Tami Hoag - Dark Horse

Molly looked at me in that steady, too-wise way and said, "I already told you I do."

This time I didn't ask her why.

I stand at the side of the Golam brothers' trailer. I've been told to stay put, to wait, but I know that's not the right decision. If I go in first, if I go in now, I've got the brothers dead-bang. They think they know me. I've worked this case three months. I know what I'm doing. I know I'm right. I know the Golam brothers are already twitching. I know I want this bust and deserve it. I know Lieutenant Sikes is here for the show, to put a feather in his cap. He wants to look good when the news vans arrive. He wants to make the public think they should vote for him in the next election for sheriff.

He's stuck me on the side of the trailer and told me to wait. He doesn't know his ass. He didn't listen to me when I told him the side door is the door the brothers use most. While Sikes and Ramirez are watching the front, the brothers are dumping their money into duffel bags and getting ready to bolt out the side. Billy Golam's four-by-four is parked ten feet away, covered in mud. If they run, they'll take the truck, not the Corvette parked in front. The truck can go off-road.

Sikes is wasting precious time. The Golam brothers have two girls in the trailer with them. This could easily turn into a hostage situation. But if I go in now… They think they know me.

I key the button on my radio. "This is stupid. They're going to break for the truck. I'm going in."

"Goddammit, Estes-"

I drop the radio into the weeds growing beside the trailer. It's my case. It's my bust. I know what I'm doing.

I draw my weapon and hold it behind my back. I go to the side door and knock the way all the Golam brothers' customers knock: two knocks, one knock, two knocks. "Hey, Billy, it's Elle! I need some."

Billy Golam jerks open the door, wild-eyed, high on his own home cooking-crystal meth. He's breathing hard. He's got a gun in his hand.

Shit.

The front door explodes inward.

One of the girls screams.

Buddy Golam shouts: "Cops!"

Billy Golam swings the.357 up in my face. I suck in my last breath.

He turns abruptly and fires. The sound is deafening. The bullet hits Hector Ramirez in the face and blows out the back of his head, blood and brain matter spraying Sikes behind him.

The image faded slowly from my brain, and the building I had worked out of slowly came into focus before me.

The Palm Beach County Criminal Justice Complex is tucked away on a patch of landscaped acres off Gun Club Road near Lake Lytal Park. The complex houses the Sheriff's Office, the medical examiner's offices, the morgue, the county courts, and the jail. One-stop shopping for lawbreakers and their victims.

I sat in the parking lot looking at the building that held the Sheriff's Office, feeling sick in my stomach. I hadn't been through those doors in a long time. There was a part of me that believed everyone in the building would recognize me on sight and that all of them nursed a virulent hatred of me. Logically, I knew that wasn't true. Probably only half of them would know and hate me.

The clock was ticking toward change of shift. If I didn't catch James Landry now, it would have to wait until the next day. I wanted Erin Seabright's name in his mind, a mental thorn to rub at all night.

My legs felt weak as I walked toward the doors. Jail inmates in dark gray uniforms were working on the landscaping, overseen by a black guard in camo pants and a painted-on black T-shirt, a trooper's hat perched on his head. He exchanged bullshit with a couple of cops standing on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes. None of them looked at me.

I went inside to the desk. No one called out my name or rushed to assault me. Maybe it was the haircut.

The receptionist behind the bulletproof glass was a round-faced young woman with three-inch purple lacquered fingernails and a Medusa's head of intertwined black braids.

"I need to speak with Detective Landry," I said.

"What is this regarding, ma'am?"

"A missing persons case."

"Your name?"

"Elena Estes."

There was no flicker of recognition. No scream of outrage. I didn't know her, she didn't know me. She called Landry on the phone and told me to wait in the chairs. I stood with my arms crossed and stared at the door to the stairwell, barely breathing. It seemed an hour before the heavy gray door opened.

"Ms. Estes?"

Landry held the door back by way of invitation.

He was a compact, athletic-looking man, mid-forties, with a meticulous quality about him. There was still starch in his shirt at nearly four P.M. His hair was cropped almost military-short; black, heavily salted with gray. He had a stare like an eagle's: penetrating and slightly disdainful, I thought. Or perhaps that was my paranoia showing.

I had known several of the seventeen detectives in Robbery/

Homicide, the major case squad, but I hadn't known Landry. Because of the nature of their work, narcotics detectives usually keep-or are kept-to themselves, their paths crossing with the other detectives only over dead bodies.

We went up the stairs to the second floor without speaking. There was no one behind the glass in the small vestibule that led to the Robbery/Homicide squad room. Landry let us in with a card key.

Steel desks grouped together made islands across the expanse of the room. Most of the desks were empty. I recognized no one. The gazes that flicked my way were hooded, flat, and cold. Cop eyes. The look is always the same, regardless of agency, regardless of geography. The look of people who trust no one and suspect everyone of something. I couldn't tell what they were thinking. I knew only that some of the gazes lingered too long.

I took the seat Landry indicated beside his desk. He smoothed a hand over his tie as he settled into his chair, his eyes never leaving my face. He clicked his computer on and settled a pair of reading glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"I'm Detective Landry," he said, typing. "I'll be taking your statement. I understand you want to report someone missing."

"She's already been reported missing. Erin Seabright. Her sister spoke with you a couple of days ago. Molly Seabright. She told me you were rude and condescending and of no help to her."

Another chapter from The Elena Estes Guide to Winning Friends and Influencing People.

Landry pulled his glasses off and gave me the stare again. "The kid? She's twelve."

"Does that somehow change the fact that her sister is missing?"

"We don't take complaints from children. I spoke on the phone with the mother. She didn't want to file. She says the daughter isn't missing."

"Maybe she killed the girl," I said. "You're not going to look for her because her murderer doesn't want to file a complaint?"

His brows pulled together. "You have reason to think the mother killed her?"

"No. I don't think that at all. I'm saying you didn't know differently and you blew the girl off."

"So you came here to pick a fight with me?" he said, incredulous. "Are you mentally ill? What have you got to do with these people? Are they relatives of yours?"

"No. Molly is a friend."

"The twelve-year-old."

"She asked me to help her. I happen to believe she has good reason to think her sister is missing."

"Why is that?"

"Because her sister is missing. She hasn't been seen since Sunday."

I filled him in on the Don Jade saga and the death of Stellar. Landry was angry with me. Impatience hummed in the air around him. He didn't like that I'd done his job for him, even if he didn't believe he'd had a job to do. Cops can be territorial that way.

"You think something happened to this girl because of a dead horse." He said it as if it were the most ludicrous theory he'd ever heard.