Stephen Cannell - The Viking Funeral

"Rules," he said again softly, returning to his dream. "Horses… Polo…" You can't ride

Why can't you ride? You can't own an Arabian horse without… Without what? Shit. He sat there turning it over in his mind. You have to register to ride… to play? Why do I want a damn horse, a colt? Why? I'd have to register. I'd…

He lunged out of the chair, headed into the house, turned on the lights in the bedroom, and put a hand on Alexa's shoulder.

She rolled over and glared at him. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Are you ever going to sleep?"

"Listen, if you ofrned an Arabian horse, wouldn't you have to list him with some kind of Thoroughbred registry?"

"I guess…"

"You do, you have to. There're rules about it. I think I read somewhere with all Thoroughbreds, you have to register them to protect the bloodlines and stud fees. Thoroughbred horses are registered at birth… When they're colts. There's some kinda Arabian horse registry."

"So?"

"It'll have the address of the owner."

"Unless his horse is registered to Blackstone Corporation in Switzerland, like everything else this guy owns."

"Sir Anthony of Aquitaine?" Shane smiled. "No fucking way. That horse is his status symbol. He might register his car or a house to the company, but this animal's a champion… It's in Papa Joe's name. Count on it. Jose is in the fucking horse registry, I'll bet you anything. It'll be somewhere on the Internet."

She rolled out of bed and put on her robe. "Let's get Chooch out of the sack. He's our best computer jock."

It was so easy, it was almost ridiculous. The registry was called exactly what Shane had guessed: the Arabian Horse Registry. Sir Anthony of Aquitaine was in the stallion listings. Below that was a lot of stuff about his bloodline: out of this sire and that mare, going back six generations, but at the bottom was the owner's name and address, right there on the screen:

Jose Luis Mondragon

2457 Malibu Canyon Road

Malibu, California

THEY CALLED TONY Filosiani from the Pacific Coast Highway, waking him up.

"Malibu?" he said after Alexa filled him in over her cell phone. "You guys go in the county without Sheriff's Department jurisdiction and Messenger will throw one a'his Egyptian conniptions."

"Then call him and get us some backup," Alexa said.

"I'll try."

Shane slowed down the Acura to make the turnoff from PCH onto Malibu Canyon Road. That two-lane highway climbed up into the coastal mountains, becoming a dark, treacherous, winding two-lane that widened periodically to include a center passing lane. The road snaked along a ridge above a deep river gorge, and they flashed by a sign that said they were leaving Ventura and passing back into L. A. County. Shane was slowing, looking for the address. There were very few intersecting roads on the two-lane highway and even fewer driveways. Shane had to be careful not to overdrive his headlights and shoot past 2457 Malibu Canyon Road.

Then he saw it.

The address was painted on a mailbox on the left-hand canyon side of the road. Shane braked hard, snapping his headlights off as he made the turn, heading slowly down the dirt drive into the canyon below. The driveway was rutted from a recent rain. It headed down, switching back and forth, into the narrow valley.

"Wait a minute," Alexa said. "Stop."

Shane put on the brakes. "What?"

"We can't go down there without Sheriff's backup," she said.

"If Jody's down there, I want him."

"You aren't thinking straight."

"Is that any way to talk to your future husband?" he scowled theatrically. "Gimme my ring back."

"You're not man enough to take it, buster." She hit him playfully on the shoulder with the back of her hand. "If we wait, we get two things-we get backup, and we get jurisdiction."

"I haven't had a shred of jurisdiction since I choppered outta that fuckin' hangar two weeks ago. And as far as backup goes, guess what?" She stared at him apprehensively. "You're it."

"Okay, but at least don't drive all the way down there. Let's find a hole in the bushes and park it."

"Good suggestion. I've got enough Bondo in this sled already."

They rolled slowly down the road, keeping the headlights off and the engine on, with Shane riding the brake.

Finally, they could see the roofs of some ranch buildings below, so Shane started looking for a place to stash the Acura. He found a good spot about a quarter mile from the end of the dirt driveway: a trash area with two large Dumpsters. Shane rolled the car in between the two metal bins and shut off the engine, then reached up and pulled the bulb out of the dome light on the headliner. He had long before removed the plastic cover for easy access. He stuck the bulb in the ashtray, then both of them quietly opened the doors and slipped out of the car.

"Okay," he whispered, "I'm taking point."

"Will you cut it out with the John Wayne bullshit? Let's just move on this together."

"No," he said sharply. "I want you back twenty yards at least."

"Why? Because you're afraid I might stop one?"

"Yeah," Shane said.

"Or is it because, if you find Jody, you're gonna take him out and you don't want a witness?"

Shane gave her such a withering scowl that she shrugged. "Just asking."

They headed down the drive with Shane out front, limping badly but keeping about twenty yards of separation. When he came to the end of the road, he kneeled down to check the surroundings. Pain shot up his leg.

There were two horse barns, some stables, and three houses in a cluster next to a training corral that contained a center turnstile. Long metal bridle poles used for breaking horses carouseled out from the turnstile. There were lights on in the main house and a couple of spots on light poles over by the corral that threw a dim glow over the entire front yard. Two empty cars were parked by the main house.

Then Shane saw the big blue and white motor home. It was under some shade trees, about thirty yards to his left.

"Jody's here," Shane whispered to Alexa, who had moved up and was just kneeling down beside him.

"How do you know?"

He pointed at the thirty-seven-foot, double-axle rig. "That's his. We used it to go to Palm Springs, dropped it in the Valley before we left for Aruba."

"How did he get that monster down this narrow, winding road?" she asked.

"You're right. There must be another way in and out of here."

"What're you gonna do?"

"There used to be an auto-mag in that rig before we left town. It was Victory Smith's. Maybe it's still there. I'd like to get my hands on it. Not that I don't love these little Spanish Astras," he said, smiling.

"Shane," she said softly. "I think…"

"I know, wait for the sheriff. Tell you what, why don't you go back up the road and flag him down when he gets here."

"Right. Great idea, dick-brain."

Shane didn't respond but moved off, heading toward the motor home.

He was thankful for the quarter moon that gave a little light but didn't flood the yard. He crept along the perimeter, out of range of the corral lights, hugging the moon shadows until he was at the back of the motor home. He paused to listen, heard nothing and snuck up the side, pulled Alexa's Astra, thumbed off the safety, and tried the door handle.

Unlocked.

Shane pulled open the metal door and looked back. Alexa had moved up behind him to take a cover position at the rear of the vehicle. She had her gun in both hands, held slightly up in a range-ready firing stance. From there, she was in a good position to protect his back. He nodded at her, then carefully climbed up the three steps into the motor home.

Sandro Mantoor was inside…

He had been hacked to death, then dismembered. His head was sitting in the sink, staring with lifeless eyes at a spot about a foot over Shane's head.