Horse of a Different Killer (23 page)

“Okay,” Sonja said, “the shoes cover the shiny but what about the bells?”

“I don't know. It could have been anything. I heard it, though. It was a jingling sound.”

“You heard it? When?”

“When I was talking to Minerva.”

She canted her head and arched her brows. “You hear things when you're communicating with animals?”

The way she said “hear things” made me sound like a crazy person. The thought brought my hackles up until I remembered I was talking to Sonja, who, unbeknownst to me, had become aware of my ability years ago, and never judged or questioned it.

I nodded. “I hear, see, feel, smell . . .”

“Smell?” She made a face.

“Yeah. Not always, thank God.”

“Then you're plugged in completely.”

“Yes and no. I can't jump into an animal's head and sift through their memories. I can only perceive what they're thinking in that moment.” I took a gooey bite of quesadilla. “Sometimes, what I hear is part of the memory and other times it's like an association.” I tried to think of the best way to explain. “You might think of your favorite movie and the theme music starts playing in your head. Like
Jaws
.”

She shuddered.

“You're afraid of sharks?” I was genuinely surprised. I knew a lot of people were afraid of sharks but that was usually due to lack of understanding, wasn't it? Sonja had a degree in biology.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Don't tell me how amazing they are, I know. In theory, they're beautiful animals. I have a better chance of getting struck by lightning, blah-blah.”

“Twice,” I amended. “This is Florida, remember?” If the Sunshine State didn't average more lightning strikes than any other state, I'd be surprised.

She glared at me. “But I am still scared of them. And I do not want to meet one—ever. Sharks are like torpedoes with teeth. And I'm black,” she said, as if I'd never noticed. “I probably look like a seal or something.”

The gurgle of laughter that bubbled out of my throat caught me off guard and made me laugh harder. It felt like I hadn't had a good laugh in a year. It felt great.

For a while after that, we took our time eating and chatted about unimportant things.

Somehow, we segued to Detective Boyle—who Sonja agreed sounded like a piece of work.

I thought of the Saint Francis medallion Sonja had given me not long ago and asked, “Have you heard of a Saint Giles?”

“Sure. He's one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers.” Knowing I'd have no idea what she was talking about, Sonja continued, “They're a group of saints who protect against disease and other health problems.”

“So a Sanctuary of Saint Giles would be a hospital?”

“Or a long-term care facility for people with severe disabilities. Why?”

“My sister donated to a place called the Sanctuary of Saint Giles.”

“Nice of her.”

Yes, but it was still odd.

Letting Saint Giles go for the time being, I told Sonja about another, more worrisome mystery—the USB drive.

“Why are you assuming it's something bad?” Sonja asked.

“I don't know. It's just a feeling.”

“Maybe you're just overthinking.”

“Me? Never.”

“My suggestion? Find out what's on the drive, and go from there. You can worry about it when you know for sure.”

•   •   •

With a bracing breath, I plugged the USB stick into my laptop and clicked the drive's icon. It opened, revealing a single file folder. When I tried to open the folder, a box appeared. I couldn't open the file without the password.

Why would the information on the file be password protected?

One way to find out.

I started typing in passwords I knew Emma used, making it through four or five before running out of steam.

I looked around the room for inspiration, then got up and rummaged around my sister's office, looking for her social security number. I tried it, then her birthday, and after thirty minutes entering as many variations of everything I could think of, including “Graceisawesome” and “Graceisnumber1”—you know, just in case the password had to contain a number—was no closer to gaining entrance to the information on the file.

“Okay, how about, p-a-s-s-w-o-r-d.”

Nope.

“Any guesses?” I asked Moss.

Pizza?

I grinned. “I don't think she loves it quite as much as you do, big guy.”

If Moss ever had to come up with a password for something it would either be “treat,” “pizza,” or quite possibly “Moss-Handsome.”

With a sigh, I ejected the USB drive and disconnected it from my laptop.

Maybe the password would come to me later. Or, better yet, Emma would be released and I could ask for an explanation.

I stood and was scanning the living room for the best place to hide the little yellow stick when my phone rang. I leaned over the coffee table to see the caller ID and froze.

Jake.

In a fit of paranoia worthy of a schizophrenic tripping on 'shrooms, I backed away from the phone, whispered a curse, then stuffed the USB stick under a couch cushion before answering.

“Jake, what's up?”

“I got some info on the horse.”

“Heart? What is it?”

“Only one horse matches his description, but it can't be him.”

“Why not?”

“Your horse is fixed, isn't he?”

For a half second I wasn't sure what he meant. “Oh, yes. He's a gelding. Wait, you're saying the only Friesian they have on record entering the Miami port was a stallion? You're sure?”

“In the last month, yeah.”

I didn't want to believe it.

“But that would mean—”

“It ain't him. Sorry, Grace.”

I hung up, flopped down onto the couch, and stared at a spot on the wall. I thought about Jasmine, who was in Texas hoping I'd deliver good news. I thought about Heart, wherever he was, and wondered who I was kidding to think I could play detective and bring the two back together.

After several minutes of staring, the silence started getting to me and I flipped on the television and channel surfed for a little while, brooding.

Sensing my mood, Moss came to nuzzle under my hand.

Okay?

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just worried and unbelievably discouraged.”

Moss trotted away only to return a moment later with Voodoo dangling from his mouth. He plopped the slobbery kitten on my lap, gave her face a quick lick, and looked at me.

“What?”

Your kitty
.

For a moment I didn't understand—then his intent settled over me like a warm hug. Moss was offering me one of the things he loved most, hoping it would make me feel better.

“Thanks, big guy.” Emotion made my voice waver. What would I do without this big pain-in-the-butt dog?

I love you, too.
Grabbing his ruff, I pulled him in for a hug and kissed his muzzle.

He swished his tail a few times then climbed back onto the couch, turned in a circle, and huffed down with a groaning sigh.

Tears blurred my vision. I scratched the kitten under her chin and she tilted her head back, eyes drifting closed in kitty bliss.

Her purr, an almost hyperactive rumble, was loud and constant. Her thoughts were an oscillating thrum of satisfaction and sleepiness.

Leaning my head back, I let the kitten's serenity seep into my head. I was dozing lightly when I heard the newscaster say, “The latest on the Ortega murder—”

I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the TV. It was like trying to pull my brain out of quicksand. Groggily, I remembered how to shield my mind and slowly managed to wrest my thoughts free of Voodoo's.

Blinking at the television, I sat up and grabbed the remote off the coffee table. Turning up the volume in time to hear the desk anchor say, “Yesterday, our crew was on site when the arrest was made.” They showed a clip of Emma being led to the deputy's car. Any lingering serenity I'd borrowed from Voodoo evaporated.

“Her attorney had this to say.”

A recording of Wes followed. He looked calm, confident, and serious as he addressed a cluster of reporters outside the Police Memorial Building.

“My client is saddened by Mr. Ortega's tragic death. She is, of course, innocent and we feel confident she'll be exonerated of any involvement soon.”

“A source close to the investigation says that Ortega's fiancée, model Jasmine El-Amin, and her driver, Clarence MacEntire, are possible witnesses to the murder,” the newscaster continued.

A blurry photo of a man holding a car door open for Jasmine flashed on the screen as the report continued.

“Originally from England, Miss El-Amin is said to have recently moved to the couple's beach home, where the murder took place.

“Joining us now is Anita Margulies, who is on location. Anita?”

The reporter appeared, standing in front of Ortega's house. The gate was closed, but the exterior lighting made the home's façade clearly visible in the background.

“As many of you know, Anthony Ortega's body was found Sunday,” Anita Margulies said, looking well coiffed and serious. “Details are still coming in, but I
can
confirm his fiancée and her driver are being listed as witnesses. We can't be sure, as details are still emerging in the case, but it seems obvious, with the arrest of his ex-wife, Emma Wilde, that the police have substantial evidence implicating her in his death. Again, we can't speculate on the details but their relationship raises a number of questions. Was jealousy a factor? Perhaps some financial ties between the victim and his ex-wife were being threatened due to the upcoming marriage. Again, we can't speculate, but it's clear there's more to the story, Chris.”

My heart rate and blood pressure had been steadily rising with every sentence.

They couldn't speculate?

I wasn't going to sit idly by while Emma was being slandered.

Before I'd really thought about it, I was up and headed for the door.

Not even sure where I was going or what I was going to do, the decision was made for me when I opened the door and nearly collided with Kai.

“What are you doing?” My anger at Margulies and her
speculations
made my surprise seem more like an accusation.

“I was on my way to a scene off Bay Meadows and thought I'd stop by to check on you.”

I gave him a dubious look. Ponte Vedra was not on the way to Bay Meadows.

“Can I come in?”

I nodded and opened the door.

“First, I wanted to apologize for bailing on you the other night. I'm sorry I let Logan's phone call bother me so much. I think I've made it clear that logic goes out the window when it comes to you.”

“Ditto,” I said, which made him smile.

Kai has a terrific smile.

“I know we shouldn't talk about Emma, but I do want to help you if I can.”

“Can you arrest Anita Margulies for being a lying bitch?”

I told him about the news report and the poorly hidden insinuations. “She made it sound like Emma had already been convicted. I should have let her go into the enclosure with Boris when he snapped—he would've taken her out.”

Kai arched an eyebrow at my vehemence. My rant had attracted Moss's attention and he came trotting into the foyer to give Kai the cool wolf-stare.

Kai glanced at my dog. “I guess we're not really friends.”

“He knows I'm upset, so he's upset. And what am I doing? I'm not even supposed to talk to you about any of this.”

“That's not true. We can talk about Heart. I found out something interesting about Rusty Parnell.”

“The guy who owns R-n-R.”

“Nope. Rusty Parnell doesn't own it, his sister, May, does.”

“Then where is she?”

“Undergoing cancer treatment.”

“And he's taking care of the place while she's in the hospital?”

“That's one guess. Though it doesn't seem he's ever been involved with the place. She inherited R-n-R from their parents over fifteen years ago.”

I wondered if medical bills had driven him to want to sell his family's property, then reminded myself that wondering about Parnell and R-n-R was pointless.

I blew out a breath and sank back against the wall. “I appreciate you looking into it, Kai, but it doesn't matter. Heart isn't even here. I got the info from Jake. The only Friesian who entered the port was a stallion. Heart is a gelding.”

“Could be a clerical error,” he suggested. “We're talking about importing from overseas. There's a language barrier to consider.”

“Well, I can't check Lily Earl's paperwork—it's missing.”

“You said the vet was there when Heart was delivered to R-n-R, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, would she have noticed if he . . .” Kai trailed off, a pained look on his face.

“If he had been cut?” I asked, just to see if Kai would wince.

He did.

Men. So sensitive about their nether regions.

“Would you prefer the term
neutered
?” I asked. “How about
castrated
?”

He flinched. “I'd prefer we didn't talk about it.”

I tried to hide my smile but failed.

“You think this is funny?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Back to the vet,” Kai said.

“I haven't been able to reach her. I talked to her neighbor, who told me the good doctor was in and out and doesn't have a set schedule. How do I catch her at home?”

“You could always try doing what the telemarketers do—catch her at dinnertime.”

It was after dark by the time I reached Dr. Simon's little blue house.

Gator Lady was nowhere in sight, though I noticed a TV's flickering glow seeping around the curtains of one of her windows.

Whatever she was watching, it was loud. Probably a recording of a favorite Gator game.

An excited canine mind zoomed into my range before I'd rung the bell.

I could barely make out the dog's muted barks but I knew that something was amiss.

The dog was more than excited, he was . . . distraught.

Dr. Simon's front door was solid except for a series of small, rectangular windows ascending across the upper part of the wood. Standing on tiptoe, I squinted through the glass and was just able to make out an open living area and past it, a dining room set.

The dog let out a barely audible whine, and I realized the poor thing had barked himself hoarse.

He was desperately hungry and judging from the dark lumps and small puddles decorating the hardwood floor, I guessed he hadn't been taken out for quite some time.

I tried to get a look at the dog but couldn't get high enough to see down at such an acute angle. I could, however, see through all the way to the rear of the house. The interior was dim, but I could make out a set of windows flanking the solid back door. Almost solid, I realized, squinting against the murky light. There, in the lower part of the dark rectangle, was the faint outline of what looked like a doggy door.

Light flooded the porch in a blinding flash.

I took a step away from the door, expecting it to swing open.

Nothing.

The lights must have been on a timer.

The desperate barks continued and I focused a little bit more intently on the dog's mind, aligning my thoughts to his.

Roscoe hungry.

Okay, Roscoe.
As soon as the dog felt my connection, he began pleading in earnest.

Please, Roscoe hungry! Thirsty. Please!

This wasn't the poor-me-I'm-starving kind of begging Moss would do to con someone into giving him a treat. Roscoe had not been given food or water.

Gator Lady had said Dr. Simon was moving. Could she have abandoned the dog?

I knew the answer.

“Hang on, little guy,” I muttered.

I turned and hurried back down the path leading to the driveway. With single-minded purpose, I marched between Bluebell and the garage doors and had rounded the side of the house and taken several steps when reason caught up with me. The security lights were blazing everywhere.

With a sighed curse, I slowed. And tried to walk in the least suspicious manner possible.

Only to find the gate in the six-foot privacy fence locked.

Crap!

There were no crossbeams to use as footholds on my side and nothing in the area I could use as a leg up.

I studied the gate, hyperaware of the fact I was acting surreptitious while literally standing in a spotlight. Whatever I was going to do, I needed to do it fast.

There was a cluster of palms between Gator Lady's house and the gate. But I had a clear view of a pair of windows. She might glance out and see someone climbing the fence and call the cops.

I was pretty sure I hadn't left Duval County, which meant if I got caught, the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office would be responding. I might be able to spin a story of breaking into the house out of concern for the dog's safety to a Saint Johns County cop and get off with a warning, but I didn't want to risk Boyle catching wind of my little rescue mission. I had no doubt she would toss me in jail in a hot second if she got the chance.

Adding a breaking and entering charge wouldn't do me—or, more important, my sister—any favors.

But I couldn't just leave the poor dog.

I tried calling Sonja for help but, as I knew it would be, the cell signal was nonexistent.

I got back into Bluebell and started driving, keeping my eyes on the road while intermittently checking my phone for a signal.

I slammed on the breaks when I saw something I recognized. The little faux water well with the overflowing petunias. I'd passed through this part of the neighborhood a few days ago.

Dr. Simon lived on one of the streets bordering Jennings State Forest.

I dug through the detritus on the passenger seat and finally found the rudimentary map I'd gotten from the hikers. After a quick scan I found what I was looking for. The cross street I'd come to was listed on the very edge of the map.

I made two left turns, and soon rolled to a stop at the same trailhead I'd found a couple of days before.

The chain swooped from pole to pole barring access to the wide, dirt path. To the side of each pole, a berm had been built to discourage motor vehicles. Easy enough to bypass with Bluebell.

Wincing as branches scraped along the passenger side, I angled around the pole and heaved over the small hill. The undercarriage rasped over the sand, but a moment later we were clear and bouncing along the trail.

I gave Bluebell's dash an affectionate pat.

Though it was much darker in the woods than it had been on the street, I eschewed turning on the headlights, opting for fog lights instead. I was hoping the beacon of Dr. Simon's array of exterior lights would be visible through the trees and didn't want to dull my night vision.

“Disco,” I said aloud as I caught a glimmer through the branches.

I parked and remembered the hay bales in Bluebell's cargo area. I was not going to be able to get to my toolbox, which meant no flashlight or screwdriver. A quick search of the glove box yielded a two-inch Swiss Army knife and a fancy wooden chopstick I used to secure my hair into a bun on occasion.

Better than nothing. I carefully traipsed through the woods toward the house.

Like some homes that backed up to woodland, Dr. Simon's yard had been privacy fenced only on the sides. Along the back was the shorter, wire fencing erected by the Forest Service.

I paused in the shadow of a large pine tree to scan the area. The place was lit up like the Fortress of Solitude on Christmas. The coast seemed clear, so I hurried to the fence and quickly climbed over into the brightly lit yard.

Keeping my stride casual, I headed to the back porch.

I'd come to a decision during my trek through the woods.

My plan was to climb through the doggy door, make sure Roscoe had food and water, poke around a little, and assess the situation.

What I found would determine whether I took him with me or not. Either way, the first step was getting through the dog door. Fortunately, I was familiar with this model.

The exterior had a thick rubber flap, magnetized at the bottom to help it stay closed. I peeled it up and out of the way so I could get to the hard, plastic “security” door, then placed the chopstick where the latch of that door locked it in place.

A little shake, a little twist, and voilà, it slid up and out of the way.

I tucked the chopstick into my back pocket, stuck my head through the opening, and was greeted with more ebullience and fanfare than a superhero.

Roscoe, who turned out to be a papillon, licked my face and danced in happy circles.

Hello! Hungry!

Kisses!

“Okay, buddy, hang on.”

It took a minute to wriggle through the opening. I had to stretch and contort to avoid the piles of poo around the back door.

Twister: the Excrement Edition.

Finally securing a safe place to put my hands, then my knees and eventually my feet, I stood and began my search for dog food.

“Where's your food, Roscoe?”

Food!

The little dog dashed around the corner and reappeared a few seconds later dragging a plastic dog bowl with him.

He set it in front of me, spun in a tight circle, then pranced to one of the lower cabinets and bumped the door with his nose.

Sure enough, I opened it to find a bag of dog food.

I poured some in Roscoe's dish then got a cereal bowl from one the cabinets, filled it with water and set it next to the food. The little dog took two bites of food then went straight for the water. He drank with an eagerness that made me think he'd been without for a while.

Where the hell was Dr. Simon?

As if answering my own question my gaze landed on a purse resting on the counter next to a pile of mail.

I opened the bag and peeked inside, then, for no other reason than I'd seen people do it in movies, I lifted out the wallet and looked over its contents. Driver's license, credit cards, cash—whoa. Make that
lots
of cash.

I didn't get an exact count, but it was at least two grand.

With a wary look around, I stuffed it all back in her purse. Her purse, wallet, and cash were here. But where was she?

Could something have happened to the vet? People fell and injured themselves at home all the time. And with the cell service out . . .

“Hello?” I called out. Waited. Aside from Roscoe's happy munching—nothing. The rest of the house felt empty. Still, it would be better to take a look around. I didn't make it a habit of breaking into people's houses and felt a little jumpy and nervous as I started down the hall to what I assumed were the bedrooms. The first door opened to a bathroom. I flipped on the light, but other than some truly unfortunate wallpaper, saw nothing remarkable. Next came a bedroom, empty except for a floor lamp. Across the hall was another bedroom—also empty. The master was at the end of the hall.

I clicked the switch and heard the hum of the ceiling fan as it began to spin overhead. The room remained dark, and I felt for a second switch. Finding none, I glanced up at the fan. It was capped with a globe that should have contained a light.

The fixture hummed and began to sway slightly. A gentle ticking sound punctuated each oscillation.

It probably would have been soothing, had I not been skulking around in the dark. Squinting up, I searched for a pull chain on the fan, but didn't see one.

“Should have dug through hay for the flashlight.”

By the ambient glow from the window, I was able to make out a walk-in closet to my right. Turning on that light revealed there was no one in the room.

There was an open moving box to the side of the closet.

I did a double take when I saw the diploma.

Auburn—my alma mater.

Except, something wasn't right. I pulled the framed certificate out of the box for a closer look and saw the diploma had slipped a little in the matting to reveal another document underneath.

Flipping the frame over, I opened the back and found a second diploma for someone named Simone Grant who'd earned a degree in business from Ohio State.

A third claimed Caroline Smith, Esq., had attended Loyola.

Could they all be fakes?

I found the answer in a second box nestled inside the first. The stack of identification badges and driver's licenses were from all over the country. Though her hair color and style changed, sometimes dramatically, between IDs, and different glasses and even eye colors were listed, I knew I was looking at the same woman.

There were also two U.S. passports issued in different names and a dozen business cards.

At least I'd figured out why Dr. Simon didn't act like a vet. She wasn't one.

Who was she?

Where
was she?

Abandoning the box and its contents, I continued my search.

Next to the bed, I found an iPhone. It was newer than mine but I was still able to navigate to Dr. Simon's messages and her call list. Three out of the four most recent calls were local numbers; one was listed as “blocked.”

The rapid
click-clack
of the dog's toenails on the hardwood floor sounded and a moment later, Roscoe pranced through the doorway toward me.

I glanced at him and asked, “You need to go out? Give me just a sec.”

But he didn't want to go out, he wanted me to pick him up and hold him.

Cuddle!

He balanced back on his hindquarters and scooped down at the air in front of him with his front paws.