Читать книгу Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 24

It was only a horse …

Little comfort when looking at remains. The poor thing’s head had been smashed to pulp, yet its coat was still soaked with sweat from its run.

Decker removed the camera from around his neck. He thought about calling down a police photographer but couldn’t justify the expense in his mind. It wasn’t a person, it was a horse. And as far as the case went, was this really an attempted murder or merely a domesticated animal going berserk? Regardless of what it was, the ordeal had to have reinforced Lilah’s sense of omniscience. The incident began to make Decker wonder as well.

Lilah as a prophetess of doom … what would Rabbi Schulman say about that?

He rolled up his sleeves and snapped a full body shot, bent down and took some close-ups—the impact point of animal versus stone. He focused on the blood-spattered ground. The sun was strong and he had to shield his eyes from the glare given off by the white rocks. Heat waves shimmied up from the ground, insects hummed in his face. He batted them away and thought about Carl Totes.

The ranch hand knew Lilah’s habits, knew which of the six horses she was likely to ride. He had access, he could easily obtain means—some drug to alter the horse’s behavior. What could possibly be his motive? If Lilah were dead, his days at the ranch would be numbered. Decker couldn’t imagine any of the clan keeping him on. He couldn’t imagine any one of the greedy bunch holding the ranch, period. They impressed Decker as the “liquidate the assets just as soon as the body’s buried” kind.

Maybe Totes had been hired by someone to kill his boss. But it was damn near impossible to picture Totes lifting a finger against Lilah. His affection for her was nothing short of idol worship. Decker thought about the look on Totes’s face when he’d brought Lilah back to the stables. As he explained what had happened, Totes’s nutmeg skin had blanched, a genuine expression of shock and fear.

Despite all that, Decker wasn’t quite ready to proclaim the ranch hand innocent. He was the only one—besides Lilah—who’d been around this morning. Of course, someone could have sneaked in and done the dirty work. But Totes was never far from the stables—hell, he lived in one of the stalls. Surely he would have noticed a trespasser.

Decker checked his watch. Two hours since the horse did a kamikaze, but the heat was already doing a number on the animal’s body. He took another full-body shot.

Totes and Lilah …

Lilah. Lilah monkeying with her own horse?

But why?

For attention … maybe even his attention. Maybe she’d liked being rescued the first time. Maybe this was a weak attempt to relive it.

Except that she didn’t know he could ride. And she had been legitimately terrified.

Decker heard sneakers scraping against the dirt and stood. Some kid was running toward him at full speed.

Swell. Someone new to muck up the works.

The kid turned out to be a man in his twenties. He stopped short, almost crashing into the face of the mountain, not the least bit winded by a sprint in hundred-degree heat. He was sweated up but smelled minty fresh. His eyes went to the dead horse.

“My God, what happened?”

“Who are you?” Decker asked.

“Oh, Christ, that’s right. We’ve never met.” The guy stuck out his hand. “Mike Ness. I work at the spa—aerobics and weight training. I talked to the other one … Detective Dunn, was it?”

“Yeah, it was.” Decker shook Ness’s hand and caught his eye. They squared off. “Still is, as a matter of fact.”

A slow smile spread across Ness’s face. “You have a finely tuned bullshit detector. Is it from years of experience or were you born like that?”

“You’re good, Mike. Clever but cocky. It’s going to trip you up one day.”

Ness shrugged. Decker studied Ness’s face. Dots of sweat patterned his upper lip. Dark hair, blue eyes, a James Dean pout—a pretty boy except he needed a shave. But maybe that was part of his look, a deliberate attempt to make a sweet face appear more masculine. Decker touched his own cheeks. He could do with a razor himself.

“So who invited you down, Mike?”

“No one. I just popped in to do some harvesting for the kitchen. Zucchini. We’ve already got a couple of baseball bats growing on the vine. We’ll stuff and slice those, but Lilah likes them small. Actually they’re bitter when they’re small, but the guests love the mini veggies. We also wilt the blossoms and toss them in our salads served with a pungent vinaigrette. That really knocks the ladies’ socks off.”

“Aerobics instructor, weight lifter, vegetable picker, and culinary expert. You’re a regular jack-of-all-trades.”

Decker pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. The kid had a light waiting before he could put the smoke in his mouth. Decker blew out the match.

“I just chew on them.”

“Trying to quit? We’ve got a wonderful program for that at the spa.”

“You’re an awfully devoted employee. Anything in it for you if the boss kicks suddenly?”

Ness’s eyes darkened. “Not a fucking thing.”

“No need for profanity, Mike. I was just asking you a question.”

“Look, you and your lady partner don’t like me, it’s your problem. But I didn’t have anything to do with Lilah’s misfortune—not with the rape, not with this—whatever it was. I love Lilah and not in the way you’re thinking—”

“What am I thinking?”

“That I’m only interested in fucking her.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, I am, but I don’t.”

“Just like Ms. Betham—”

“Oh, man …” Ness threw his arms in the air and dropped them by his sides. “I don’t fuck the clientele. That’s not what I do, okay?”

“Who does?”

“Who says anyone does? Last I heard, Lilah runs a spa, not a stud rental.”

“That’s not what I hear about your good buddy, Mike. The tennis instructor …” Decker smiled. “Eubie Jeffers, is it?”

Ness shrugged. “What about him?”

“I hear he has a hard time keeping his pants zipped.”

“Never a shortage of rumors, huh?”

“I also hear he was with a woman the night Lilah was raped.”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“We did. You know what else he told us, Mike?”

“That I was with him. That what you want to hear?”

Decker stopped to reappraise his questioning. The kid was very good. He took out his notebook and pencil. “How long were you with him?”

“’Bout an hour.”

“He told my partner he was with you all night.”

It was Ness’s turn to stop and analyze. Decker could see him thinking: Is he trying to trick me or what? The boys obviously didn’t get their story straight—or someone had changed it.

Ness said, “Eubie has trouble remembering things.”

“He didn’t sleep over your place?” Decker asked.

“No.”

“Then how long was he there?”

“I already answered that. About an hour … maybe it was two hours …”

Good old Mike giving Eubie some slack. Decker said, “What time did he arrive?”

“Late.”

“How late?”

“I don’t know. Probably after midnight.”

“And stayed until about two?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Okay.” Decker’s eyes were on his notebook. “Were you two fucking?”

Silence. Decker looked up. Ness had turned crimson. Guilt or anger?

Nostrils flaring, Ness whispered, “You expect me to answer that?”

“You have a problem answering that?”

“I wasn’t fucking him. I don’t fuck guys.”

Decker said, “So what were you two doing?”

“Talking.”

“About what?”

“Why don’t you ask Eubie since we talked about his problems.”

Decker tapped his pencil on his notebook. “Because I’m asking you.”

Ness crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Look, is this an interrogation? Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you?”

“Oh, man, you are really messing with my head. You know, I came over here out of concern for Lilah. I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw Carl. He was as white as a sheet. Somehow, I gathered that something bad happened to Lilah, but she wasn’t hurt. That’s as far as I got. You ever try to get information out of Carl? The guy isn’t exactly articulate. When I tried the ranch house to talk to the boss, there was a cop at the door. I figured I’d check out the scene myself.”

Ness’s eyes drifted to the bloody rocks, to the dead horse now collecting fistfuls of black flies.

“God, what a mess! Is Lilah really okay?”

Decker regarded Ness’s expression—somber.

“She’s shaken up,” Decker said. “But she’s fine.”

“What happened?”

Decker smoothed his mustache and thought: If Ness knew what really had happened, Decker wouldn’t be revealing anything. If Ness was innocent, he was probably better off knowing the truth.

“Lilah’s horse went berserk and plowed into the mountain.”

“How’d she …? She must have jumped or something. Miracle she didn’t break her neck. Some people are kissed by God.”

“Or lucky enough to go riding with the right person. I caught her.”

Decker waited for Ness’s reaction. Just surprise, nothing else.

“You went riding with her? Why?”

“How about if I ask the questions?”

“Oooo, I hit upon something official.” Ness had a gleam in his eye. “Or personal. Talk about fucking. Maybe the cop doth protest too much.”

Decker was impassive. Ness let out a laugh.

“It’s been a while since I played weeny wag with anyone. Talk about being good, Detective.”

“Where were you this morning, Mike?”

Ness’s smile grew flippant. “So now I’m an official suspect?”

Decker waited.

“How early are we talking about?” Ness said.

“You go first.”

“Okay.” He exhaled. “I woke up. I do that every morning. Then … let’s see. Well, I made the seven o’clock hike. Had a bran muffin and tea after that. I ran the nine and ten aerobic classes. Natanya took over at eleven. I must have eaten around eleven-thirty. I was at the pool by noon.” He shrugged. “There you have it. My Life by Mike Ness. Somehow, I just can’t see it as a screenplay.”

Decker put his notebook away.

“No more questions? Did I pass, Detective?”

Decker pulled a card from his wallet. “If you learn anything about this—or about the rape—give me a call.”

“So, we’re buddies, Detective Sergeant?”

Decker laid his beefy hand on Ness’s shoulder. It was surprisingly bony. “I wouldn’t say that, Mikey. Now, even as we speak, I hear zucchinis calling your name. Why don’t you beat it before you screw up evidence?”

Ness’s eyes surveyed the scene for a final time. “How fast were you two going?”

Instead of answering, Decker cocked his thumb toward the fields. Ness started to leave, then stopped. “You must ride pretty well, Detective Sergeant.”

Decker picked up his camera and snapped another picture. “Yes, I must.”

The Sun Valley Animal Care Center was a two-story brown and tan California bungalow in the middle of scrubland. The bottom floor was leased to Dr. James Vector, Dr. Vera Mycroft, and Dr. Skip Baker—all DMVs, none of them professional corporations. The top section of the house was the animal hospital and the labs. Behind the bungalow were the barns, the kennels, and the stables. The vets made house calls—Decker had dealt with all three of them at one time or another—but sometimes animals needed surgery, extended treatment, and convalescence away from their pals. Vector, Mycroft, and Baker—VMB—was one of the few operations in the city set up to deal with large animals.

Decker stopped the unmarked on a dirt lot with no designated parking spots. Four-by-fours, flatbeds, and pickups were scattered randomly on the grounds, spaced so no one was hemmed in. He killed the motor, opened the door, and got out. A hot wind saturated with dust assaulted his face, followed by a melee of moos, bleats, neighs, and brays. He found himself whistling “Old MacDonald.”

It was after four and yet the clinic was still jammed with people. Lots of folks arriving with their animals after work. And not just dogs and cats. The place also held a skunk, a hutch full of rabbits, two newborn lambs, and a Guernsey calf. The reception area had once been the house’s living room, the old wood floors replaced with the vinyl tiles already discolored from animal “accidents.” The plastic chairs were mismatched and blanketed with fur and hair. The room gave off a distinct odor—antiseptics and urine. A couple of people were attempting to hold conversations over the yapping and yowling of their pets. They had to nearly scream.

The receptionist was a young, scrubbed-face blonde who wore jeans, a work shirt, and Reeboks. Her hands were squeaky clean, her nails clipped short and without polish. She held a German shepherd pup not much bigger than the hands that cupped him. She looked up when Decker walked in, kept staring at the door expecting an animal to follow on his heels. He went over to her and tickled the puppy at the scruff. The baby lifted his head and a tiny wet tongue moistened Decker’s finger. Before Decker could speak, a jowly woman holding a leash attached to a bulldog jumped up.

“Excuse me, I’m next!”

Decker held up his hands in defense. “I’m not butting in, ma’am. I’m looking for the lab.”

The secretary mouthed a silent O. “You’re the police?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said.

“’Cause of the crazy horse?”

Decker nodded.

“God, I heard Dr. Mycroft talkin’ to Dr. Baker about that. She said it was awful.”

“It wasn’t pretty,” Decker said.

“What happened?” asked the lady with the bulldog.

“Wish we could tell you, ma’am.” Decker dropped his voice a notch. “But it’s official business.”

The woman nodded gravely.

“Is Dr. Mycroft in?” Decker asked.

“Yeah, she’s up in the lab,” the secretary said. “She’s expecting you. Go through the back, up the stairs to the second floor. If the door’s closed, just knock.”

“Thank you,” Decker said.

The secretary kissed the sleepy-eyed shepherd and pulled the pup to her breast. “God, you expect people to do crazy things—drive too fast and plow into a mountain.” She shook her head. “But a horse?”

A throaty voice told Decker to come in. Vera Mycroft was at her microscope, her black and silver braid slung over her right shoulder, her knotted hands adjusting the scope’s eyepiece. Her glasses, sidepieces attached to a neck chain, had been tossed over her back and were resting between her shoulder blades.

She spoke without looking up. “I already gave at the office.”

“This is your office, Vera.”

She kept turning the eyepiece. “Aha! There you are, you little rascal. Thought you could hide from Mama Vera. Now I ask you, Pete, when one worm is there, can others be far behind?” She looked up and squinted. “That is you, Pete, isn’t it?”

Decker smiled. Vera’s eyes had become slits. She claimed she was part Aztec and her features backed her up. But she never did bother to explain her Southern drawl.

“Last time I checked.”

Vera returned her eyes to the scope.

“Here’s number two. And here? Oh my, oh my, we downright have a housing project. How y’all doing, little guys? Making life miserable for Pogo’s gut?”

“Do you always talk to your slides, Vera?”

“Worms are animals, too.” She sat back in her chair. “You ever get around to trimming the hooves of the little one, Pete?”

Decker smiled. “Now you’re checking up on me?”

“Checking up on my patient.” Vera stood, unbuttoned her lab coat, and fanned the sides to cool herself off. “You’re going to cripple the poor thing if you don’t.”

“Yes, I trimmed her hooves. Ornery little sucker. When she realized I wasn’t going to let her kick me, she rolled me. Just stiffened and fell on me. Took me over an hour and I was sweating like a pig by the time I was done.”

Vera’s laugh was deep. “You could have brought her in, Pete. Saved yourself some work.”

“Macho guys like me don’t do sensible things like that.”

“One would have thought Rina might have sweet-talked some sense into you.”

“One would have thought.” Decker stuck his hands in his pockets.

Vera swung her glasses onto her chest. “Would you like some mint iced tea?”

“Very much, thanks.”

“My, but it’s a hot one.” She opened the refrigerator, swinging the door several times, providing herself with a breeze of chilled air. Taking out a pitcher of iced tea, she poured it into a two-half-liter beaker and handed Decker some calibrated glassware. She held her container aloft, then gulped down her tea. Decker could just imagine her tossing down some brews with the good ole boys. She had to be close to sixty, but he’d lay money that she could drink a barroom of truck drivers under the table. He finished his tea and Vera took the beaker from his hands.

“Thanks for doing a rush job for me,” Decker said. “Are we in luck?”

“Yes, we are.” Vera perched horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. The chain that connected to her spectacles fell down her temples like gypsy earrings. “Come on over to my desk, I’ll show you my printout.”

The lab wasn’t Parker Center Forensics, but it seemed well equipped—a centrifuge for blood work and a half dozen microscopes. There were racks of Pyrex glassware, shelves of reagents and solvents. A waist-high table of clean white Formica provided the working area. Vera’s desk was a wooden table topped with an IBM PC, a phone, and a salad bowl filled with floral potpourri. The computer’s printer was spewing out data, screeching as the daisy wheel inked numbers on paper. Decker pulled a stool next to the table and sat. Vera took a folder and read its contents.

“It was an easy analysis. Your poisoner didn’t go in for exotics. Does the name phencyclidine mean anything to you?”

“PCP.” Decker took out a pencil and a notebook. “But that’s used as an animal tranquilizer, isn’t it?”

“Not that much anymore. We have much better drugs that don’t have the side effects.”

“What are the side effects in a horse?”

“Well, human and equine brain chemistries are very different as you can well imagine. A horse’s brain is less likely to self-destruct, I can tell you that.”

“No argument from me.”

“Yeah, we humans do the most ungodly things to ourselves.” Vera scratched her head. “Anyway, most of the time, you shoot a horse with PCP, the drug’ll just knock the poor thing out. But I’ve read more than one study where PCP can cause a paradoxical reaction even in large animals. Instead of being tranquilized, the horse metabolizes the drug as a hallucinogen. In that case, you’ll get reactions similar to those observed in humans—agitation, muscle rigidity, hyperreflexia, tachycardia …”

“Things that would make a horse bolt.”

“Things that would make a horse bolt.” She put the folder down and let her glasses fall onto her bosom. “Mr. Ed notwithstanding, nobody I know has ever heard of a talking horse.” She thought a moment. “Nobody who’s actually lucid, that is. Once I knew a fellah who claimed to be married to his horse … that’s another story. Since we regulars can’t communicate with our equine friends, it’s hard to know exactly what had transpired. But I’d be willing to bet that your suicidal palomino was seeing things that weren’t there. Poor thing was probably flying while he was bolting.”

Decker made a few chicken scratches on paper. “Let me ask you this. How long would it take for the drug to take effect?”

“That’s an ‘it depends’ question. How much is given, the body weight of the horse, the stomach contents, any other potentiating drug in the bloodstream—I didn’t find anything else out of the ordinary. It also depends if the drug is given intravenously, intramuscularly, or orally. Most of the time, it isn’t given orally, but if someone was out to sabotage, it’s conceivable that they could have mixed the powder into the horse’s feed. That being the case, it might take anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour for the drug to take effect.”

Fifteen minutes to an hour, Decker thought. From ten to eleven, Mike Ness was doing aerobics. Where was Jeffers?

“That’s a long-winded answer to a straightforward question.” Vera played with her glasses. “I hope it helps you out.”

“It sure does. Thanks a lot, Vera.” Decker tapped his pencil against his pad. “PCP. Person could pick up Dust anywhere.”

“Anywhere and everywhere. You’d be stunned at how many dogs and cats come in here freakin’ out because they took their owner’s dope.” Vera looked at him. “Are you on to something?”

“Just thinking.” Decker folded his notebook. “Even though PCP is everywhere … for a person to administer it IM to a horse … that person would have to be someone at ease with large animals. Most greeners find horses pretty intimidating because of their size.”

“That’s true. Horses are dumb but they are strong … and obstinate if you don’t know how to handle them.”

Decker folded his pad and nodded, thinking horses could get real obstinate. Took a firm, experienced hand to give them an injection.

An experienced hand … like Carl Totes.