Chapter 2:
Carlton kept his mouth firmly shut when Spencer and Guster showed up at the station after lunch, both looking somewhat petulant. The sleeve of the fake psychic's shirt looked like it had been chewed on with great vigor and rage-induced enthusiasm by a gray mare, and Guster just looked traumatized. It wasn't every day a buttoned-down pharmaceutical rep got licked by a horse, Carlton figured.
He studiously ignored them both as he made a few phone calls before preparing to contact Mrs. Cromwell for an interview, and after a brief conversation with her, he was on his feet and heading toward the door, expecting—and knowing—O'Hara would be right behind him. He was putting on his shades and halfway to the car when he heard her heels clicking behind him, and was starting the engine as she bounced into her seat beside him and strapped herself in.
It hadn't taken her long, he admitted, to get used to his abruptness. When he wanted to move, he moved, and if she didn't want to be left in his dust, she had to move fast, too. Fortunately, she could even keep up with him when he was at a flat run, in fact, despite the fact that she had to take two strides for his every one and usually wearing heels.
Glancing out the rearview mirror as they pulled out of the lot, he saw McNab escorting Spencer and Guster out of the building, and he couldn't keep his mouth from twitching. Vick had been cracking down hard on Spencer, lately, and he could thank his boss for his happy lack of headaches in the past few days as a result. In fact, her words three weeks ago had been 'Your job is to consult. Your job is not to hang around the station bothering my detectives and behaving like a twelve-year old on crack, nor is it to disrupt actual work being done by trained professionals who have to pay bills and would never even think about sniffing Wite-Out fluid. Do not come here until you are called. Is that clear?' which had been followed by the two young men being emphatically escorted from the building by McNab.
Sometimes, Carlton felt sorry for McNab—he was so often put in doorways with orders to eat anyone who tried to pass through, or to haul people away by the scruff of their neck, or to tackle large, ugly men and wrestle them into squadcars. It was like having a one-man Brute Squad for the station.
Not that he would ever express his sympathy out loud for the big, sweet-natured goofball. Maybe a suggestion, to Vick, for a bit of extra pay would be in order, though. Mainly just to even things out on the grounds of aggravation and having to waste time babysitting a childish thirty-six year old.
He had, however, lost a lot of sympathy for O'Hara. She had chosen to hitch her wagon to the SpenStar and if she wanted to spend the rest of her life making excuses for and babysitting a fool and his BFF (because surely she realized Guster was part of the SpenStar Package), that was her own damned fault. He had, nevertheless, resolved with himself that if she ever came to him crying about Spencer, he would refrain from saying 'I told you so'. Mainly because he would only be one of many who would say that, but also because he was not one to deliberately makes someone miserable.
What he hated most, though, was how he had lost a lot of respect for O'Hara, too. To see her stoop so low was heartbreaking, and his tiny wooden heart was broken enough as it was. Not that he would say anything like that aloud. The fewer people knew that knew Carlton 'Hard-Ass' Lassiter even had a heart, the better. Of course, lack of anyone knowing didn't let him sleep any better and that certainly didn't help with his headaches...
They drove back out to the Cromwell Stud and Carlton paused at the gates, looking across the field at a group of weanlings galloping around, nipping and bucking at each other. The colts—of varying shades of bay and chestnut and gray—gathered in rather neat circle, called a play and took off, chasing each other across the field and disappearing over a hill.
Juliet smiled, enchanted by the scene and intrigued by Carlton's expression-he seemed to truly enjoy just looking at horses, and she had no trouble admitting that quality horseflesh was indeed gratifying to look at. "Why don't you have a horse, Carlton?"
Carlton isn't bad to look at either. Particularly in that dark gray coat and blue tie, but really, he looks good in anything
Shut up, stupid. Remember-you're dating Shawn?
And why, exactly are you wasting time and childbearing years on Shawn, of all people? When are you going to admit that it's not going anywhere? That Shawn's a placeholder, an experiment in finding out what you actually want, and that it's not a little boy you have to babysit and who insists you only do what he wants and has no regard for your feelings or your values or any words that actually come out of yours or anyone else's mouth? And yet you're supposed to believe he loves you? Really? Stupid much?
Calm down, she told herself, even as she was feeling another flash of anger at her boyfriend. Last night's tragic pineapple and curry incident, which had been followed by a round of Shawn and Gus playing 'pull my finger', had made her finally leave in disgust, knowing full well they would be making crank phone calls until dawn or watching some bonehead movie that they could quote word for word, like idiot (operative word being 'idiot') savants.
Again, why are you dating Shawn? So you can think in furious run-on sentences?
Because…because…
Yeah. Okay. Get back to me later on that, hm? Maybe you can claim the sex is good.
"Hard to keep one in a condo," Carlton said, startling her from her rather heated inner monologue. He shrugged slightly before pulling into the driveway and punching the button on the security box. A brief, only vaguely tense conversation with a security guard was followed by the gates opening and he eased the Vic down the paved drive, past several palatial-looking barns, and finally into the curving driveway of a large, gracious-looking mansion that looked like something out of Gone With the Wind.
"You could easily keep one stabled somewhere," she pointed out as she unbuckled. "Though I guess they are expensive."
"And I don't know that most horses would appreciate life on a civil servant's salary. Most women don't either, from what I've experienced." He parked and got out, and waited for her, looking up at the mansion.
"I know! You could get a retired police horse, from the LAPD or suchlike," she said brightly after getting out of the car, standing next to him. For just the briefest moment, they made contact, her shoulder brushing against his upper arm. He glanced down at her, expression as guarded as ever, and walked away, up the steps to the double doors. He rang the bell and stuffed his hands in his pockets, dark head down a little, shoulders at that usual proud, arrogant, military posture.
Juliet's watched her partner, feeling miserable., How am I ever going to get him to trust me again? Worse, as she contemplated that difficult task, she had to ask herself the same painful question again: Why should he ever trust me again? Didn't you break trust with him? Didn't you lie to him and conceal things from him, and isn't that kind of violation of the whole 'partner rule' thing? Haven't you treated him like he means nothing to you at all, just to make your boyfriend happy? How many times have you gone with Shawn's wackaloon theories instead of listening to your partner, who has taught you everything you'll ever know about being a detective? What does that say about your own personal honor… much less your taste in men?
What does that make you, O'Hara?
She sighed, told her inner voice to can it for now and come back when she was alone with a bottle of vodka, and stomped up the steps, self-recriminations not helping a bit.
The door opened and Golden Crown's owner stood in the doorway, ash-blonde, blue-eyed, softly pretty and probably not much older than Juliet, if at all. She was dressed in a white silk blouse, pink skirt and gray cashmere cardigan and she was wearing a string of pearls that was probably worth a years' salary for both detectives. At first, Juliet figured this woman would be a classic trust fund snob, but instead she exuded warmth and friendliness, in spite of her obvious stress, and she greeted them graciously. "Detectives… Lassiter and… O'Hara, am I right?
"Yes, ma'am. We just needed to discuss a few things with you about the… uh… death of your horse last night," Carlton said.
"Right. Please, come right in… we'll sit in the conservatory. Would you like some iced tea?" Mrs Cromwell's gaze lingered for a few moments on Carlton, and Juliet caught the young woman carefully tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and straightening her clothes a bit as Carlton sat down on the sofa. She looked at her partner, and sure enough, just like always, he didn't notice. Women noticed Carlton, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
"No thanks," Carlton demured, and Juliet noted the usual sharp edge to his voice was absent. He was speaking to Mrs Cromwell, in fact, in the same kind of voice he used when talking to horses. Firm, but gentle.
They sat down in the flower-infested conservatory, and Juliet looked around, dazzled by all the bright blooms. She recognized hibiscus and gardenias and begonias, but was stumped by some of the other plants, including a pot of something that looked like roses but…weren't. What were those things called? Rododiculous? Rododengerous? Skunk cabbage? Oh… whatever, she thought. Horticulture had never been her forte.
Juliet turned her attention to Mrs Cromwell. According to the file, she was named Antonia Patricia Wallop Cromwell, and her husband, Andrew, had died six years ago of stomach cancer, leaving her the entire estate, all the horses, and tons of cash. She was well known for donating to worthy causes all over the state, including a place outside town that provided hippotherapy for emotionally traumatized and developmentally disabled children. In fact, several of Mrs. Cromwell's more sedate former racehorses 'worked' at the place.
Carlton got right down to business, not even glancing at the flowers, much less at Mrs Cromwell's lovely legs and general air of… niceness
"Do you have anyone in your immediate family or in your circle of friends who might have something against you, Mrs Cromwell, to make them kill one of your animals?"
"Antonia. My name is Antonia. And… not in my family, no. My husband's family have been breeding horses in California since the late eighteen-nineties, and my family started breeding racehorses in the nineteen-thirties. We run one of the most reputable operations in the state, and our horses receive the best care possible… thus, they win, and frequently, and not just in California. We've had horses win in the East, and in Europe, too." She looked out the window at the lush gardens that extended beyond what looked like a guest cottage behind the mansion. "I just can't believe this happened. Golden Crown wasn't just a good filly, you know? She was kind. You know how barn cats won't go near some horses? Well, she had her own barn cat. Only the kind horses get a barn cat that wants to hang out with them all the time… and now that cat seems depressed, too." She wiped her already puffy eyes. "I wouldn't have cared if she couldn't outrun a fat man, Detective. I've had at least three great broodmares like that, after all, including Golden Crown's own dam. But Golden Crown was so sweet… you could have put a baby on her back and she wouldn't have moved a muscle."
"I'm certain she was a really sweet filly," Juliet nodded. "And she was really beautiful, too, and I don't know much about horses at all. We're very sorry about what happened to her, and we hope to at least find the person or persons who killed her. But we do need some details on her insurance… we want her killer to pay." She cleared her throat and glanced at her partner, whose raised eyebrow was the only indication that he found her statement rather unusual. "I understand Thoroughbreds are usually insured… what was her insurance value?"
Antonia Cromwell thought for a moment. "She was assessed last fall at one-hundred-seventy-five thousand."
"As a yearling. When was her last re-quote?" Carlton asked.
"She was scheduled for her vet check and reassessment on September the sixth," Antonia told him. She picked up a vanilla folder on the sofa beside her and handed it to Carlton. "All her paperwork is there, including her registration papers and the insurance files. I just got this out of the files before you arrived."
"Thank you." Carlton looked relieved to not have been required to ask for the papers. He opened the folder and scanned through the documents, with all their dry statistics on market value (with terms like 'scoping' and 'bone scans'), conformation and health, pedigree, sire's stud fee, dam's estimated market value, proven and potential racing ability, possible value as a broodmare (though as a two-year old, the entry simply read 'undetermined'), and his brow furrowed. "She had an assessment on August the tenth, ma'am."
"Wh-…what?" Mrs Cromwell looked genuinely bewildered, of which Juliet took careful note. "No, our horses are generally re-assessed in early September, after they've had at least two starts, and her first start was on July the second..."
"She was re-assessed at one million dollars, on August the fourth," Carlton told her. "Her last start was on August the first, where she won a two hundred-thousand-dollar Class One allowance race, which gave her stakes earnings." He read the paper over and Juliet felt, rather than heard, him sigh. "Your signature is here." He handed her the paper and Mrs Cromwell's face went white as she read it, her eyes widening with shock and very obvious horror.
"I never signed this," she said softly. "I…oh my God…I'm the only one who is allowed to sign the reassessment orders for any horse I own!"
"Are you saying someone forged your name here?" Juliet asked. "Do you have any idea who would do that?"
"I…no. I…I can't even imagine…" Her arms dropped to her sides, and she looked small and vulnerable, like a wounded bird.
"Even if you say that this is a forgery, and I'll be the first to admit you've given me no reason so far to not believe you, this signature here does put you at the top of the list of insurance fraud suspects, ma'am," Carlton said, but his voice was still remarkably gentle. "Do you know of anyone who would forge your name on this document?"
She was trembling, and Juliet didn't just see fear in Antonia's face – in fact, she saw genuine hurt there, and that raised all kinds of alarms in her head.
"No. I…I don't know anyone…"
Carlton sat still, and Juliet looked at his closed-off face. He was giving away nothing, but she could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Mrs Cromwell was covering something up…and maybe covering for somebody. The detectives glanced at each other, and Juliet knew what her partner was thinking: somebody Mrs Cromwell knew had at least ordered the insurance quote.
"Who is the farm manager?" Carlton asked.
"He…his name is Cade. Cade Moreston." Mrs Cromwell's eyes were downcast, and she began wringing her hands anxiously. She stood up, hugging herself, and went to the window, which looked out across a field of grazing broodmares.
"Is he in charge of arranging insurance assessments for horses?"
"For the yearlings, yes. The racing stable trainer is in charge of arranging that for the older horses." She wiped her eyes, looking more and more distraught. "Oh God…oh God…he couldn't have done this…"
"Who? Who do think may have done this, Mrs Cromwell?" Carlton asked her, and Juliet was intrigued again by the gentleness of his voice and demeanor.
"Cade…we…he and I…"
"Were you and he…involved?" Juliet asked.
Antonia shuddered, her fists clenching as her grief and dismay slowly turned to genuine anger. "Oh my God…I've been such a fool…"
"Where can we find Cade Moreston?" Carlton asked sharply, earning an equally sharp looking from Juliet, and she felt him retreat a step backwards.
"I…I...he's…he's gone to the auction at Saratoga. He took three of the yearlings. He'll be back the day after tomorrow."
"Got any reason to fear for those yearlings?" Carlton asked, and Juliet shot him another Look, but his gaze will still on Antonia, who shook her head.
"Two other farm employees are with him. They're…they're both very trustworthy. He would…should…know not to do anything. Like that stopped him before!"
"And did Cade ever do or say anything suspicious…anything that would make you think he might be…dishonest?" Juliet asked, not entirely willing to just pin the crime on the first name to come up, just yet.
"No." Antonia shook her head, but her eyes were filled with tears. "He's…totally…charming. Always charming."
"They're like that, you know," Carlton said. "The liars and cheats are always charming. Otherwise, they'd always be in jail." He cleared his throat, not even glancing at Juliet. "And the trainer?"
"Alistair O'Herlihy."
"A mouthful," Carlton nodded, writing the name in his notebook. "I've heard of him. He's trained some good ones."
"Yes. He has. He started out in Ireland, and we hired him five years ago. He's the leading trainer at Hollywood Park. His reputation is faultless. He won't even give them legal medications, for God's sake…says if they can't run on their own merits, they oughtn't to run at all, and even then he does all he can to find good homes for the ones that can't run."
Carlton nodded again, and stood up abruptly. "Can we go through your horses' insurance files, ma'am?"
Juliet watched her partner read over the insurance papers on Golden Crown, and only occasionally did he write any notes down – she knew Carlton had as good a memory as Shawn, and at least his wasn't cluttered up with utterly useless crap, like how long an Easy Bake Oven would take to bake a pineapple upside down cake, or the cost of Yo-Gi-Oh cards that he would order and make Gus pay for.
He was also going over several other insurance papers on other horses from the Cromwell Stud, making comparisons and mumbling under his breath about stuff like stud fees and something called 'Dosage Index', which sounded utterly terrifying.
They were in Antonia's elegant and very feminine office, which was decorated in soft pastels and Louis XIV furniture. Oil paintings of the farm's best runners decorated the silk-covered walls, and Juliet couldn't keep from just browsing around the room, admiring the paintings and the little objects d'art scattered about. Antonia Cromwell, at a remarkably young age, had bred several high-quality runners. A portrait of Golden Crown's older brother Crown and Country showed him standing on the track at Santa Anita Racecourse, the San Gabriel Mountains rising behind him under a threatening sky. The jockey was wearing the farm's purple and gold silks, and they were a sharp contrast to the colt's burnished gold coat.
Carlton glanced up at Juliet, who smiled at him. "Pwetty horsie!"
He actually smiled back, and she felt her heart twist a little. "I'll say this-that woman knows bloodstock. She has experimented with all kinds of nicks…last year Cromwell Racing Stables owned and or bred twenty-six graded stakes winners across the country, and five of her homebreds have won national championships of various types in the past six years. As for Golden Crown, her dam is worth nine million dollars," he said. "At least, according to her insurance papers. Her sire-Golden Snake-was a good runner in Europe but not quite as successful at stud, though he does have some nice runners here and there," Carlton pointed out. "I don't know how much he's worth—that isn't stated, and really… pretty irrelevant. Good runners are frequently sired by mediocre sires and even more are out of crappy mares. Ever heard of Alsab?"
"What's a nick?" Juliet asked, bewildered and afraid to ask what an 'Alsab' was.
"Crossing two unrelated lines with hopes of producing a champion. They bred Fair Play to Rock Sand mares, for instance, and got scads of good horses… that outcross produced Man o' War and Display and Mad Hatter and… never mind." He was warming to the subject, but knew when to quit.
Juliet was left feeling a little dizzy. It was like a foreign language. "Who was Fair Play... and Rock Sand?"
"Never mind. What's kind of easy to understand is that Golden Crown's value would be set at one million after winning three allowance races, but it's extremely suspicious that she would be reassessed earlier and then would die just days after being nominated for a Grade Three stakes at Hollywood Park. She didn't even start off in a maiden race, O'Hara-she went right into top company, and in her first start she beat five other fillies that had already won their first starts. My guess is that whoever did this was hoping to snatch up a cool million the easy way."
"Oh." The whole thing sounded hideous. Killing a person for a million dollars was revolting enough, but for God's sake…a two-year old filly?!
"So in essence, this filly's assessment is pretty much spot on, but why was it done earlier than usual? And who ordered it? We'll need to talk to the trainer, and then to this Cade whatsisname jackass, and I think we should also talk to the vet that examined her. It wouldn't be a farm-contracted vet, either. I don't know for sure, but I think the rules require the vet to be impartial and possibly even employed by the insurance company."
"Excellent idea, but Carlton…just because Cade Moreston is a potential suspect doesn't mean he's automatically guilty or that he's a jackass, for that matter."
"Did you see her reaction, though? That she's finally opening her eyes to his maybe being a lying, cheating, stealing jackass?"
Juliet felt her cheeks warming. Why did she get the feeling Carlton wasn't just talking about Mrs Cromwell's boyfriend?
He shuffled the papers. "The insurance company is called Equisurance. We'll contact them first. You know, if this was a homicide, the mayor would be all over us like a cheap slut to get this solved yesterday." Carlton said wearily. "These animals…they're treated like royalty, usually, and hell…considering how their family trees are so meticulously guarded, they more or less are. And they're a hell of a lot better looking, more accomplished and better behaved than most royalty."
"It is pretty amazing, how valuable they are." Juliet said, wanting to drop the subject of lying, cheating, stealing boyfriends for now. "The barns we passed—they looked like palaces."
"On breeding farms like this, worship of the horse is a given. I have made thee as no other. All treasures of the earth lie between thy eyes. Thou shalt carry My friends upon thy back... and thou shalt have flight without wings."
"What?" She was startled to hear him recite something so… poetic.
"A Bedouin saying," he said, looking down at the papers. "Look at this… " He turned the papers around so that she could read them. "Compare Golden Crown's insurance documents to the documents of other horses from this farm, past and present. All of the two-year olds from last year were re-quoted at the same time, and at roughly the same value each. Golden Crown's value, as a two-year old, was reassessed almost five weeks earlier than usual, and at a rate twice as high as any two-year old this barn has ever owned, including the filly's half-brother," He nodded toward Crown and Country's portrait, "who was assessed at two at just three quarters of a million, and that was after he had already won a stakes race."
"Half-brother?"
"Same dam, different sire. Some mares are never bred to same stallion twice in their entire lives."
"But wouldn't horses by the same sire be considered siblings?"
"No. Only foals out of the same dam—her foals are full or half siblings. We won't go into three-quarter siblings, though. That even confuses and frightens me."
"Thank you!" It really is like a whole other language, she thought with a small smile. "So in human terms, the stallions are ladykillers, the mares are…sluts?"
"That's an impolite term for them all," Carlton sniffed. "Remember… they're like royalty, but they're athletes, too. Only in horse-racing are you likely to see the offspring of a champion become a champion, too. Not that it's extremely common, of course.
She smiled, and saw the amusement in his brilliant blue eyes. "So Joe Montana's son isn't likely to be a great football player, based entirely on genes?"
"No. In racing, they breed the best to the best and hope for the best. I doubt Joe Montana married a woman with a great throwing arm, so I wouldn't count on his kids being great football players, too, and besides, his kids won't be the result of almost four hundred years of expensive, painstaking selective breeding." He shrugged. "In racing, though, they breed...say, Curlin to Rachel Alexandra and hope the foal turns out great. Odds are, though, the foal will be a total lemon. You can almost count on it—the colt that sells for eight million at auction can't run a lick, and the colt that sells for seventy-five hundred wins the Derby. Seattle Slew did." He snickered. "The Green Monkey sold for thirteen million and never won a race."
She was astounded. "Was… oh, what's his name… Secretariat! Was he a good sire?"
"Unreasonable expectations, in his case-there was no way he could have measured up in the stud to his racing career. He sired some damned good runners, though-Risen Star and Lady's Secret in particular, but it was his daughters that turned out priceless. Weekend Surprise, Terlingua…"
"You're a regular fount of information, Carlton. If only you'd talk as much about yourself."
"Again…unreasonable expectations, and I prefer to deflect and avoid, thank you very much. Besides, I can't imagine anybody being all that interested in knowing much about me, because when they do learn things about me, they tend to shriek and run away. I have virtually no market value, at least so far as breeding goes." He closed the folder and began reorganizing all the papers back into their folders. Juliet watched him, feeling strangely bereft.
But I want to know. I could have known if I hadn't blown it so badly with him.
And dammit, he has extremely high market value.
And I'm such a fool.
Juliet read Carlton's notes on the way to the insurance company office, and wondered aloud, "If someone forged Mrs Cromwell's name on the papers, wouldn't she still be the one to profit from Golden Crown's death?"
"That's what I've been wondering. Whoever forged her name-and my money is on Charmy Smarmy Cade-may have different motives. That stable is a million-dollar operation, and she's got tons of cash to back it up. Ruining her financially is one thing, but her reputation would be shot to hell, too, and in the racing world, if you screw around with stuff like this, you're done. Honest breeders and owners want nothing to do with you, and you become a pariah. The stock gets sold off at bottom basement prices, the farm goes under…" He was turning into the parking lot of the office building. "It's Calumet Farm all over again."
"Calu-what?"
"Calumet. Where Alydar stood. One of the greatest breeding operations ever, and it tanked because of one man's greed." He parked and turned the ignition off.
"Why do they call it 'stood'? A stallion 'stands'? I saw some of the stallions back at the farm as we were leaving-none of them were standing still! One even tried to bite his groom, and another was charging around his pasture as if his tail was on fire!
"Those are questions I don't have answers to, O'Hara," he said, with just the tiniest ghost of a smile. "Now, let's go learn all about the riveting world of equine insurance!"