Elena Estes - Dark Horse Part 21

"What difference does that make?" he asked.

"Did you?"

He seemed nervous again. He straightened a humidor on the desktop a sixteenth of an inch.

"It would be quite a coincidence if Erin had simply stumbled into a job with the trainer of the client you

sold a hugely expensive property to."

"What does this have to do with anything?" he demanded. "So I might have mentioned she was looking for a job with horses. So what?" I shook my head, tore the page of numbers off the blotter, and stood. I looked at Krystal, still huddled in the leather chair, eyes gla.s.sy, locked in her own private h.e.l.l. I wanted to ask her if she thought it was worth it-the house, the clothes, the car, the money-but she was probably suffering enough without me accusing her of selling out her own child. I gave her one of the cards with my phone number on it, and laid one on the desk.

"I'll run these numbers and see what I come up with," I said. "Call me immediately if you hear from the kidnappers. I'll do what I can. In my professional opinion, you should call the Sheriff's Office, the detective division, and ask to speak directly to Detective James Landry."

"But they said no police," Seabright said, a little too happy to comply with that demand. "Plain clothes, plain car. No one will know he isn't a Jehovah's Witness." Seabright pouted. "I don't want other people making decisions for my family." "No? Well, contrary to your egomania, you are not best equipped to make these decisions," I said. "You need professional help with this. And if you don't want to accept it, I'll cram it down your throat."

Two-forty A.M. Bruce Seabright couldn't sleep. He didn't try. He had no desire to share a bed with Krystal tonight, even though he knew she was unconscious. He was too agitated to sleep, or even to sit. He had spent an hour cleaning his office: polis.h.i.+ng the fingerprints from the furniture, wiping down every item on the desk, spraying the telephone with Lysol. His inner sanctum had been breeched, contaminated.

Krystal had come in here without his knowledge and pawed through the mail on his desk, even though he had told her very specifically never to do that. He always handled the mail. And Molly had come in and taken the videotape. He had expected better of both of them. The disappointment was bitter in his mouth. The order of his world had been upset, and now that b.i.t.c.h private investigator was trying to take over. He wouldn't stand for it. He would find out who she was working for, and he would make sure she never worked again.

He paced the room, breathing deeply the scents of lemon oil and disinfectant, trying to calm himself.

He never should have married Krystal. That had been a mistake. He had known her eldest daughter would be a problem he would end up having to deal with, and here he was.

He opened the television cabinet, pulled a video from the shelf, and popped it in the VCR and hit play.

Erin, naked, chained to a bed, trying to cover herself.

"Look at the camera, b.i.t.c.h. Say your line."

She shakes her head, tries to hide her face.

"Say it! You want me to make you?"

She looks at the camera.

"Help me."

Bruce ejected the tape and put it in its cardboard sleeve. He went to the small secret wall safe hidden behind a row of books on real estate law, opened the safe, put the tape inside, and locked it away. No one else would see the tape. That was his decision. He was best equipped to make it.

I have never been hindered by the belief that people are basically good. In my experience, people are basically selfish, and often cruel.

I slept for three hours because my body didn't give me a choice. I woke because my brain wouldn't let me rest. I rose and fed the horses, then showered and went to my computer in a T-s.h.i.+rt and underpants and started tracing the phone numbers from Bruce Seabright's phone using a reverse directory on the Internet.

Of the thirteen numbers, six were unlisted with a Wellington prefix, four came back with names, one came back to Domino's Pizza, and two calls had come from the same Royal Palm Beach number, also with no listing. Seabright claimed the kidnapper had called only once, but I didn't believe him. He'd been a no-show for the drop. I couldn't believe he wouldn't have gotten a call after that.

I dialed the Royal Palm number and listened to it ring unanswered. No cheerful greeting: Kidnappers R Us.

I dialed the unlisted numbers, one by one, getting answering machines and maids, and waking up a couple of very cranky people who would no doubt be calling Bruce Seabright's office to complain about his new a.s.sistant.

I dialed the Sheriff's Office, wending my way through the various receptionists to get to Landry's voice mail, at the same time checking my e-mail for word from my FBI contact on the inquiry to Interpol. Nothing yet. As I listened to Landry's message and jotted down his pager number, I considered calling Armedgian to hasten a response, but decided not to press my luck. Any info from abroad would just be corroboration. I already knew Van Zandt was a world-cla.s.s sleaze.

Was he bold enough to try kidnapping? Why not? He'd been just a step away from it with Irina's friend, Sasha Kulak. If Bruce Seabright had set up Erin's job through Trey Hughes, it stood to reason Van Zandt could have found out Erin was connected to the Fairfields developer. Developers take in a lot of money, he might have reasoned. Why shouldn't he be ent.i.tled to some? Motive: greed. He knew the girl, knew the show grounds, knew when people would be around and when they wouldn't. Opportunity.

Means? I knew Van Zandt had a video camera, so he could have made the tape. The distortion device would have disguised his accent. What about the white van? Where had it come from, and if Van Zandt had been running the video camera, then who was the guy in the mask?

Sc.u.m finds its own level. There were plenty of people skulking in the shadows of the show grounds who could have been persuaded to do just about anything for money. Decent people might not have been able to find them, but Tomas Van Zandt was not a decent person.

The truly disturbing possibility of Van Zandt as the kidnapper was his possible connection to Bruce Seabright and Seabright's lack of action on the ransom demand. But if Seabright was connected, then why would the videotape have been addressed to Krystal? And why would he have tried to hide it from her? If the projected outcome was in fact to get rid of Erin but make it look like a kidnapping gone wrong, Seabright needed corroboration on his end. It didn't make sense for him to keep it to himself.

His lack of action couldn't be denied, whatever his motive. I was willing to bet he had yet to act, despite my threat.

I dialed Landry's pager and left my number. Avadonis Farms would come up in his caller ID. That gave me a better shot for a return call. He would have taken one look at my name and hit the erase b.u.t.ton.

While I waited for the phone to ring, I poured a cup of coffee, paced, and considered other angles. The fact that Erin had cared for Stellar and Stellar was dead; the possible connections to Jade, with his shadowy past. The fact that Erin had been involved with Chad Seabright; the fact they had been seen arguing two days before her disappearance. She'd dumped him-for an older man, Chad said. She'd had a thing for her boss, Molly said.

The phone rang. I scooped it up and answered.

"This is Detective James Landry. I received a page from this number."

"Landry. Estes. Erin Seabright has been kidnapped. Her parents received a videotape and a ransom demand."

Silence on the other end as he digested that.

"Do you still think it's not a case?" I asked.

"When did they get the demand?"

"Thursday. The stepfather was supposed to make the drop yesterday. He took a pa.s.s."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a long story. Let's meet somewhere. I'll fill you in, then take you to them."

"That won't be necessary," he said. "I'll get the details from the parents. Thanks for the tip, but I don't want you there."

"I don't care whether you want me there or not," I said flatly. "I'll be there."

"Hindering an official investigation."

"So far, hindering has been your area of expertise," I said. "There wouldn't be an investigation but for me. The stepfather doesn't want to do anything. He'd be happy to say 'oh well' and hope the perps dump the girl in a ca.n.a.l with an anchor around her waist. I've got a three-day jump on you and an in with the people the girl worked for." "You're not a cop anymore." "And I needed you to remind me of that. f.u.c.k you, Landry." "I'm just saying. You don't call the shots, Estes. You want to lord it over somebody, hire a minion. I don 't work for you or with you." "Fine. Then I'll keep what I know to myself. See you there, a.s.shole." I hung up and went to dress. There are few creatures on earth more pigheaded than cops. I can say this with surety, because I am one. I may no longer have carried a badge, but that isn't what being a cop means. Being a cop is in the nature, in the bones. A cop is a cop, regardless of status, regardless of uniform, regardless of agency, regardless of age.

I understood Landry because we were related by calling. I didn't like him, but I understood him. I suspected he understood me on one level as well as anyone could. He wouldn't admit to it, and he didn't like me, but he knew where I stood.

I pulled on a pair of tan slacks and a black sleeveless T-s.h.i.+rt. The phone rang again as I was strapping on my watch.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"I don't want you coming to my house."

"Why not? Are you selling crack? Fencing stolen goods? What are you afraid of?"

I didn't want my sanctuary breached, but I wouldn't tell him that. Never willingly reveal a vulnerability to an adversary. My reluctance was telling enough. I gave him the address and cursed myself for giving him that tiny victory.

"I'll be there in thirty," he said, and hung up.

I buzzed him through the gate in twenty-three. "Nice digs," Landry said, looking at Sean's house. "I'm a guest." I led the way from the parking area near the barn toward the guest house. "It pays to know people who don't live in cardboard boxes and eat out of Dumpsters." "Is that your social circle?" I asked. "You could aim a little higher. You live at the marina, after all." He gave me the look-suspicious, offended I would have knowledge of him without his permission.

"How do you know that?"

"I checked you out. Idle hands and the World Wide Web . . ."

He didn't like that at all. Good. I wanted him to know I was smarter than he was.

"Your blood type is AB negative, and you voted Republican in the last election," I said, opening my front door. "Coffee?"

"Do you know how I take it?" he asked sarcastically.

"Black. Two sugars."

He stared at me.

I shrugged. "Lucky guess."

He stood on the other side of the kitchen peninsula with his arms crossed over his chest. He should have been on a recruiting poster. Starched white s.h.i.+rt with thin burgundy stripes, blood-red tie, the aviator shades, the military posture.

"You look like a fed," I commented. "What's up with that? Agency envy?"

"Why are you so curious about me?" he asked, irritated.

"Knowledge is power."

"So this is some kind of game to you?"

"Not at all. I just like to know who I'm dealing with."

"You know me as well as you're going to," he said. "Fill me in on the Seabrights."

I played the videotape for him and told him what had happened the night before at the Seabright house.

He didn't bat an eye at any of it. "You think the stepfather has some kind of angle on this?" he asked. "There's no question how he feels about Erin, and it's certainly strange the way he's handled things so far. I don't like his connections. But if this kidnapping is staged and he's a party to it, why be secretive

with the tape? I don't get that." "Control, maybe," Landry said, running the tape back and playing it again. "Maybe he waits until it's overand the girl is dead, then he shows the tape to the wife and tells her how he was protecting her from theawful truth and he handled the situation as he thought best."

"Ah, yes. The decisions in the family are left to the person best equipped to make them," I muttered.

"What?"

"The family motto. Bruce Seabright is a serious control freak. Pathological. Egotistical, a bully,

psychologically abusive. The family is something out of Tennessee Williams."

"Then it fits."

"Yes," I agreed. "The thing is, this girl existed in a veritable snake pit. I can name three other legitimate