Dark Horse

33

Bring the money to the place. Sunday. Six P.M.

Since there had been no further instructions, I had to assume the location of the drop was the place the kidnappers had originally chosen.

The Horse Park at Equestrian Estates show grounds had been in existence only since the 2000 show season, when it had been the site of the U.S. Equestrian Team Olympic team trials for dressage. Unlike the show grounds in Wellington, it was a compact and simple place, with four sand competition arenas used specifically for dressage, and three warm-up rings set in a U around the perimeter of a large grass field. Like most of the stabling at the equestrian center, the barns consisted of several huge tents with portable stalls, all situated at the front of the property. The stalls were occupied during shows only. The rest of the time, the place was a big empty playground in the middle of nowhere.

At the back and center of the property stood the only permanent structure: a grand-looking two-story stuccoed building with huge white columns out front. The building housed the show secretary's office on the first level, and the announcer's electronic control center on the second floor.

From the second floor one could survey the entire grounds. It was the perfect surveillance and sniper's perch if it could be accessed undetected.

The building sat at the very back of the property. Behind it ran a canal, the bank on the far side thick with trees. On the other side of the trees ran a trail used by dirt bikes and all-terrain vehicles, much to the dismay of people showing high-strung horses. If a person were to take the trail and get across the canal, they could use a staircase that ran up the back side of the building.

Certainly the kidnappers knew all of these things. They had chosen the spot. A strange choice, I thought. There weren't a lot of ways in and out. They would see the enemy coming from a distance, but so too would the enemy see them. Trapping and catching them was only a matter of manpower. Why not choose a busy place with lots of commotion, lots of people, lots of escape routes?

No police. No detective. You broke the rules. The girl will pay the price.

No way this was going to go well.

The kidnappers knew the Sheriff's Office was involved now. They couldn't risk showing up with Erin at such an open place. I couldn't see why they would risk showing up themselves. My conclusion was that they wouldn't.

Six P.M. Sunday. A week from the day Erin Seabright had been taken. I wondered if the timing was significant. I wondered if all the cops would be at Equestrian Estates in rural Loxahatchee while the kidnapper dumped Erin's body at the back gate of the equestrian center in Wellington-the spot where she had been grabbed.

I played the videotape of the kidnapping, wanting to see something I hadn't seen before, wishing for some sudden epiphany.

Erin standing outside the gate. Waiting. For who? A friend? A lover? A drug connection? Don Jade? Tomas Van Zandt? She doesn't seem nervous as the white van approaches. Does she recognize the van? Does she think this is the person she's supposed to meet? Is it the person she's supposed to meet?

Landry had told me he had contacted Narcotics to see about Erin Seabright's drug connections, if the bust for possession of Ecstasy wasn't just a one-time thing. I wondered what they had come up with. I would have known exactly who to look at for information two years before, when I'd been a part of the narcotics team. But two years is a long time in the drug business. Things change fast. Dealers go to prison, they go to Miami, they get killed. The turnover of personnel is especially swift regarding dealing drugs to high school kids. The dealers need to be at or around the age of their customers or they won't be trusted.

It was difficult for me to give very much credence to the drug angle anyway. If she was into a coke dealer or a heroin dealer for a lot of money, maybe. But it would take a hell of a lot of Ecstasy to run up a three-hundred-thousand-dollar tab that would hatch a desperate kidnap for ransom scheme. Erin's crime had warranted nothing more than a slap on the wrist by the juvenile court. She hadn't been charged with dealing, just possession.

I wondered what Chad Seabright, honor student, knew about Erin's drug use. I wondered how complete Erin's corruption of him might have been. He had no believable alibi for the night of the kidnapping.

But Landry hadn't asked me about Chad.

Do you think Don Jade could be Van Zandt's partner in this? In the kidnapping?

Landry hadn't asked that question for no reason. Had Erin been there to meet Jade? Was Jade the older man in her life? A good bet the answer was yes. But if that was true, then Jade would have had control over Erin, and she wouldn't have been a threat, even if she had known what had really happened to Stellar.

I thought again about the horse and the way he had died, and the fact there had been a sedative in his system. Paris hadn't pinpointed the drug. She had listed several possibilities: Rompun, acepromazine, Banamine.

The consensus was that Jade had killed horses before and gotten away with it. But if that was true, he would have known better than to sedate the horse first. He wouldn't have taken the chance of anything showing up in the necropsy.

What if the jab I had thrown at Michael Berne to rattle him was true? I wondered. What if Berne hated Jade enough to ruin him, hated him so much he would sacrifice an animal he himself had loved in order to frame Jade?

Berne would know as well as anyone a sedative in the horse's system would be a big red flag to the insurance company. The death would be ruled the result of foul play. The company wouldn't pay out. Trey Hughes would lose a quarter of a million dollars. Jade would lose his career, and possibly go to jail.

If what Erin had known about Stellar's demise was that Berne had orchestrated it, then Berne had a motive to get rid of the girl. But why risk the kidnapping plot? Was he that desperate for money? The chances of getting caught seemed far too great-unless he had a way to hang the kidnapping on Jade as well, but I couldn't see how he would pull that off. And if Van Zandt was a part of the kidnapping, I had seen no connection between him and Berne.

I got up from my chair and walked around the house, trying to separate the tangled strands of truth and speculation.

I knew in the marrow of my bones Tomas Van Zandt was a sociopath, a criminal, a murderer. It stood to reason: if he was responsible for one girl dying, he was responsible for another disappearing. He had the arrogance to think he could pull off a kidnapping for ransom. But who would he trust for a partner? And who would trust him?

All of it seemed too risky for Jade. He may well have been a sociopath too, but there was a world of difference between Van Zandt and Don Jade. Van Zandt was unpredictable. Jade was controlled and methodical. Why would he concoct a scheme that made him look like a crook and a killer? Why would he kill Stellar in a way that would make everyone jump to the conclusion he was guilty of the crime? Why would he risk kidnapping Erin for ransom?

If he had needed to be rid of her, why wouldn't he just make her disappear? If he was going to claim she had moved out of town, why wouldn't he ditch her car? Why leave it parked at the show grounds on the off chance that no one would ever look for it?

It didn't make sense to me. But Landry thought Jade was connected. Why?

Erin's connection to Stellar.

Erin had allegedly told Jade she was quitting. Told him and no one else.

Jade was the last person to see her.

He said she'd gone to Ocala. She hadn't.

Why would Jade make up a story like that-a story that could be easily checked out and discounted as untrue.

It didn't make sense to me. But somehow it made sense to Landry. What other information did he have that I didn't? What small thread that could tie Don Jade to the crime?

The phone numbers of the calls to the Seabright house.

I hated the idea that Landry had details I wasn't privy to. I was the one who had given him those numbers, but he was the one who could check them out. And I was the one who had given him the videotape of the kidnapping, but he had access to the technicians who could enhance the tape. I was the one who had tried to reach out to Interpol, to check out Van Zandt. But I knew that if Landry had made first contact with Interpol, no one would have held back from him the information about Van Zandt's past history as a possible sexual predator.

The frustration built inside me like a thunderhead. I was on the outside. It was my case. I was the one who had cared enough to try to help this girl. I was the one who had done all the dog work. Yet I was the one being shut out, information kept from me. Information available on a need-to-know basis, and it had been decided I had no need to know.

And whose fault was that?

Mine.

It was my fault I wasn't a cop anymore. It was my fault I'd brought Landry into the picture. I'd done the right thing and pushed myself out of the picture in the process.

My case. My case. The words pounded in my head like a drumbeat as I paced. My case. My case. The case I hadn't wanted. My case. My case. The thing that had reconnected my life to the real world. The world I had retreated from. The life I had given up on.

The conflicting emotions sparked off each other like stone and flint, igniting my temper. Unable to contain the pressure, I grabbed up one of the decorator's objets d'art and threw it as hard as I could against the wall.

The motion felt good. The crash was satisfying. I picked up another piece-some kind of heavy wooden ball from a collection in a bowl-and threw it like a baseball. A wild, animal sound ripped up my throat and exploded from my mouth. A deafening shout that lasted so long, my head was pounding from the sheer effort of it. And when it ended, I felt spent, as if a demon had been exorcized from my soul.

I leaned against the back of the sofa, breathing hard, and looked at the wall. The wallboard had two large dents about head-high. Looked like a good place to hang a picture.

I sank into a chair and held my head in my hands, and I didn't think at all for a good ten minutes. Then I got up, grabbed my keys and my gun, and left the house.

The hell if I would let James Landry cut me out. This was my case. I was in it to the end.

The end of the case or the end of me-whichever came first.