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.
34
There is no surer way to tell which direction the wind is blowing than to spit into it.
Sunday is the marquee day at a horse show in Wellington. During the Winter Equestrian Festival, the big grand prix jumping competitions are held on Sunday afternoon. Big money, big crowds.
Just down the road from the polo stadium, where an international match would be going on at the same time, the stands and banks around the Internationale arena fill with hundreds of fans, owners, riders, grooms-all come to watch the best of the best jump a massive course of fences for prize money upward of a hundred grand.
Camera crews from Fox Sports dot the landscape. Vendor stands line the walkway on the high bank between the Internationale arena and the hunter rings below, teeming with people eager to part with their money for everything from ice cream to diamond jewelry to a Jack Russell puppy. At the same time the grand prix is going on, there are lesser events taking place in half a dozen smaller arenas around it.
I drove in the exhibitors' gate and down the row of tents, backing my car into a spot about three tents before Jade's. I had no way of knowing whether Van Zandt had ratted me out to the Jade camp. Fine if he had, I thought. My patience was too thin to play any more games.
I had not come dressed as the dilettante. Jeans and sneakers. Black T-shirt and baseball cap. Belt holster and Glock nestled in the small of my back under the loose shirt.
Circling around the back of Jade's tent, I entered as I had the first night I'd come there. Down the aisle of some other trainer's stalls where people I didn't know were talking, laughing, shouting at each other as they prepared for their classes. Horses were being groomed and braided, tack cleaned, boots polished.
Farther down the row, directly behind Jade's stalls, another trainer's horses stood bored in their stalls. Two had already gone that day, their short manes were still curly from having their braids let down after their rides. The others hadn't seen a brush that day. There was no sign of a groom in the vicinity.
Cap pulled low, I picked up a pitchfork and dragged a muck cart to one of the stalls, let myself in. The occupant of the stall barely spared me a glance. Head down, I picked through the bedding with the fork, working my way to the back of the stall, and peered between the iron frame of the stall and the canvas that made the wall.
In the stall behind, a girl with spiky red hair stood on a step stool, braiding Park Lane. Her fingers worked quickly, expertly. She sewed the braids in place with heavy black thread, every braid perfect and flat against the horse's neck. Her head bobbed as she worked, keeping time to a tune only she could hear on her headphones.
One of the many cottage industries of the winter show season is braiding manes and tails. With four thousand horses on the grounds, most of them needing full braids for the showring, and not enough grooms to go around, a tidy sum can be made every day of a show by a good braider. There are girls who do nothing but go from stable to stable, starting before dawn, braiding manes and tails until their fingers give out. A good braider can clear several hundred dollars a day-cash if the clients are willing to do business that way.
The girl braiding for Jade kept her eyes on her work and her fingers flying. She didn't notice me.
Paris paced in the aisle in front of the grooming stall, talking on her cell phone. She was dressed to show in buff breeches and a tailored sage green blouse. There was no sign of Jade or Van Zandt in the immediate area.
I doubted Landry had hauled either of them in. He wouldn't make a move before the ransom drop. If there was still a chance of them getting the money, the kidnappers had an incentive to keep Erin alive-provided they hadn't killed her already. Unless what Landry had on Jade was ironclad, taking him into custody was too risky. He still had nothing solid on Van Zandt. If he pulled in one suspect, the other kidnapper would still be free to do as he pleased to Erin. If he knew his partner was in custody, he might panic, kill the girl, and bolt.
Landry had to play the odds on the drop, hoping against hope the kidnappers would show up with Erin in tow, even if he knew the odds were against him.
I couldn't quite make out the conversation Paris was having. She didn't seem upset. The tone of her voice rose and fell like music. She laughed a couple of times, flashing the big smile.
I tossed a couple of forkfuls of manure into the muck cart, moved to the next stall, and repeated the process. Looking between the canvas and the post, I watched Javier emerge from the Jade tack stall with Park Lane's tack in his arms.
'Excuse me? Excuse me?'
I started at the sound of the voice behind me, and turned to find an older woman peering in at me. She wore a helmet of starched-stiff apricot hair, too much makeup, too much gold jewelry, and the severe expression of a society matron.
I tried to look confused.
