Both men waited; neither looked patient.

‘What's an undercover hotshot doing going after a Donna Delaney? She's small-time and shoestring. If she generates as much as a couple thousand in income off that place every month, I'd be shocked.'

‘Last year she reported her income to the Internal Revenue Service as eighteen thousand nine hundred. Taxable income.'

‘Yeah?' Sonora said. The bill for the Kieffer saddle came to mind.

‘She bought horses in excess of forty-eight thousand. Owns a brand-new F-150, free and clear. Spent a small fortune on tack and gear from horse catalogs.'

‘Her four-plex doesn't show any sign of monetary good fortune,' Sonora said. ‘And the barn and pasture – nobody's spending money there.'

‘No. But she's got it. Another expense last year – over eight thousand on antique teddy bears.'

‘Bears?' Crick said.

‘Antiques.'

‘That still doesn't warrant a TRC undercover cop.'

‘No, Sonora, you're right. Delaney's strictly small-time.'

She liked the way he said her name. He was attractive as hell, and had all the right nots – not a suspect, not a witness. Not married. No ring, anyway.

‘She's our wedge against the big guys,' McCarty said.

‘Would one of these guys be a woman by the name of Vivian?' Sonora said.

McCarty raised an eyebrow. ‘What makes you say that?'

‘Weird phone message on her machine. This Vivian called at, I don't know, some ungodly hour, six-thirty or something, asking if Delaney was “okay” and saying they needed to talk. I didn't like the sound of it.'

‘Good intuition,' McCarty said. ‘Vivian and brother Cliff Bisky, of Bisky Saddlebreds.'

‘Even I've heard of them,' Crick said. ‘What's the angle with the kid? You think they're involved here?'

‘I'm not sure. If they are involved, it's over the horse. The little girl is incidental.'

Sonora leaned forward, seeing the steaming manure, the toe of a riding boot, in her mind's eye. She tried not to imagine what was underneath. She would see the real thing soon enough.

‘I'm not asking you to be sure, just tell me your theory.'

McCarty looked at her. Thinking. He needed a shave, which Sonora found sexy on this man. He smiled at her. Capitulation.

‘The mare Joelle Chauncey was riding when she disappeared belongs to Bisky Farms. Owned by a wealthy client of Bisky Farms.'

‘If the killer was after the horse, why involve the kid?' Crick's tone of voice said bullshit.

McGarty waved a hand. ‘We're just blue-skying here, okay? Snatching the kid, killing her … makes no sense. Pulls in a lot of heat, which you know they don't want. Not logical, unless someone went after the horse and just got the kid too, in some kind of clusterfuck.

‘Bisky Farms has a lot of rackets going – dirty rackets. By reputation to the average Joe, they're a top-notch breeding farm, well known on a national and to some degree even international level. They breed and train high-dollar saddlebreds. Having a brood mare boarded on their farm is a matter of prestige in horsey circles.

‘Their specialty is to take, say, Mr and Mrs Good Bucks from Nashville. Take their mare while it's in foal and charge fifteen hundred dollars for top-notch high-flight vet and daily care for this oh-so-valuable mare. And if Mr and Mrs Good Bucks are dabblers with a romantic notion about dipping even more of their wallets into the horse business, then Cliff Bisky, or his sister Vivian, might even have sold them the mare, or bred the mare, or sold them part interest in the mare. Or the foal. Could be any possible combination, tailored to how the clients want to spend their money.

‘Now, there are twenty-one stalls available at the farm, each one of them beautiful mahogany wood. I wish I lived so good. But the thing is, most of them are full of Bisky's own horses, and he's one of those horse people who always has to be buying and selling. It's not interesting to him unless he's bringing in new horses every few months, so he's always got more stock than is good for him.

‘No room for Mr and Mrs Good Bucks' little mare, so she goes out to a little hole-in-the-wall farm like Donna Delaney's place. Cliff Bisky pays Delaney some non-taxable cash and gives her the horse to keep till whenever, meanwhile raking in fifteen hundred a month on board and vet bills, not to mention incidentals. I'm sure Cliff tells Donna Delaney to give that mare top-quality feed, and to keep her out of the fescue. And I'm sure that the mare gets nothing but piss-poor pasture and low-grade hay, if she's lucky.'

‘And Mr and Mrs Good Bucks don't have a clue? They don't check it out?'

‘Sure they do. They blow into town for a visit, and the mare is brought in, cleaned up, put in a stall she's probably never seen before, goes to horse heaven for three days while Bisky rolls out the red carpet for the clients, who are probably shown a fabulous prospect they might want to invest in while they're in the neighborhood. And I'm sure this prospect is being personally trained by Cliff or Vivian Bisky, who may possibly be available to train the Good Bucks' impending foal, if they decide in plenty of time, because the Biskys are much in demand and the schedule is filling up. Mr and Mrs Good Bucks go home with a roll of film, the seed of the next business deal, and the clubby feeling of being in the glamorous, romantic saddlebred horse business with no more effort or expertise than it takes to write a check.'

Crick scratched his neck. ‘So Delaney leads you to Bisky.'

‘Exactly.' McCarty sipped cold coffee.

‘I understand why Delaney's frantic to get the mare back,' Sonora said. ‘I don't understand why she gets her finger cut off. Who does that? Bisky?'

McCarty nodded. ‘Bisky. Who has every reason to be upset with Ms Delaney, who refuses to give up said mare. Wants more money. Likely she thinks they owe her, or she's just desperate. She's on the verge of bankruptcy, which is par for people in the horse business.'

‘Boom or bust,' Crick said.

‘Not much boom for the bottom feeders like Delaney. Hard scrabble and marginal profits. It's possible to be honest in this business. I've even heard of it once or twice. If they could sell their egos, they'd all be wealthy. And don't kid yourself. Ego is a big part of the whole wheel here. Cash, personality and horses. Top you up, Sonora?' McCarty glanced over his shoulder at the coffee pot which was, as usual, overheating behind her on top of Crick's metal file cabinet.