Final Fix (Rachel Ryder Book 8), page 9
“I know,” he said laughing. “Women tell me that daily. Mostly when I’m at the grocery store.”
“I’m sure the ones in the produce aisle swoon over you.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
I laughed. I didn’t doubt they were swooning over him, but I doubted Kyle noticed. The man was clueless. He was always alert and aware, but to possible threats, not attractive women nearly fainting in his presence. “I’ll be there in ten.”
My cell phone rang about five minutes from home. I checked the caller ID. It was Tony Garcia, my former partner in Chicago. We hadn’t talked in ages, so I happily answered the call. “Hey Tony G. What’s up?” I smiled at the memory of hearing that greeting from just about every gang member in our district. They loved Anthony. Having come from the streets, he knew how to relate to them, and he always gave them a second chance. Most didn’t deserve it, but the few who did were worth the effort on his part. His reputation worked to endear the community to me as well. Those gang members had saved my butt more than once.
“Hadn’t talked in a while, thought I’d catch up.”
“I’m working a murder. It’s a tough one.”
“A kid?” Garcia asked.
I climbed out of my Jeep. “Someone I used to know.”
“Damn, that sucks.”
“Yep. What’s up at the department? The guys still miss me?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I quit about a month ago.”
I closed the garage door as Kyle opened the door into our place. I smiled and held up a finger. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
“Wait a minute. There’s no way you quit. You got canned. Admit it.”
“Talk to Lenny. He’ll tell you. I’m tired of the BS. Everyone in the damn city is a crook, including two thirds of the department, at least on the management side.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“I guess I got tired of it.”
“What’re you going to do now?”
“I just got my private investigator’s license. Work is slow, but it’ll pick up. Mostly insurance claims. Catching fakers pretending they’re injured. That kind of thing.”
“So, basically, you’re bored to death.”
“Out of my mind.”
I laughed. “That’s bad. Maybe you should work for the state or something?”
He groaned. “Not going to happen. I’m over working for the man. It’s time I do my own thing. I’ll figure it out. Just need to find my niche.”
“Let me know when you do,” I said.
“Sure thing. I got to run. Keep in touch, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I walked inside reeling from the fact that my previous partner had walked away from a solid pension and years’ worth of training and experience just to hunt down insurance fraud cases.
Kyle had set our dinner up on the trunk we used as a coffee table. I quickly checked on Louie, my beta fish. He cared nothing about my big face stuck against his glass house, but I was ecstatic to see him swimming around as always. “Did you feed him?” I asked Kyle.
“Always do. Now, come eat. You look hangry.”
“Borderline,” I said. “Bishop’s given up everything good because of this stupid health kick. Yesterday he brought tuna salad for lunch, and it didn’t have any mustard or mayo in it.”
Kyle gasped sarcastically. “No condiments? That’s a travesty. What the hell was he thinking?”
I sat next to him and whacked his arm. “Condiments are what make tuna edible. By the way, that was Tony on the phone. He quit the force.”
“Garcia? In Chicago?”
I stuffed my mouth with noodles and nodded. “He said he’s sick of working for the man. He’s got his PI license.” I squeezed my chopsticks over another bunch of noodles, dropped half, then shoved the rest into my mouth. “Maybe I should do that too. Just in case.”
“Just in case what? You get suspended again?”
“Technically, I wasn’t suspended, but yes, that, or fired. In case you didn’t know, I’ve got a bit of a temper.”
“You? A temper? I had no idea?” Kyle teased. He winked. “So, what’s he working? Cheating spouses or insurance fraud?”
“Insurance fraud.”
“Poor guy. He’ll hook up with another department soon. There’s only so many fraud cases a guy like him can handle before he misses the real action. Speaking of real action, I’ve been looking into horse ranches and the DEA a little more.”
I pointed my chopsticks at him. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”
“I’m recovered and bored off my ass. Anyway, a while back, I’m talking five years probably, the DEA investigated the cartel smuggling drugs into the states through horses.”
I put my chopsticks down. “Really? Where?”
“They were routed from Mexico to Kentucky, but I’d have to research the files to get the details.”
“Can you do that while on leave?”
He pointed to the dining room table where his laptop sat. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What about other states? Can you check for any hits on those?”
“I can try.”
I scooped up more noodles, shoved them into my mouth and spoke. I had manners. They were just relaxed at home. “You think it’s possible this Haverty Ranch is working as some kind of mule?”
“More like probable.”
I chewed on that for a while as I finished dinner. “Racehorses wouldn’t be used to smuggle drugs would they? Everything about them is probably on record?”
“I assume so, but I wasn’t involved, so I can’t say for sure,” he said.
“Got it. Thanks. This is good information.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Great sex and equally great information.” He winked.
“Oh, did I say great? I thought I said good.” I returned his wink.
“Ouch.”
I leaned over and kissed him. “Amazing. Incredible,” I kissed him again, “soul screaming.” I leaned my forehead against his. “Are those better word choices?”
“Only if you’re talking about the sex.”
“I’m definitely talking about the sex.”
I met Bishop at Dunkin’ at six o’clock the next morning.
He yawned as he climbed into my Jeep. “What in the God forsaken hell happened to your Jeep?” He peered down at the mail and empty Taco Bell bags piled below his feet.
“It’s Kyle’s trash mail. I picked it up at the post office the other day.”
“Taco Bell is mailing Kyle?”
“Those are mine.”
“We haven’t had Taco Bell in a while.”
“I didn’t say they were recent.”
He grimaced. “That’s disgusting, Ryder.” He cracked his window. “God only knows what kind of bacteria we’re sucking into our lungs right now.”
“It’s mail and empty food bags. They’re not going to infect us with some deadly bacteria.”
He bent down, scooted it into a pile and picked it up. “Can I toss it?”
I held my palm up toward the garbage can outside the coffee and donut shop’s door. “If you must.”
A few seconds later, and with a toothy grin, he asked, “Why did you want to meet here before we’re on the clock?”
“I want to get to Haverty Ranch to talk with the employees before the owner shows up.”
“Got it.”
“Kyle said the DEA busted a smuggling operation about five years back. The cartel was using horses to smuggle drugs.”
“Looks like we’re on the right track.”
“He’s not sure if they were racing horses, but those have documents up the hoo-ha. I can’t imagine the cartel would take that big of a risk.”
“I doubt they would. They’re probably stealing horses and using them.” He rubbed his forearm.
I hate that idea. He rubbed his arm again. I eyed him suspiciously. “What’s wrong?”
“My trainer says I'm gripping the dumbbells too tight and it's causing bursitis in my elbow and tendonitis in my arm.”
I had no idea how to respond to that. “Getting old’s a bitch.”
“Your time will come. It's getting closer every day.”
“Trust me, I can tell. Anyway, the bust was in Kentucky, but he’s going to see if he can dig up anything from other states.”
“Kyle had mentioned drug trafficking earlier, so maybe we’re wrong about what Sean thought might be happening. Maybe this isn’t about performance drugs but about human ones.”
“I think you’re right,” I said.
14
“Dang,” Bishop said. “Levy was right. This place is the mac daddy of horse ranches.”
An aura of wealth and snobbery enveloped me as I drove through the imposing iron gates of Haverty Ranch. The sprawling landscape stretched before us, bathed in the warm glow of the sun rising. I’d had my windows down, and the scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the earthy musk of horses. Coupled with the stature of the ranch, the scene instantly transported me into the world of privilege and power so prominent in Hamby. “This is like the beginning scene of a movie.”
“It feels that way,” Bishop said.
The ranch was two hundred acres of expansive land unfolding like a patchwork quilt of green meadows and rolling hills. Towering oak trees, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, cast dancing shadows upon the ground.
To the left of the gravel road, a magnificent red barn stood proudly, its fresh paint not even close to hinting at years of history and tradition. As I stepped out of my Jeep, the faint scent of aged wood and hay tickled my nose. Tommy would have melted like a stick of butter from the beauty of the place. We’d planned to retire to a small, Southern town where we could have land and horses, and live a quieter life than what he’d been living in Chicago. After his murder, I did my best to honor that dream by moving to the smaller town in Georgia and learning to ride. I wasn’t quite ready to retire, but someday I would, and I hoped I’d be able to honor the rest of the dream. I cleared my mind of memories and focused on the task at hand. “Let’s take a look at the stable before talking to anyone,” I said. “I want to check out the horses.”
“If you’d have told me where we were going, I would have brought some apples,” Bishop said.
“Next time.”
A row of stables lined the perimeter attached to the barn. A hint of horse smells replaced the aged wood and hay scents. The horses, their sleek coats glistening, peered at us curiously from the comfort of their stalls. Their gentle nickers echoed through the air, a symphony of equine grace that tugged at my heartstrings. While I’d once been intimidated by the monstrous creatures, I’d grown to appreciate their beauty and, more so, their intelligence. Give them time to trust you, and you’ll make a friend for life.
I’d been riding more but paused shortly after Kyle’s incident. I had intended to keep it up, but I wanted the time with Kyle at home instead. I’d even begun to consider myself somewhat experienced, but that had probably flown out the window already. Kyle said my excitement to ride made him want to ride again as well. He’d grown up riding, but he was still in recovery, and I wasn’t quite ready to share that experience with anyone other than with my memories of Tommy.
We snuck out of the barn when one of the workers walked past.
“I thought we were going to talk to them?” Bishop asked.
“We are. Just not yet. I want a lay of the land first. Look for cameras and anything that strikes you as odd.”
“Already on it,” he said.
Farther ahead, the training paddock dominated the landscape, an expansive arena framed by sturdy wooden fences. The dirt and sand beneath my Doc Martens shifted softly as I walked. A young girl stood against the fence watching three horses trotting in the ring. I smiled from the rhythmic thud of hooves hitting the ground. “Wow. They’re stunning, aren’t they?”
Bishop admired them. “They are.”
“Are you here for lessons?” The girl who’d been with the horses appeared behind me. I internally chastised myself for being so focused on the horses I didn’t see her walk toward us. I’d chastise Bishop for the same thing later.
“Oh,” I said with a genuine smile. “No. Are you Emma Baxter?”
She studied me carefully. “Yes?”
“I’m Detective Ryder and this is my partner, Detective Bishop.”
Emma Baxter was a rider. It was obvious from her strong legs and sturdy upper body. She wore her long blond hair in a ponytail and was makeup free. Before talking, she made a point of pushing her shoulders back and jutting out her chin, both signs that she was nervous. “The ranch manager isn't in yet. If you'll tell me what you're here for I'll let him know when he comes and he can call you.”
“Actually,” I said. “We're here to talk to the staff. Would that be possible?” I made a point of keeping my tone light and friendly. I didn't want to scare the girl.
“About what?”
Bishop jumped in. “We're just following up with the call a while back regarding the deceased horses. Just need to clean up our notes and confirm a few things to close out the case.”
She furrowed her brow. “It was so sad. Daddy says the horses had some kind of heart problem.”
“Where does he purchase his horses?” I asked.
“I'm not sure. I think somewhere in Texas, but I don't know where. The ranch manager would know.” She checked her watch. It was a large Apple watch with a thick leather band that made her wrist look tiny. “He'll be here in about an hour.”
“Would you be willing to show us around and introduce us to some of the employees so we can follow up with our questions?” Bishop asked.
“Yeah, sure. There's only a few guys here right now. The rest come in at eight.”
“What about Damian Sayers? Will he be here today?” I asked.
“He's already here. I can take you to him if you'd like. I'm sure he'd be happy to show you around.”
I smiled. “That would be great, thanks.”
Damian Sayers was built like a horse, and that wasn’t an exaggeration. He also knew exactly why we were there.
“Sean didn’t do drugs,” he said the minute Emma Baxter walked away. “That’s why you’re here, right? Because of Sean?” He was in the middle of saddling a horse, and as he adjusted the straps, his hands moved with practiced ease, the leather creaking softly under his touch. It was clear that he had spent countless hours tending to the magnificent animals.
“How well did you know him?” I asked.
He reached into a bucket of hay and scooped up a handful, extending it towards the horse. The animal eagerly nudged his palm. “Well enough. I’ve known him for over, I don’t know twenty years. That’s how I know he didn’t overdose. He never even smoked pot, so I know he wouldn’t shoot something into his arm. That just wasn’t him.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of dirt on his forehead.
“Had you talked to him before his death?” Bishop asked.
I couldn't help but notice the subtle nuances of his interactions with the horse he had saddled. He never stopped caring for the creature, reaching out to stroke its neck, his fingers gently caressing the sleek coat while he listened to us talk or answered our questions.
He hesitated before answering. “A few days ago,” he said. His hand slid gently across the horse’s coat again. He patted him on the side. “Good boy, Racer. You’re a good boy.” He handed him another bite of hay. “He came by to talk to me about something, but I was busy, and he couldn’t get me alone. He was supposed to call me that night, but I didn’t hear from him.”
“Did he say what he wanted to talk to you about?” I asked.
Pausing momentarily, he walked to a nearby stall and retrieved a soft brush. Returning to the horse's side, he began grooming around the saddle. It felt like more of an afterthought, or something to keep him busy while he answered our questions. I still didn’t know much about horses, but I didn’t think brushing them with the saddle on was normal.
“No, but I know what it was. He was upset about the horses dying. Sean was pretty knowledgeable about horse health, and he didn’t believe they died from a hereditary heart problem. He thought something else was going on.”
“Did he tell you what that was?” Bishop asked.
“No, sir.”
My cell phone dinged with the standard text sound which meant I didn’t have the number in my contacts. I checked it quickly. It was from Roger Doyle.
Please let me take care of my family. I don’t want to be involved in this.
I quickly responded with, We just have a few more questions. It won’t take long, and waited for a reply, but it never came.
“Do you also think something else is going on?” Bishop asked.
Damian Sayers glanced at the edge of the stable wall. My eyes followed his to the security camera. Maybe he didn’t want to answer the question because we were being recorded.
“Emma said you’d be willing to show us around. Would you mind? I’m a new rider and would love to see the ranch.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you over to the ring. Emma’s working with a few of our newer horses.” He sauntered over to a bucket, grabbed a handful of carrots, and handed them to the horse. “I’ll be back, buddy. We’ll go for a ride.”
Only, we didn’t make it to the ring. Mason Baxter, the ranch owner, showed up outside the stables. Connie had been right. He looked like a snob. He was probably in his mid-forties and exuded an air of confidence and refinement that showed signs of the Northeast. His concentrated, almost practiced movements to adjust his stance said it had been meticulously cultivated to cement that impression. His impeccably tailored clothing was a perfect blend of modern sophistication and classic rich man like clothing sold at L.L. Bean and Ralph Lauren. He wore a crisp, pastel, blue-colored shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and accentuated his athletic build, while neatly pressed chinos hugged his trim waist. His polished leather loafers looked brand new. He was not at all dressed for a day at the ranch. I glanced at his fingers. Not a speckle of anything dark under his nails. Baxter never worked on the ranch himself. He’d probably never touched dirt once in his life. Me? I ate the stuff when I was a kid.
