Dark Horse

3

Palm Beach Polo Equestrian Center is like a small sovereign nation, complete with royalty and guards at the gates. At the front gates. The back gates stood open during the day and could be reached from Sean's farm by car in five minutes. People from the neighborhood regularly hacked their horses over on show days and saved themselves the cost of stabling-ninety dollars a weekend for a pipe-and-canvas stall in a circus tent with ninety-nine other horses. A guard making night rounds would lock the gate at some point late in the evening. The guard hadn't made his rounds yet that night.

I drove through the gates, a yellow parking pass stolen from Sean's Mercedes hanging on my rearview mirror, just in case. I parked in a row of vehicles along a fence opposite the last of the forty big stabling tents on the property.

I drove a sea-green BMW 318i convertible I bought at a sheriff's auction. The roof sometimes leaked in a hard rain, but it had an interesting option that hadn't come from the factory in Bavaria: a small, foam-lined metal box hidden in the driver's door panel, just big enough to hold a good-sized bag of cocaine or a handgun. The Glock nine millimeter I kept there was tucked into the back of my jeans, hidden by my shirttail as I walked away.

On show days the show grounds are as busy and crazy as the streets of Calcutta. Golf carts and small motorcycles race back and forth between the barns and showrings, dodging dogs and trucks and trailers, heavy equipment, Jaguars and Porsches, people on horses and children on ponies, and grooms walking charges done up in immaculate braids and draped in two-hundred-dollar cool-out sheets in the custom colors of their stables. The tents look like refugee camps with portable johns out front, people filling buckets from pump hydrants by the side of the dirt road, and illegal aliens dumping muck buckets into the huge piles of manure that are carted away in dump trucks once a day. People school horses on every available open patch of ground, trainers shouting instructions, encouragement, and insults at their students. Announcements blare over the public address system every few minutes.

At night the place is a different world. Quiet. Almost deserted. The roads are empty. Security guards make the rounds of the barns periodically. A groom or trainer might drop by to perform the ritual night check or to tend an animal with a medical problem. Some stables leave a guard of their own posted in their elaborately decorated tack room. Baby-sitters for horseflesh worth millions.

Bad things can happen under cover of darkness. Rivals can become enemies. Jealousy can become revenge. I once knew a woman who sent a private cop everywhere with her horses after one of her top jumpers was slipped LSD the night before a competition offering fifty thousand dollars in prize money.

I'd made a couple of good busts at this show grounds when I'd worked narcotics. Any kind of drug-human or animal, remedial or recreational-could be had here if one knew whom and how to ask. Because I had once been a part of this world, I was able to blend in. I had been away from it long enough that no one knew me. Yet I could walk the walk and talk the talk. I had to hope Sean's little joke in Sidelines hadn't taken away my anonymity.

I made the dogleg turns from the back area known euphemistically as "The Meadows," the tent ghetto where show management always sticks the dressage horses that ship in for only several shows each season. From those back tents it takes twenty minutes to walk to the heart of the show grounds. Earth-moving equipment sat parked at one corner, backed into freshly cleared land amid the scrubby woods. The place was being expanded again.

Lights glowed in the tents. A woman's melodic laugh floated on the night air. A man's low chuckle underscored the sound. I could see the pair standing at the end of an aisle in tent nineteen. Elaborate landscaping at the corner of the tent set the stage around a lighted stable sign with one golden word on a field of hunter green: JADE.

I walked past. Now that I had found Jade's stalls, I didn't know what I was going to do. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I turned on the far side of tent eighteen and doubled back around, coming up through the aisles of nineteen until I could hear the voices again.

"Do you hear anything?" The man's voice. An accent. Maybe Dutch, maybe Flemish.

I stopped breathing.

"Gut sounds," the woman said. "She's fine, but we'll go through the drill with the vet anyway. Can't be seen looking careless after Stellar."

The man gave a humorless laugh. "People have made their minds up about that. They believe what they want."

"The worst," the woman said. "Jane Lennox called today. She's thinking of putting Park Lane with another trainer. I talked her out of it."

"I'm sure you did. You're very persuasive, Paris."

"This is America. You're supposed to be innocent until proven guilty."

"Innocent always if you're rich or beautiful or charming."

"Don is beautiful and charming, and everyone believes he's guilty."

"Like O.J. was guilty? He's playing golf and fucking white women."

"What a thing to say!"

"It's true. And Jade has a barn full of horses. Americans…" Disdain.

"I'm an American, V." An edge to the tone. "Do you want to call me stupid?"

"Paris…" Smarmy contrition.

"Stupid Americans buy your horses and line your pockets. You should show more respect. Or does that just prove how stupid we are?"

"Paris…" Smarmier contrition. "Don't be angry with me. I don't want you angry with me."

"No, you don't."

A Jack Russell terrier came sniffing around the corner then and stared at me while he raised his leg and peed on a bale of hay, considering whether or not to blow my cover. The leg went down and the dog went off like a car alarm. I stood where I was.

The woman called out: "Milo! Milo, come here!"

Milo stood his ground. He bounced up and down like a wind-up toy every time he barked.

The woman rounded the corner, looking surprised to see me. She was blond and pretty in dark breeches and a green polo shirt with a couple of gold necklaces showing at the throat. She flashed a thousand-watt toothpaste-ad smile that was nothing more than jaw muscles flexing.

"Sorry. He thinks he's a Rottweiler," she said, scooping up the Russell. "Can I help you?"

"I don't know. I'm looking for someone. I was told she works for Don Jade. Erin Seabright?"

"Erin? What do you want with her?"

"This is kind of awkward," I said. "I heard she was looking for another job. I have a friend in the market for a groom. You know how it is during the season."

"Do I ever!" She gave a dramatic, put-upon sigh, rolling the big brown eyes. An actress. "We're looking too. Erin quit, I'm sad to say."

"Really? When was that?"

"Sunday. Left us high and dry. Found something more interesting up in Ocala, I guess. Don tried to talk her out of it, but he said her mind was made up. I was sorry to hear it. I liked Erin, but you know how flighty these girls can be."

"Huh. I'm surprised. The way I understood it, she wanted to stay in the Wellington area. Did she leave an address-to have her paycheck sent?"

"Don paid her before she left. I'm Don's assistant trainer, by the way. Paris Montgomery." Keeping the dog tucked against her, she held a hand out and shook mine. She had a strong grip. "And you are…?"

"Elle Stevens." A name I had used undercover in my past life. It fell off my tongue without hesitation. "So, she left Sunday. Was that before or after Stellar went down?"

The smile died. "Why would you ask that?"

"Well… a disgruntled employee leaves and suddenly you lose a horse-"

"Stellar bit through an electrical cord. It was an accident."

I shrugged. "Hey, what do I know? People talk."

"People don't know shit."

"Is there a problem here?"

The man stepped into the picture. Mid-fifties, tall and elegant with silver temples highlighting a full head of dark hair. He wore a stern, aristocratic expression, pressed tan slacks, a pink Lacoste knit shirt, and a black silk ascot at his throat.

"Not at all," I said. "I was just looking for someone."

"Erin," Paris Montgomery said to him.

"Erin?"

"Erin. My groom. The one that left."

He made a sour face. "That girl? She's good for nothing. What would you want with her?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "She's gone."

"What's your friend's name?" Paris asked. "In case I hear of someone."

"Sean Avadon. Avadonis Farm."

The man's cold blue eyes brightened. "He has some very nice horses."

"Yes, he does."

"You work for him?" he asked.

I supposed I did look like hired help with my hacked-off hair, old jeans, and work boots. "He's an old friend. I'm leasing a horse from him until I can find what I'm looking for."

He smiled then like a cat with a cornered mouse. His teeth were brilliantly white. "I can help you with that."

A horse dealer. The third-oldest profession. Forerunners of used-car salesmen the world over.

Paris Montgomery rolled her eyes. A truck pulled up at the end of the tent. "That's Dr. Ritter. I've got to go."

She turned the big smile back on and shook my hand again. "Nice meeting you, Elle," she said, as if we'd never had that moment of unpleasantness at the mention of Stellar's death. "Good luck with your search."

"Thanks."

She set the Russell down and followed the barking beast around the corner as the vet called for her.

The man held his hand out to me. "Tomas Van Zandt."

"Elle Stevens."

"My pleasure."

He held my hand a little too long.

"I'd better be going," I said, drifting back a step. "It's getting late for a wild-goose chase."

"I'll take you to your car," he offered. "Beautiful women shouldn't go around unescorted here in the dark. You don't know what kind of people might be around."

"I have a pretty good idea, but thanks for your concern. Women shouldn't get into cars with men they've only just met either," I said.

He laughed and placed a hand over his heart. "I am a gentleman, Elle. Harmless. Without designs. Wanting nothing of you but a smile."

"You'd sell me a horse. That would cost me plenty."

"But only the best horses," he promised. "I will find you exactly what you need and for a good price. Your friend Avadon likes good horses. Maybe you could introduce us."

Horse dealers. I rolled my eyes and gave him half a smile. "Maybe I just want a ride to my car."

Looking pleased, he led the way out of the tent to a black Mercedes sedan and opened the door for me.

"You must have a lot of satisfied customers if you can rent a car like this for the season," I said.

Van Zandt smiled like the cat that got the cream and the canary. "I have such happy clients, one gave me the loan of this car for the winter."

"My goodness. If only my ex had made me so happy, he might still be considered in the present tense."

Van Zandt laughed. "Where are you parked, Miss Elle?"

"The back gate."

As we started down the road toward The Meadows I said, "You know this girl, Erin? She's not a good worker?"

He pursed his lips like he'd gotten a whiff of something rotten. "Bad attitude. Smart mouth. Flirting with the clients. American girls don't make good grooms. They're spoiled and lazy."

"I'm an American girl."

He ignored that. "Get a good Polish girl. They're strong and cheap."

"Can I get one at Wal-Mart? I've got a Russian now. She thinks she's a czarina."

"Russians are arrogant."

"And what are Dutchmen?"

He pulled the Mercedes in where I pointed, alongside my Beemer.

"I am from Belgium," he corrected. "Men from Belgium are charming and know how to treat ladies."

"Slick rascals, more like," I said. "Ladies should be on their guard, I think."

Van Zandt chuckled. "You are no pushover, Elle Stevens."

"It takes more than a smile and an accent to sweep me off my feet. I'll make you work for it."

"A challenge!" he said, delighted at the prospect.

I got out of the car without waiting for him to come around and open the door, and dug my keys out of my hip pocket. The back of my hand brushed over the butt of the gun tucked in my waistband.

"Thanks for the ride," I said.

"Thank you, Elle Stevens. You brightened an otherwise boring evening."

"Don't let Ms. Montgomery hear you say that."

"She's all gloom, talking about the dead gelding."

"Losing a horse worth that kind of money would bring me down too."

"It wasn't her money."

"Maybe she liked the horse."

He shrugged. "There's always another."

"Which I'm sure you'll be happy to supply to the grieving owner for a price."

"Of course. Why not? That's business-for me and for her."

"You sentimental fool, you."

In the harsh glow of the security light from above I saw the muscles of Van Zandt's jaw flex. "I am in this business thirty years, Elle Stevens," he said, a thread of impatience in his voice. "I am not a heartless man, but for professionals horses come and horses go. It's a shame the gelding died, but with professionals a sentimental fool is just that: a fool. People have to move on with their lives. Owners too. The insurance will pay for the dead horse, and his owner will buy another."

"Which you will be happy to find."

"Of course. I know already a horse in Belgium: clean X rays and twice as good as that one over the fences."

"And for a mere one-point-eight million he can belong to some lucky American and Don Jade can ride him."

"The good ones cost, the good ones win."

"And the rest can bite through electrical cords in the dead of night and fry themselves?" I asked. "Careful who you say that to, Van Zandt. Some insurance investigator might hear you and think the wrong thing."

He didn't shrug that off. I sensed him tense.

"I never said anyone killed the horse," he said, his voice tight and low. He was angry with me. I wasn't supposed to have a brain. I was supposed to be the next American with too much money and too little sense, waiting for him to charm me and sweep me off to Europe on a buying trip.

"No, but Jade has that reputation, doesn't he?"

Van Zandt stepped closer. My back pressed against the frame of my car's roof. I had to look up at him. There wasn't a soul around. There was nothing but a lot of open country beyond the back gates. I slipped one hand into the back of my waistband and touched my gun.

"Are you that insurance person, Elle Stevens?" he asked.

"Me?" I laughed. "God, no. I don't work." I said the word with the kind of disdain my mother would have used. "It's just a good story, that's all. Don Jade: Dangerous Man of Mystery. You know us Palm Beachers. Can't resist a juicy scandal. My biggest concern in life at the moment is where my next good horse is coming from. What goes on with this show-jumping crowd is nothing but good gossip to me."

He relaxed then, having decided I was sufficiently self-absorbed. He handed me his card and dredged up the charm again. Nothing like greed to rally a man. "Give me a call, Elle Stevens. I'll find you your horse."

I tried to smile, knowing only one side of my mouth moved upward at all. "I may take you up on that, Mr. Van Zandt."

"Call me V.," he suggested, his tone strangely intimate. "V. for Very Good Horses. V. for Victory in the showring."

V. for vomit.

"We are friends now," he announced. He leaned down and kissed my right cheek, then the left, then the right again. His lips were cold and dry.

"Three times," he said, Mr. Suave again. "Like the Dutch."

"I'll remember that. Thanks again for the ride."

I got into my car and backed out of the line. The back gate was locked. I turned and went back down the road past tent nineteen. Van Zandt followed me to the truck entrance. The lights blazed in the four big permanent barns to the right. A guard stood in the little booth between traffic lanes before the main gates, reggae music blasting from a radio on the counter. I waved at him. He waved me past without a question, his attention on the eighteen-wheel commercial horse van pulling in. I could have had a trunk full of stolen saddles. I could have had a body back there. I might have been anyone, may have done anything. An unsettling thought for the ride home.

I turned right on Pierson. Van Zandt turned right on Pierson. I watched him in the mirror, wondering if he hadn't believed me when I'd said I wasn't an insurance investigator. I wondered what his reaction would be if he saw the photo in Sidelines and put two and one together.

But people are funny that way, more easily fooled than the average person might like to believe. I didn't look like the woman in the photo. My hair was short. I hadn't given the name of the woman in the photo. The only real connection was Sean. Still, the words private investigator would set off alarms. I had to hope Sean was right: that only dressage people read the dressage section.

I turned right on South Shore. Van Zandt turned left.

I cut my lights, pulled a U-turn, and followed at a distance, past the polo stadium. He turned in at The Players club. Wining and dining. Part of a horse dealer's job. A new best friend at the bar in a place like that could turn out to have deep pockets and no self-restraint.

Van Zandt stood to make a tidy profit selling the Belgian jumper to Stellar's owner, who stood to collect a fat insurance payoff on a horse with no real future. And Don Jade-who had trained and shown Stellar, and would train and show the next one-stood in the middle of them, taking money at both ends of the deal. They might have all been in Players together right then, drinking to Stellar's timely demise.

Erin Seabright hadn't been heard from since the night Stellar died.

I dismissed the idea of going into the club. I wasn't prepared. I gunned my car's engine, turned it around, and headed home.

I was about to become a private investigator.