Tami Hoag - Dark Horse

A lapdog from the pound, my heritage was called into question by my father every time I stepped out of line-which was often. He had resented my intrusion on his life. I was a constant reminder of his inability to sire children of his own. My resentment of his feelings had only served to fuel the fires of my rebellion.

I hadn't spoken to my father in over a decade. He had disowned me when I'd left college to become a common cop. An affront to him. A slap in his face. True. And a flimsy excuse to end a relationship that should have been unbreakable. He and I had both seized on it.

"Gee, sorry," I said, spreading my arms wide. "I'm not dressed for it."

Sean took in the old jeans and black turtleneck with a critical eye. "What happened to our fashion plate of the morning?"

"She had a very long day of pissing people off."

"Is that a good thing?"

"We'll see. Squeeze enough pimples, one of them is bound to burst."

"How folksy."

"Did Van Zandt come by?"

He rolled his eyes. "Honey, people like Tomas Van Zandt are the reason I live behind gates. If he came by, I didn't hear about it."

"I guess he's too busy trying to sweet-talk Trey Hughes into spending a few million bucks on horses."

"He'll need them. Have you seen that barn he's building? The Taj Mahal of Wellington."

"I heard something about it."

"Fifty box stalls with crown molding, for God's sake. Four groom's apartments upstairs. Covered arena. Big jumping field."

"Where is it?"

"Ten acres of prime real estate in that new development next to Grand Prix Village: Fairfields."

The name gave me a shock. "Fairfields?"

"Yes," he said, adjusting his French cuffs and checking himself out in the mirror again. "It's going to be a great big gaudy monstrosity that will make his trainer the envy of every jumper jockey on the East Coast. I have to go, darling."

"Wait. A place like you're saying will cost the earth."

"And the moon and the stars."

"Can Trey really live that large off his trust fund?"

"He doesn't have to. His mother left nearly the entire Hughes estate to him."

"Sallie Hughes died?"

"Last year. Fell down the stairs in her home and fractured her skull. So the story goes. You really ought to keep up with the old neighborhood, El," he scolded. Then he kissed my cheek and left.

Fairfields. Bruce Seabright had just that morning been on his way to close a deal at Fairfields.

I don't like or trust coincidence. I don't believe coincidence is an accidental thing. In college I had once attended a lecture by a well-known New Age guru who believed all life at its most basic molecular structure is energy. Everything we do, every thought we have, every emotion we experience, can be broken down to pure energy. Our lives are energy, driving, seeking, running, colliding with the energy of the other people in our small worlds. Energy attracts energy, intent becomes a force of nature, and there is no such thing as coincidence.

When I feel like believing strongly in my theory, I then realize I have to accept that nothing in life can truly be random or accidental. And then I decide I would be better off believing in nothing.

Considering the people involved in Erin Seabright's life, whatever was going on was not positive. Her mother seemed not to have known who Erin was working for, and I could believe that was true. Krystal wouldn't have cared if Erin had been working for the devil himself, so long as her little world wasn't rocked because of it. She probably preferred not to think Erin was her daughter at all. But what about Bruce Seabright? Did he know Trey Hughes? If he knew Hughes, did he then also know Jade? And if he knew either or both of them, how did Erin fit into that picture?

Say Bruce wanted Erin out of his house because of her involvement with Chad. If he knew Hughes-and via Hughes had a connection to Don Jade-he might have gotten her set up with Jade as a means to that end. The more important question was whether or not Bruce Seabright cared about what happened to Erin once she was out of his house. And if he cared, would his caring be a positive or a negative thing? What if he wanted her gone permanently?

These were the thoughts and questions that filled my evening. I paced the guest house, chewing the stubs of my fingernails. Quiet, smooth jazz seeped out of the stereo speakers in the background, a moody sound track to the scenarios playing through my head. I picked up the phone once and dialed Erin's cell phone number, getting an automated voice telling me the customer's mailbox was full. If she had simply moved herself to Ocala, why wouldn't she have picked up her messages by now? Why wouldn't she have called Molly?

I didn't want to waste a day going to Ocala on what my gut told me would be a fool's errand. In the morning I would call a PI up there and give him the pertinent information, along with instructions. If Erin was working at the Ocala show grounds, I would know it in a day, two at the most. I would have the PI page her from the show office, say that she had an important phone call. If someone answered the page, he could verify whether or not it was, in fact, Erin Seabright. A simple plan. Landry could have done the same utilizing local law enforcement.

Asshole. I hoped he was lying awake.

It was after midnight. Sleep was nowhere in sight for me. I hadn't had a real night's sleep in years-partly because of my state of mind, partly because of the low-level chronic pain the accident had left me with. I didn't wonder what the lack of sleep was doing to my body or to my mind, for that matter. I didn't care. I'd gotten used to it. At least tonight I wasn't dwelling on thoughts of the mistakes I'd made or how I should pay for those mistakes.

I grabbed a jacket and left the house. The night was cool, a storm blowing across the Everglades toward Wellington. Lightning backlit the clouds to the far west.

I drove down Pierson, past the truck entrance to the Equestrian Club, past the extravagant stables of Grand Prix Village, made a turn and found the stone entrance gates of Fairfields. A sign showed the layout of the development in eight parcels ranging in size from five to ten acres. Three parcels were marked "Sold." Gracious beauty for exclusive equestrian facilities was promised, and a number was listed for Gryphon Development, Inc.

The stone columns were up, and a guardhouse had been constructed, but the iron gates had yet to be installed. I followed the winding drive, my headlights illuminating weeds and scrub. Security lights glowed white at two building sites. Even in the dead of night I had no trouble identifying which of the two properties belonged to Trey Hughes.

The stable was up. Its silhouette resembled a big Kmart. A huge, two-story rectangle that ran parallel to the road, flaunting its size. It stood back maybe thirty yards from the chain-link construction fence. The gate was chained and padlocked.

I pulled into the drive as far as the gate allowed and sat there trying to take in as much as I could. My headlights bathed a piece of earth-moving equipment, and revealed torn ground and mounded piles of dirt. Beyond the stable on the near end I could just make out what must have been the construction boss's office trailer. In front of the stables, a large sign advertised the construction company, proud to be building Lucky Dog Farm.

I could only ballpark the cost of the place. Ten acres this near the show grounds was worth a fortune with nothing on it. A facility the likes of what Trey Hughes was putting up had to go two, maybe three million just for the buildings. And that would be for horse facilities alone. Like Grand Prix Village, there would be no stately homes in Fairfields. The owners of these stables had posh homes at the Polo Club or on the island or both. The Hughes family had a beachfront estate on Blossom Way, near the exclusive Palm Beach Bath and Tennis Club. Trey himself had had a mansion in the Polo Club when I'd last known of him. Now he had it all, thanks to Sallie Hughes taking a wrong step on the stair.