nothing great, but he makes do. You take turns 'buying' him, insuring him, then stealing him. Between each 'theft,' you take him home for a while, then send him to another stable where he does a little showing to substantiate that he is in fact a jumper. Then he gets stolen again. Each time, the owner's name is different, the stable where he's boarded is different, and of course, he gets a new name at each barn.'
'But doesn't the insurance company review the horse's show record when they determine its value?' I said. 'And what about the registration papers?'
'Sure. You send the company paperwork on someone else's horse that's doing well in competition.'
'But-'
She raised her hand. 'Let's say you have a chestnut Hanoverian gelding that you're competing in open jumper classes-there are hundreds of them on the show circuit. He's doing okay, enough to play the part, but in the grand scheme of things, he's a pretty mediocre animal. But you know of a more successful Hanoverian the same sex and color, similar markings, and chances are, he's not insured with the company you're dealing with. So when you apply for insurance for your horse, you write away for the show record-'
The waitress plunked down our drinks and sandwiches and laid the check face down on the checkered tablecloth. 'Anything else?' she asked as if she didn't expect to be bothered.
Marilyn shook her head, and the waitress returned to the kitchen's swinging doors, where she'd been chatting with someone just out of our line of sight. Marilyn leaned forward and said, 'Where was I?'
'You write away for the show record…'
'Oh, yeah.' She bit into her sandwich. 'You get the show record of a successful Hanoverian, put his name on all your paperwork, do a little creative forgery on a copy of your horse's registration papers, and viola, you now have one expensive animal, at least on paper. But not so expensive that he's going to raise a flag. When you get rid of him, no one's the wiser.'
'But wouldn't someone figure it out?'
'It's a riskier fraud, I'll admit, but if it's uncovered, it more than likely won't be the insurance company that catches on.' She sipped her iced tea. 'Most agents wouldn't know a Hanoverian from a Clydesdale. Consider the thousands of horses competing today, and the hundreds of insurance companies that provide equine mortality insurance, and it's pretty easy to see you'd go unnoticed, unless you did something stupid, like pretend you owned a world-class horse like Charisma. The real threat comes from someone on the show circuit noticing that the horse you're masquerading as Rocket isn't Rocket at all, because Rocket's down at ol' Charlie's place in South Carolina right about now.'
'So you've got to be careful where you place your horse,' I said.
Marilyn nodded. 'That's right, and you don't keep him there long, and though you'll probably have to give the barn owner his fake show name, you make sure everyone else around the barn knows him as plain ol' Jake.'
I swallowed some Coke. 'Why's he have to be the same color?'
'For the vet exam.'
'But if one of your buddies is a vet, then it wouldn't matter what the horse looked like. You wouldn't even need a horse, would you?'
'Your buddy the vet could fill out a fake report, sure. But when it came time to 'steal' the horse, you'd need a police report, and for that, you've gotta have a stable owner that can witness the fact that there actually was a horse. Too many thefts from one farm won't be noticed by different insurance companies, but the cops would eventually catch on.'
I grinned. 'Guess it would be too farfetched to think you'd have a crooked vet, cop, and stable owner as friends, wouldn't it?'
She looked at the ceiling. 'Let's hope so. Course, I imagine if you were smart enough and had the connections, the entire scam could be done on paper without there ever being an actual horse.'
We ate in silence. Despite the dreary decor and poor service, the food was surprisingly good. Eventually, I said, 'It's a pretty unscrupulous industry, isn't it?'
Marilyn shrugged. 'It's everywhere. Kinda makes you wonder about human nature, doesn't it?'
'Yeah. So, is Sanders' policy being questioned?' I asked, not sure that she would tell me.
She glanced around the room. 'No. He'd signed up three months before the theft. That might've caught someone's attention, but it happens. In this case, what really got the ball rolling was pure and simple fate. Nicky happened to be shoeing at the barn the day the horse was vetted for the policy, and he overheard the figure, which he thought excessive. He mentioned it to me when he heard the horse was stolen, and,' she caught her breath, 'since I just so happen to work for the insurance company in question, the underwriter had a tense moment or two because the policy did appear to be on the high side. But after an investigation, he was cleared.' Marilyn leaned back in her chair and eyed me speculatively. 'And you have no suspicions?'
'No. I'm just trying to figure out who'd gain by taking the horses.'
'Besides the thieves, you mean?'
'Yeah.' I thought about James Peters and figured she was right. It was just too farfetched to think that Sanders had anything to do with what had happened at Hunter's Ridge. 'So he's going to get a check?'
'Sure. No reason why he won't. Thirty days after the date of the theft, we'll cut his check.'
'Why thirty days?'
'SOP.'
'What?'
'Standard operating procedure.'
'What if the horse shows up after he collects?'
'Then the company has the right to take title and possession of the animal.' She glanced at her watch. 'Anything else?'
'I don't think so.'
'If I hear you're going around collecting on insurance claims,' she said with a grin, 'I'll wring your neck.'
I chuckled. 'Yes, ma'am.'
'Don't 'ma'am' me, boy. Makes a girl feel old.' She wiped her mouth with a napkin, tossed it on the table, and stood up. 'I'm late. Thanks for lunch.'
I stood also and thought that I'd gotten the prim part wrong. 'Thanks for the education.' I hesitated. 'Any chance I could get a look at my friend's paperwork?'
She tilted her head. 'I'll think about it.'
We shook hands, and I watched her walk out of the cafe.
Chapter 6
Five-thirty Saturday morning, and already bands of color had spread across the eastern horizon. The horses watched as I walked down the barn aisle, flipping through my farm keys, looking for the right one. I had too many damn keys. Even with color-coded tape, I was still sorting through them when I stopped outside the tack room door.
Sensing something wrong, out of place, I looked up. I wouldn't be needing my keys. Not that morning, anyway.
The door was half open, and the jamb was cracked and splintered and dented with pry marks.
With nerves on high alert, I pushed the door inward with the toe of my boot and flipped the light switch with my key.
Locker doors hung askew or lay on the floor. Most of the saddles were gone. I walked into the center of the room and surveyed the damage. Some of the more expensive bridles were missing, too. I checked the other boarders' tack room. Everything of value that could easily be sold was gone. On my way out, I stopped outside the school horses' tack room. It was still locked. I frowned at the undisturbed door and considered the implications.
I walked over to barn A, knowing I'd find the same thing.
I pushed the door in with my boot, hit the light switch, and froze. A thin trail of blood snaked across the floor and disappeared around the corner of the central island of lockers.
