Shedrow, p.9
Shedrow, page 9
“It is typically a disease that can be fatal to newborn foals, same as in humans. But there have been a few deaths recently in adult horses. It causes a condition known as peracute pulmonary vasculitis, essentially a widespread vasculitis, especially in the lungs. It can literally kill a horse overnight, and that’s what happened here.”
“How in hell did he contract it? Gianni asked.
“Anthony, that’s my concern. I don’t think he acquired the virus by any natural mode of transmission.”
“What?”
“He had been screened for the virus, so we know he wasn’t a latent carrier. And there are no other sick horses, not at Midway, anyway.”
“So how could it have occurred?”
“Look, I may be way out on a limb here, and this is still preliminary, but if the horse was susceptible, it wouldn’t take much more than a nasal swab, or something saturated with secretions from an actively infected horse or foal.”
“God Almighty, Steven, we need to meet soon. I haven’t told you about some of the darker moments in my dealings with Chiefly Endeavor. I know at least three people who wanted that horse dead. I think I should fly down so we can meet face to face. Will you have some time this weekend?”
“I’ll make time.”
“I’ll let you know the details as soon as I make my reservations. I’ll probably reserve a room at the Griffin Gate in Lexington.”
After he hung up the phone, he thought about calling Chet. Not yet. I need to know a little more first.
Chapter 21
The large sign at the exit to Lexington’s Bluegrass Airport read:
Welcome to Lexington Kentucky
Sister City to Newmarket, England
County Kildaire, Ireland
Shinhidaka, Japan
Deauville, France
This listing was not just a passing reference to some of the world’s greatest racing destinations. Lexington was part of Sister Cities International, a non-profit organization with a goal of fostering diplomacy between U.S. and international communities. Gianni knew this because of his involvement with a volunteer program that the New York City Department of Health had sponsored for one of its sister cities, Rome, Italy.
This was the heart of Bluegrass Country, the landscape dotted with magnificent thoroughbred farms. Driving down Route 60, Gianni admired the red and white colors adorning the gates and the buildings of Calumet Farm. The white fences went on endlessly.
In the 1990s, when Calumet was under different ownership and financially troubled, it didn’t appear as resplendent. That was the year when Alydar, one of Calumet’s best-known stallions, had died under very mysterious conditions. Some felt that the horse had been murdered in order to recover insurance monies, though foul play was never proven and the insurance company ultimately paid more than $35 million.
Gianni had read several accounts of the story, like Ann Hagedorn Auerbach’s Wild Ride, and he thought Alydar had in fact been murdered. Though Chiefly Endeavor was worth far less than Alydar at the time of his death, Gianni anticipated that the investigation surrounding Chiefly Endeavor would be more thorough. These were different times, a different horse and another farm.
He settled into his room at the Griffin Gate, showered and walked across the expansive lawn towards the Mansion, an adjacent restaurant in a two story, white antebellum mansion. On the open lawn, a boy was playing with a golden retriever. Gianni stopped to admire the dog and the retriever approached him, tail wagging with friendly enthusiasm. He paused and scratched the dog between the ears, then resumed his walk across the lawn.
He had asked for a table in the outdoor lounge area, expecting that his troika would have sufficient privacy. It was late in the afternoon, sunny, but too cool to expect anyone to ask for an outdoor perch. There would be no real crowd in any case. Keeneland’s racetrack was closed and there were no sales or special events under way.
He sat facing the door that led from the bar out to the courtyard and continued to watch for Highet. The wind was unusually cool for early May, and he tightened the collar of his flight jacket.
He recognized Highet, a few pounds heavier, the face still youthful, weathered and suntanned. The purplish hemangioma around his left eye seemed to have faded some.
“Steven! I’ve just been reminiscing. I just calculated that it’s been twenty-six years. We last met in Florida during our first winter vacation after finishing college.”
“Right, and we went deep sea fishing with that lunatic out of Stuart,” Highet said.
“Captain Wade! He’s still at it. I almost went out with him last time I was in Florida, but the seas were too rough. Talk about a crazy bastard, but he knows how to catch fish.”
“You look the same, really, Anthony.”
“Oh sure!” Gianni replied. “I think maybe my patients are aging me faster than yours are aging you.”
“I’m happy with my four-legged patients, but the hours are hell.”
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Gianni said.
“I know,” Highet said. “Terri Jones should be here any minute and she’s anxious to talk to you. She needs any leads she can get at this point. You’ll like her…big, ballsy brunette with a good sense of humor, easy to talk to. An ex-New Yorker, too.”
Lt. Terri Jones walked out the door of the restaurant into the courtyard. She was a tall, dark-haired woman who looked more like a model than a cop, Gianni thought. Highet rose to make the introduction.
“Detective Terri Jones, this is Dr. Anthony Gianni.”
She shook his hand firmly. When she spoke, a slight Long Island accent was still detectable. Gianni thought that her penetrating gaze, coupled with the accent and the handshake, declared a clear message: Don’t fuck with me.
“Dr. Gianni, tell me if you will, how you got involved with the ponies?”
“I worked with thoroughbreds in the summers during high school and college. I did the hands-on, everyday stuff. I always loved the animals and the sport, so once I found myself with enough time and a little money, I looked at the various options for partnership.”
“And you’ve only been with Bushmill, as an owner, I mean? Tell me about Stuart Garrison Duncker.”
“Southern gentleman, very smooth. Very well regarded in the business. He’s the patriarch of these racing partnerships, really.”
“So you found yourself in a good one with Chiefly Endeavor?”
“I would say so.”
“And who were the other partners?”
“Originally there were four. But after he won his second race, Chester Pawlek bought out two of the original partners. So that left me, Bradford Hill, Chester, and then Bushmill always keeps a minority interest and acts as the managing partner.”
“Then the horse eventually went to Midway as a stallion. So who owned him at that point?”
“Chet owned half and Midway half. My ownership and Bushmill’s were bought out by Midway, except for some breeding rights that we retained. And Bushmill continued to help with some of the promotion and PR work.”
“Then all of the stud fees that the horse generates go to Midway and to Chester, or Chet you called him. Are you friends with Chet?”
“We’re not friends.” Gianni paused and Lt. Jones remained silent, as if she expected him to say more.
“Actually, I despise Chester. I was forced into partnership with him because he bought out the other partners in Chiefly Endeavor. In a way, though, I suppose I also pity him. I think he may be one of those people who’s trapped in a life he can’t stand. And he worked so goddamn hard to get it. Do you know anyone like that, Detective?”
She seemed a bit surprised by the question and the candor. “I suppose I do, Doctor.”
Gianni was thinking of his wife, Janice, thinking how she too had wanted a certain lifestyle so badly, and now that she had it, it brought her no real happiness or fulfillment.
Terri Jones looked intently at Gianni. She waited awhile before she resumed her questioning. “So the only connection you had to the horse once he was at Midway was the breeding rights, worth how much?”
“Forty thousand per year. I can use them or I can sell them to a breeder.”
“Did you maintain any kind of insurance connected to the horse?”
“Not once he stopped racing. The sole beneficiaries now are Midway and Chester.”
“Dr. Highet told me you were willing to talk to me because you said you know that three people wanted the horse dead. Who are those three and why would they want to kill the horse?”
“Chet for one, because he is in deep financial trouble. A guy named Sal Catroni, because Chet owed him a large sum of cash that he seemingly couldn’t pay. And an accomplice of Catroni’s whom I only know as Hector. They work together.”
“How about the folks at Midway? They obviously stand to gain once the insurance money comes through?”
“Not at all. This is a huge net loss for them, as far as I can see. They are a solid operation with many good stallions and good cash flows. Chiefly Endeavor was just getting started and stood to generate huge earnings. Plus, the negative press is already killing them, the fact that a young, presumably healthy stud dies on their farm. That certainly won’t help their future business.”
“You should also know that I am working in cooperation with the FBI on this case,” she said. “They may want to speak with you at some point as well.”
“That’s fine. I want to see the murderer of that horse put away for life.”
“We don’t know yet if the horse was murdered, Doctor.”
“Well what’s your hunch?” Gianni asked. “I don’t work from hunches. You’ve given me three possibilities to investigate.”
Gianni said, “I just think that one or more of them are involved. Dr. Highet doesn’t think the horse died a natural death and I agree.”
She said, “So maybe we’re dealing with some random, deranged, horse slayer. Like in the play, Equus. My only point here is that all possibilities are still on the table.”
“Detective, anyone that wanted to kill that horse was deranged,” Gianni said.
Highet stood up and led the way through the courtyard, back inside and through the bar. Gianni continued talking to Terri Jones and didn’t notice the man sitting at the bar. He sat alone at one end, watching the television above the bar. He wore a baseball cap with the logo of Churchill Downs and large wraparound sunglasses. After the trio walked past him, he turned to consider them. On the right side of his face was a long vertical scar, at least six inches in length.
Chapter 22
Lexington, KY
Joe Travers, the general manager at Midway Farm, and Ryan Fischer were walking down one of the shedrows when Ryan paused at a stall where a large, thick-necked horse had his jaw around the edge of the stall window.
“Cribber,” Travers said. “Likes to chew things. And when he grunts like that he’s also swallowing air, which can be dangerous for some horses. So we always want to be sure the cribbers are eating okay. Plus, he’s a Dynaformer.”
“A what?” Ryan said, petting the sleek black head.
“A Dynaformer,” Travers said, as the horse snapped his powerful jaw in the direction of Ryan’s outstretched hand.
“Jesus! I thought you said you’ve been around horses. His sire… his papa was the great Dynaformer, which means he can be pretty rough on the mares, and it means he’ll bite your goddamn hand off if you let him. So keep your hands to yourself. He doesn’t like it when you try to pet him. Ask my foreman, Arturo, to tell you the story he heard from his brother. His brother worked with the big horse himself. As the story goes, Dynaformer once bit three fingers off some poor groom. Swallowed them in one gulp too, never to be seen again.”
“Jesus…I have been around horses though,” Ryan said.
“These are thoroughbred race horses. They’re not your average goddamn pets. Are you sure you want this job?”
“I’m sure.”
“You know, ninety percent of our grooms and handlers are Mexican. You speak any Spanish?”
“A little.”
“Can you get along with a bunch of hot-headed Mexicans?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Things are tense around here right now. Imagine you read about the death of our prized stallion?
“Chiefly Endeavor,” Ryan replied.
“Well I guess you read the papers, even if you don’t know shit about horses.
I don’t know, college boy. Why do you want this job anyway? Pay’s not great.”
“I really need to make some extra money this summer. Plus, I know you need the extra help, what with the immigration crackdown and all. And the whole racing thing fascinates me.”
“Fascinates you, eh! Okay, but just remember there ain’t a goddamn Mexican in this barn who knows what the hell fascinate is. So I suggest you keep it real simple, or better yet, brush up on your Spanish, college boy.”
“Does that mean I’m hired?”
“That means I’m giving you a chance. We’ll both know in a week if it’s going to work. Be here tomorrow at 6:30 sharp, ready to work your ass off.”
TAKING HIS CUES from some of the grooms he encountered during his interview, Ryan showed up the next day dressed in his rattiest pair of jeans, work boots and a tee shirt. That attire wasn’t all that different from Ryan Fischer’s everyday dress at Colby College.
“Ryan, meet Arturo Lopez. Lopey is one of my best men, been with me for years—except for the few times he returned to visit his family back in Mexico. Lopey, you keep an eye on things here while I take a garbage run with Ryan. Then next week he can do it all by his lonesome.”
“Hola,” Ryan said.
“Hello, Ryan.” Lopey replied with a heavy Spanish accent. He had thick, dark hair gathered into a pony tail under his baseball cap. The grey cap had “Las Vegas” written across the front in large blue letters.
Ryan wondered if the English reply was a testament to his poor dialect, so he tried again. “Como esta?”
“Not bad, you?”
Okay, so maybe my Spanish sucks, Ryan thought.
“Hey Ryan, get in the truck!” Travers yelled.
For the next half hour they went barn to barn loading garbage-filled bins onto the long-bed pickup truck, then drove to the town dump. They drove to the back end of the landfill, where raw, non-recyclable refuse was piled high in three towering mounds. The stench was strong. As they began emptying the cans, they were greeted by three of the strangest looking creatures Ryan had ever laid eyes on. Each looked to be around fifty— though with Kentucky hill folks, it’s often difficult to tell.
There were two men and a woman. The woman had long grey and black hair hanging in a tangled mess around her wrinkled face and neck. One of the men was much shorter than the other, and he had on a worn-out fedora that sat on the back of his head. His face was round and plump, his body short and squat.
Travers saw Ryan’s puzzled look. “That’s Crow and Juicy. And over there is Zoom.”
Zoom was the tallest of the lot, more wrinkled and even dirtier looking than Crow. He joined the other two as they all came closer to the truck and began to rummage through the piles, paying special attention to what was thrown off the truck.
Crow, Juicy, Zoom. He has to be kidding, Ryan thought. This has to be some sort of first day initiation prank for college boy.
The old woman came to the edge of the pickup and reached in to grab a worn-out bridle from the end of the truck bed. Ryan caught a glimpse of her hand, blackened with weeks of unwashed grime, nails curled and irregular, some nearly an inch long. Her small dark eyes were deeply set and framed by dirty, wrinkled skin. She grabbed her treasure and scowled at Ryan.
No, this was no joke; those hands were real, and she did look like a crow, claws and all. She clutched the bridle in her hand, turned her hunched shoulders and slowly headed back towards home. Home was an abandoned yellow school bus, propped up on cinder blocks, with shreds of curtain on some of the windows. Outside the bus were a few half-dead potted plants placed amidst the weeds and sand.
“Hey, you working or not,” Travers yelled, reminding Ryan that he had probably ceased all movement for a short time while he watched Crow trudge on homeward.
Once the truck was emptied, Ryan slowly walked back to the cab, still hypnotized by the sight of the two men, who remained in the garbage piles.
“What’s wrong, college boy?” Travers asked as they drove out.
“Nothing, I guess. Just that Zoom dude, he looks like one mean bastard.”
“Don’t expect any of them to be friendly, and don’t let them ever hear you say the nicknames: Crow…Juicy…Zoom. I don’t even know their real names, town folks gave them those names and they stuck. Heard a kid once called the lady “Crow” by mistake in the Midway General Store and Zoom about scared the kid half to death, threatened to kill the poor son of a bitch.”
“They live in that bus, all three of them?”
“For as long as I can remember. Town pays them something, peanuts I’m sure, to maintain the dump. Benefits must be okay, though. They keep what they want and sell the rest, I guess. Story has it that Crow and Juicy are common law husband and wife. And Zoom, well, I’m not really sure how he fits in.”
“Is there a bathroom or running water in that thing?” Ryan asked.
“Doubt it, but the dump has water.”
“Why do you suppose Crow grabbed that bridle out of the truck?”
“How the hell should I know? Probably to hang in her kitchen for a goddamn decoration.”
“Did you see Zoom snap it out of her hand a little later?” Ryan asked.
“Zoom is the meanest of the three, meaner and stranger than he looks even. You know he was picked up outside the main gate of the farm the same day our young stallion was found dead. The local cops dragged him in and grilled him for a few hours, but I don’t think they came up with anything. Don’t know for sure if the feds have looked at him yet; they’re on the case too. Still, he’s one weird bastard. You’ll make this run yourself next week. Just don’t plan any trips after dark. If the black bears don’t kill you at night, Zoom just might.”
