Blood and Roses (Holly Jennings Thriller) (17 page)

Holly closed her eyes and leaned against the headboard of the bed. “Okay. Keep me posted on that. I’ll probably give Amar a call, too.”

“How about you? Get anything out there?”

She told him everything she had learned during her evening in Lexington.

“Quite a day, huh?”

“You could say that.” She took the last swallow of wine. “I need you to go back and track down Gershon. Find out what you can about him possibly drugging that horse. Also, find out why he didn’t tell us that Tommy Lyons had ridden a horse Tieg owned that had been put down. Run this stuff by him but keep Rafael Torres’s name out of it. This could become a case of
he said/he said,
and I don’t want that. What I want is the truth, and I want to know if Torres was telling me the truth. I think he was, and when we questioned Gershon, I thought there was something he wasn’t being forthright about. Find him and dig. Dig deep.”

“I will. Hey, you okay?” he asked.

“Um, yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know. You sound a little off.”

“Tired is all. Long day.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yes. Stop worrying about me. I’m a big girl. I’m away from home and my people. It can make me edgy.”

“I worry because you are the best damn partner anyone can have, and you’re my friend.”

“I know, Chad. The feeling is mutual. I’m fine. I swear.”

“Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

She hung up the phone. Chad knew her too well, but she could hardly tell him that she had seen Jack’s ghost. He would have thought she was losing it.

For a while there, she thought that maybe she was.

34

Joque had his eye on his victim. This was the hard part—learning patterns, especially when the victim was in a new locale. Fortunately, Joque had a head start.

He had been an insider in the industry, and he had known the victim he planned to take out very soon.

He sat up in the grandstand during the morning exercise—in the middle, out of sight. Baseball cap drawn low over his eyes. He knew how to blend right in.

His heart ached as he watched the young horses galloping down the track, pounding their large but delicate frames down onto tender tendons, immature bones, and suspensory branches that could tear easily. He shook his head and felt tears spring to his eyes. How had he not known this before? Or had he? Of course he had. He’d turned a blind eye because that is what his father had taught him to do.

And he’d needed the money. But money wasn’t everything. He and Quentin agreed on that. Doing the right thing was everything. Seeking vengeance was everything.

Nothing like getting even.

Nothing like it at all. He wiped the tears away.

He was not his father. He’d let that go a long time ago. Joque was a man of ethics. A man of value, but he’d had everything he’d ever valued ripped from him.

He’d let that go, though, when the time was right. He was working on replacing the things that mattered.

He’d let his father’s thoughts, affects, and beliefs go.

The day he’d killed him.

The son of a bitch should have never done what he’d done. He was not a good man. Not a good father. He was an equine vet who wasn’t in it for the animals, but the money and the prestige of hanging around wealthy owners. His father would do anything owners asked him to. No ethics whatsoever.

His father’s favorite pastime, other than big-wigging it with rich owners, was beating the crap out of him. His dad blamed him for his mother leaving them, but Joque knew his mom left because she had been his dad’s punching bag first. They were both rotten—mother and father. Rotten.

The one decent thing that Dr. Ivy had done for Ted when he was about twelve was bring home a horse one of the wealthy owners’ wives had given him.

“For you,” Dr. Ivy said. “Nag can’t be on the track any longer. Was going to put her down, but thought maybe you should have her.”

Ted had been stupefied and thrilled. He’d named the horse Penny, because she was shiny red like a penny. She quickly became his life. Not one to have many friends in school, not one to succeed at school, not one to be paid much attention to, Ted found love and a friend in Penny. He’d race home every day to see her.

He had her for three years.

One day right after his fifteenth birthday, he’d come home and she was gone. “Where’s my horse?” he’d asked his dad.

“Your horse? That was my horse.” Dr. Ivy was drunk, which he’d been doing more and more often. He’d gotten into some trouble and his veterinary license had been suspended. The wealthy owners had faded into the background.

“I don’t understand.”

“Economics, son. That’s all. Horses cost money and we don’t have none. I made some money off of her.”

“You sold my horse?
You sold Penny?!
” he screamed. “Where is she?”

“I suggest you stop screaming at me, son.”

“Where’s Penny?”

“Dead.”

“What? No! What are you talking about?”

“Slaughterhouse. That was the only way I was going to get anything for her. She’s meat headed to Europe by now, or into a can of dog food.”

Ted had felt the rage, shock, and despair take over, but he knew attacking his father would have been no use. Dr. Ivy was a large man with a mean spirit and a hard punch. Instead, he planned. Like he was doing now. He waited. Like now.

Then, he killed.

His father was allergic to shellfish. One evening, a year after Penny had been taken from him, the time was right. Ted suggested he go and get some fish and chips for take-out. His dad thought that was a good idea. “Make sure it’s just fish and chips, son.”

“Of course.” Ted had planned it all out. He’d skipped school that day and made the trek down south about three hours. He bought some crab in the shell. He drove back to Lexington. He ground up the shell nice and fine, and then he made his own tartar sauce in preparation for that night. He got the take-out. Brought it home and gave his father the doctored sauce. Dr. Ivy went into anaphylactic shock not long after he complained that the tartar sauce seemed to have sand in it. He died. The fish-and-chips place was at fault, they concluded, but not much was done.

Ted, being sixteen, began working from barn to barn as a hand. Finally happy to be rid of his father and around the horses.

He learned quickly, though, that horses were sometimes beaten by their owners or trainers just as he had been beaten by his father. Ted could empathize and knew he was among spirits like his own.

He was powerless to stop much of the abuse. At that time, he didn’t have the money or the resources to rescue the horses. But a part of him that wondered…if he planned as methodically as he had his father’s death, then could he, someday, bring restitution to the lives of some of the horses he felt so close to?

Years later, while spending time in prison for a crime he would have never committed, he prayed for a chance to get even.

Quentin was giving him that chance.

35

Sheikh Farooq needed to see his trainer, Geremiah Laugherty. Whiskey was set to be flown to Las Vegas the day after tomorrow, the same day that the sheikh and Ayda would travel. However, he had gotten word that Mr. Laugherty would not be joining them until the following day, and he did not like that. They were already taking a risk flying the horse out so close to race day, but they had agreed that the colt was much happier at home. They’d learned that the more time at home, the better he seemed to perform on the track. And, the sheikh did not like to take chances with his horses. He had security beyond measure, and he had concerns about other places, although he had been told that the security at the Infinity was impenetrable.

Farooq found Laugherty in his office outside the main barn. He looked to be going over paperwork. As soon as the sheikh came through the door Laugherty glanced up and shuffled the papers, placing them back into a folder. He took his glasses off, stood, and shook Farooq’s hand. “Your Highness.”

“Mr. Laugherty.” He nodded a curt greeting.

“Are you ready for the race?” Laugherty asked. As with the barn and all of the buildings on the estate, Laugherty’s office was pristine, well lit and impeccably decorated in hues of gold and purple—the colors of Farooq Stables.

The sheikh sat down. “Of course I am ready. My question for you is, are
you
ready for the race?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

Farooq leaned back in the chair. “There are whispers, my friend, that you have money problems.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Laugherty replied.

Farooq folded his hands. He didn’t speak for several seconds. “I trust you, Geremiah. You’re a good trainer. My horses win under your hand. But this rumor of money issues…it is not the first time a rumor like this has swirled around you.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” Laugherty shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Men with much on their minds make stupid decisions. They take shortcuts. They don’t always pay attention. I want to be sure that you are paying attention to my horse. I want to be sure all precautions have been taken.”

“Whiskey is the most important horse I have ever trained in my life. I am very careful with him.”

“Good. I wanted to be reassured.”

“In that case, I’m happy to be able to reassure you.”

Farooq rose and started out of the office. “We will be leaving day after tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

“Yes.”

“And you will be traveling with us.” It was a statement more than a request.

“I will.”

“Good. I am going to see my horse. Keep your mind straight, Mr. Laugherty. There is no room for error.”

36

The rescue facility that Elena Purdue’s sister Leann owned didn’t open to the public until ten o’clock. Holly got up, took a long, hot shower and drank a lot of coffee. She had tossed and turned all night as strange dreams of Jack invaded her mind. One minute it was Jack in the dream…the next it was Brendan…and then images of dead bodies…and then of horses thundering down a track. Strange.

She went back over her notes, trying to connect more dots. She had a few more players to work with and decided it best to mull things over, let them lie for a while and then check in with Chad and Amar once back in California. Chad would likely get a hold of Jim Gershon before she returned home and put him through the ringer.

Her flight back to San Diego was scheduled for late that afternoon, so she had plenty of time to speak with Leann Purdue. After checking out, she put the carry-on in the trunk of the rental and merged onto the highway, passing more greenery, fat and happy brood mares, and large estates. About fifteen minutes along she spotted the sign to Golden Hearts.

She pulled in through the large wooden gates, which were flanked by vibrant pastures fenced in by the standard white-painted posts, just after nine o’clock in the morning. There were two horses in each paddock. A sizable wooden barn stood in the background, and on past that was a house. Signs along the way directed visitors
to first stop in at the office, which was connected to the house. The place wasn’t as impressive as Rafael Torres’s farm—it offered less glitz and glamour and appeared to be more functional and down-to-earth—but it was nice.

Holly parked the car and took a pathway bordered by periwinkles and daisies. The home itself was painted butter yellow and had a stone roof. It looked as if it could have been transplanted straight out of Old England. The barn out front had a similar look, except it had been painted white.

A sign depicting a grazing horse with a rooster on his back read,
Welcome to Golden Hearts. Come on in for carrots
, and was hooked to the handle of the door.

Holly entered and was engulfed by the smell of good comfort food in a fryer. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d only had coffee for breakfast. “Hello?” she called out.

A minute later a petite, blonde woman came around the corner, wiping her hands on an apron. “Oh, hi. I’m sorry. I’m trying to do too many things at once. My fiancé usually mans the desk, but he’s on a haul to Colorado picking up a couple of rescues. I’m Leann Purdue.”

A German shepherd came charging around the corner, barking at her. “Rascal, stop it! Sit!” Rascal listened. Holly reached out and let the dog sniff her hand, which he did, and he followed that with a vigorous licking. “He likes you,” Leann said. “Sorry. He looks ferocious, but he’s a good boy. We got him about four months ago from a rescue place.”

“I love dogs. No problem. He’s a sweetheart.” Rascal lay down at her feet.

“He is.”

“Sorry. I’m Holly Jennings.” Holly stretched out her arm and shook Leann’s hand. She held off announcing her detective status. That could wait.

“Good morning. Officially.” Leann smiled brightly. “Our first tour doesn’t begin until eleven fifteen, and then I serve up some lunch.”

“I know. I have a flight back home today, so I wanted to stop by as soon as I could. Rafael Torres suggested I come here for a visit.”

“Great. Rafael is a good guy. Friend of my sister’s and mine. Trained one of the stallions we have here. Cayman’s Cult. A big deal on the track.” She smiled. “Here, give me a sec and I can show you around and maybe send you on your way with some lunch. Where’s home?”

“San Diego,” Holly replied.

“Lovely place. Hang on.”

Leann came back a moment later, apron off, and a pair of paddock boots on her feet, carrying a bucket of sliced carrots and apples. “Shall we?”

“Certainly.” Holly followed her out the door.

Rascal followed along as well.

“I’ll take you over to the main barn first.” They walked through the aisle opening. There were six stalls on either side. “This is where we keep Cay. That’s what we call Cayman’s Cult. And there are a few older stallions housed here, too. I have to juggle horses in and out, since we’re in the process of building a new barn. We keep taking in more strays. Takes a lot to fund this place.”

They stopped in front of one of the stalls. A large, reddish horse with a star marking on his face peered out at them between the bars of the stall. “How much do you know about horses, Holly?”