Sun Kissed (27 page)

The older man jotted a note. Then he sat back on the
chair again, slipping the notepad and pen back inside his jacket. “Did Fisher file charges against you for assault?”

Samantha shook her head. “I was covered with bruises. For two weeks after, I wore turtlenecks under my work shirts to hide the marks on my throat. If he’d filed charges against me, they wouldn’t have held up in court. There was too much evidence to prove that he attacked me first.”

“As yet we haven’t had time to follow up on the Fisher angle. We’ll try to put out some feelers tomorrow or maybe Monday to see where he was last night.” The detective smiled again, although humorlessly. “If he did this terrible thing, we’ll do our best to bring him to justice. Anyone who’d senselessly poison defenseless creatures and cause them to die an agonizing death should pay dearly for the crime.”

Samantha thought she glimpsed a flash of warning in the man’s eyes as he made that statement, but it vanished almost as quickly as it came, and she couldn’t be certain she’d seen it at all. “I agree,” she said, “and I’ll thank you in advance for all your efforts to get to the bottom of this. Cilantro was a very special mare, and her colt, Hickory, showed great promise. It’s a frightening thing for me, not knowing when it may happen again.”

“As I understand, you set the security system at the stable around seven?”

“Yes.”

“Does your ex-husband know the pass code?”

“No, but I foolishly chose a special date for the code that Steve might know. It’s entirely possible he made a wild guess and got lucky—or sneaked in during the day
when the system was off to play with the console until he entered the right sequence of numbers.”

“Is it your practice to use special dates for passwords?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Special dates are easy to remember.”

“Is Fisher aware of that habit of yours?”

“We were married five years. I’m sure he is.”

Galloway tipped his head in question. “Am I correct in assuming that the horses that died last night were extremely valuable animals?”

“Yes, especially the mare.”

“How much would you say she was worth?”

“Two hundred thousand?” Samantha couldn’t readily recall. “Maybe more than that. I’d have to look at my records to be sure.”

“Is that how much you insured her for?” he asked. “Two hundred grand?”

“Somewhere in that neighborhood. I can’t remember the exact figures on Cilantro. I have a lot of horses out there, and many of them are insured.”

Galloway’s jaw muscle rippled in his cheek. “I’ll refresh your memory then. The mare is insured for three hundred thousand.”

At that moment, Samantha realized Galloway already knew the answers to many of the questions he was asking. He was either trying to verify information or catch her in a lie, and she strongly suspected it was the latter.

“Can you explain how it happens that a mare worth two hundred grand, in your opinion, is insured for three hundred? Is there a blue book on horses, like there is on
cars, or do you just pluck a figure that suits you out of thin air and insure the horse for that amount?”

Samantha shifted on her seat. Sweat had begun to trickle from her armpits down her ribs. “When I insure a horse, I sit down with the agent, and we determine the animal’s value together, using the purchase price and the cumulative costs of training, veterinary care, and boarding. We also do comps, looking at the value of horses of the same breed and of comparable quality and reputation. In addition to that, we figure in replacement costs should something happen to the horse. For example, now that I will no longer have Cilantro in my stable to bear foals, my profits will decrease until I can find a mare to replace her. In the event that I can’t find an equivalent mare, I may have to raise a filly to take her place, and in the interim I will lose money every year. I insure a horse to cover not only the loss of the horse but also to offset my estimated losses if the horse is no longer a productive piece of inventory in my stable.

“In short, no, I don’t just pluck a figure from thin air. Insuring a horse is costly; the higher the estimated value, the higher the premium. It’s only good business to make sure I don’t take a huge loss if a horse dies, just as it’s bad business to overinsure. In the event that I were ever foolish enough to do the latter, there’d be every chance that the insurance adjuster might investigate the actual value of the dead horse and advise his company against reimbursing me for the inflated amount, so I would have made all those higher insurance payments for nothing.”

“So if your claim is accepted, you’ll be getting a hefty
amount of cash from the insurance company soon. That should be of some consolation in your grief.”

“It isn’t only about money, Detective Galloway. I loved Cilantro very much, and I’ve lost a cherished friend.”

He nodded. “I understand.” He hesitated a moment, holding her gaze. “But putting all sentiment aside, you insured both horses and surely intend to collect on the policies if you can.”

A cold feeling moved up Samantha’s spine and lingered there. “I haven’t had time to contact the insurance company yet or think that far ahead. But, yes, both horses are insured, and I’ll definitely file claims. As you say, putting all sentiment aside, I’m running a business here, and I’ve invested a lot of money in both animals. The policies will barely cover my losses.”

“Really?” Galloway raised his eyebrows and chuckled dryly. “I’m sorry, but this is all foreign to me. It’s difficult to conceive how a horse could be worth more than my house.”

“Cilantro had champion bloodlines. She wasn’t an ordinary horse.”

“Ah,” he said. “That helps to explain it then.”

“Explain what?”

“Why you have the colt insured for so much. A hundred thousand dollars, isn’t it?”

Samantha had taken out the policy on Hickory just recently, and his estimated value was still fresh in her mind, allowing her to respond to the question with a positive, “Yes.”

“Is his value due to his mother’s bloodlines?”

“His dam’s,” she corrected. “And, yes, it’s due to the bloodlines of both dam and sire.” Samantha squeezed her father’s hand more tightly. She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. Galloway exhibited only polite curiosity, but the sharp intensity of his azure gaze told her he never wasted time on unimportant chitchat. There was a reason behind every question. “Just in case you’re wondering, it’s common practice to insure all the foals in a high-end stable.”

“Really?” Galloway frowned. “How many foals are in your stable right now?”

“Eight, counting Hickory, the foal we just buried.”

“Eight. I see.” His frown deepened. “Perhaps I missed something when I spoke with your insurance agent. I thought he told me that you had only one foal covered by an equine mortality rider. Is that correct?”

“Yes, only Hickory.”

“But didn’t you just tell me it’s common practice in a high-end stable to insure all the foals? Yet out of eight you insured only one, the foal that died last night.”

“I misspoke,” Samantha explained. “I should have said all
valuable
foals.”

“So your other foals aren’t valuable?”

“Yes, quite valuable. All of my horses are fine animals. But Hickory was a blue roan with the homozygous roan gene.”

“Stick to English, please.”

“Homozygous essentially means a double roan or lethal roan gene, coming from both his sire and dam. That made him quite rare. Hickory’s sire, Gorgonzola, commands ninety thousand a pop in stud fees, and his dam,
Cilantro, dropped gorgeous foals, many of which became champions, making her extraordinarily valuable as well. In addition to that, I had genetic testing done on Hickory to verify his bloodlines.”

“I’ve seen lots of blue roans. It doesn’t seem to me they can be all that rare.”

“No,” Samantha corrected. “You
think
you’ve seen blue roans. They aren’t that common. Grays are often mistaken for blue roans by amateurs. True blue roans aren’t easy to breed, and blues like Hickory with the homozygous roan gene are particularly rare because until recently breeders believed that the fetus always died in utero. Only a few exceptions existed, and people were reluctant to try for a double roan for fear of losing their stud fee or possibly losing their mare to complications. For small-time breeders, there was also the financial blow of a missed season.”

“A missed season?”

“People with only one or two good broodmares often count on their foals for income. Mares carrying a foal with the lethal roan gene normally abort approximately five months into gestation, making it difficult, if not impossible, to get her with foal again that year.” Samantha lifted her hands. “That equates to no issue from the mare and no income until she goes into estrus again.”

“But you’ve been breeding foals with the lethal gene? I can only assume you’re more adventurous than most breeders?”

It was obvious to Samantha that this man had no idea who her father was and knew zip about horse breeding. “I’ve built my business around producing fine quarter
horses, but my real success comes from my beautiful blue roans. In answer to your question, yes, I have been more adventurous than most, I suppose. My father taught me all I know about horses, and to achieve any acclaim, sometimes you have to gamble.”

“At the expense of your mares? What if Hickory had died in utero? Wasn’t there a chance that…Cilantro—was that her name?—might have had complications and died with him?”

“In Hickory’s case, the in-utero fatality theory had already been disproved when Cilantro was bred to Gorgonzola. A wonderful doctor, the late Ann Bowling of the University of California at Davis, did a study just shortly before her death that proved that an equine fetus with the homozygous roan gene isn’t doomed to die in utero.”

“So you felt safe breeding two blue roans together?” At Samantha’s nod, the detective asked, “And how about before the theory was proven to be false? Did you breed any other blue roans to have the lethal roan gene before you knew it wasn’t lethal?”

Samantha glanced at her father. “Yes.”

“What about your mares’ health?”

Frank Harrigan suddenly sat forward on his chair. “Where the hell is this goin’?”

The blond jerked at the sudden outburst and slopped coffee on his suit.

“If you’re accusin’ my daughter of somethin’,” Frank went on, “you’d best spit it out, because I’m fast runnin’ out of patience.”

“Dad,” Samantha whispered. To Galloway she said,
“It’s difficult for my father to comprehend that the general public has no idea of the equine genetics that produce different colors—or the procedures that take place behind the scenes in top-notch stables. You asked a fair question, and I’ll try to answer it.”

“Please do.”

“Before the theory was disproved, the risk to Cilantro when bred to another blue roan was no greater than if she’d been bred to a black. Most of the time when a foal dies in utero, the mare simply aborts. That’s no harder on a mare and possibly even easier on her than if she dropped a healthy foal. Second, we aren’t backyard breeders. When we still believed a double roan foal might die in utero, we took every precaution with Cilantro’s health. During her pregnancies she was regularly examined to be sure her foal’s heartbeat was still strong. If the vet suspected at any time that the fetus had died, he would have induced labor, and Cilantro would have been fine.”

“Ah. So it was fairly safe all along.”

“Apart from unrelated complications that may occur during any equine gestation, it was absolutely safe except for the foal. Fortunately we never had an in-utero death. Long before the double roan theory was disproved, we suspected it was false because we’d had such success in our breeding programs.”

Galloway took a long swallow of ice water and then cleared his throat. In that instant his hard-edged expression softened, and he smiled genuinely for the first time. “I hope you’ll accept my apology, Mr. Harrigan. I meant
no offense. It’s my job to ask questions, and half the time they’re stupid ones.”

Frank sat back on his chair. “Apology accepted.”

Galloway directed his gaze at Samantha again. “Speaking of vets, yours is named Coulter, correct?”

“Yes, Tucker Coulter.”

Galloway nodded. “We received a fax from him this afternoon—the official report on the deaths of your horses. We found it very interesting. Didn’t we, Detective James?”

The blond looked up from blotting his jacket. “Yeah, interesting. And informational.” He tossed down the napkin. “I never realized there were horses in Crystal Falls as valuable as yours—or that people actually insure horses for so much money. Famous racehorses, maybe, but not plain old quarter horses.”

“There is nothing
plain
about my quarter horses,” Samantha reminded him.

“Right. I’m starting to get that.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from within his jacket, put it on the table, and slid it toward her. “That’s a copy of the vet’s report. You may want to go over it later.”

“I’m sure Tucker will supply me with my own copy.”

“Take it all the same. Maybe you’ll find it as illuminating as we did. This is my first case involving equine mortality insurance fraud.”