Flamingo Road Read online

  I nodded.

  “Serpentino likes to hang out at a posh restaurant on the third floor of the grandstand at Gulfstream. It’s called Christine Lee’s. We think he’s conducting business there that is not in the best interest of racing. He also has horses in his barn for his syndicate owners, horses that will suddenly run the race of their lives. Serpentino and his cronies cash some huge bets when that happens.”

  “This is what you meant when you said horses were cleaning up at long odds?”

  “Exactly. And since you’re adept at undercover work, you need to spend time there. See what you can overhear.”

  A little wave of excitement rippled through me. “I can do that,” I said. “I can turn into a dumb blond party girl who knows nothing about horses except how to bet ’em.” I had wigs, glasses, and outfits that could change my identity in an instant. I was starting to like this gig—going double undercover in the track’s best restaurant.

  “McKee,” he said, pointing his pen at me, “no need to look like the cat that swallowed the canary. You are going there to work. And don’t do anything. Just watch, listen when you can, and don’t let Serpentino know it.”

  “I think I can manage that,” I said.

  His expression hardened. “Listen to me. If you carry any kind of weapon, you’re done. Got it?”

  I flinched. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.” Even with my background in law enforcement and horse racing, I was lucky he’d taken me on. But though I might be grateful, I wasn’t thrilled about working unarmed, and had no intention of letting my pistol stray too far from my hand.

  Gunny slid the file across the desk to me. “Serpentino isn’t the only one dosing his runners with an untraceable substance. But he’s a good place to start.”

  I picked up the file.

  “Okay then, Fia. You study that,” he said. “Run your own background check on Serpentino and his known associates. See if anything new comes up.”

  I knew the information available through the TRPB’s massive server was immense and I could still use some pointers. “May I borrow Brian to help me?”

  “No. You’ve had the crash course. I’d suggest you start digging.” His hand slid to the bottle of Pepcid but he didn’t touch it.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pointed his pen at me. “Make sure the first time you meet Serpentino, you already know him.”

  * * *

  A while later I hunkered down at my desk with a fresh cup of coffee to read the contents of the folder. Before I could start, my cell rang, the ID telling me it was my friend, Officer Symesky.

  “We didn’t have any luck with those fingerprints,” she said, when I answered. “Whoever ransacked your apartment didn’t wipe the place clean, because your prints were all over it. But, since we didn’t find any other prints, I figure the scumbag wore gloves.”

  Another mystery unsolved.

  “Damn. I really hoped we’d get an ID on this person. I still think it was Shyra Darnell.”

  “Wish I’d been more help, Fia.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I said. We ended the call, and I turned back to the folder Gunny had handed me.

  Michael Serpentino was a native Floridian of Cuban descent. His father had owned a chain of restaurants with branches throughout the state. The old man had sold out to a conglomerate ten years earlier for twenty million, which explained how son Michael had so easily stepped into the role of racehorse trainer.

  Most start at the bottom, apprenticing to an established trainer, working their way up slowly. Often, the apprentices were related to or had an association with their tutor. Like most businesses it wasn’t what you knew, it was who you knew. But money had oiled the way for Serpentino.

  I booted up the PC. A wealth of information was at my fingertips if I could find it. I felt like such a newbie! I typed in Serpentino’s name and got a hit. Only it was the same story I’d seen in Jamieson’s file. But I studied it. Serpentino had started his racing syndicate, BetBig, two years earlier, buying horses and obtaining owners at a suspiciously fast clip.

  Hearing footsteps in the hall, I looked up. Gracie, Gunny’s assistant, tapped her knuckles on my office door frame. “Having any luck?”

  “Um, not yet.” I liked Gracie. Competent to a fault, she had a softer, sisterly side that had welcomed me into the organization. Her neat bob and conservative look were pure TRPB.

  “Can I sit for a minute?”

  I nodded and she grabbed a side chair. “I’ve read your file, Fia. You’re sharp as a knife. Gunny’s not worried about you handling the data.”

  My right foot started to jiggle. “Thanks. So … what is he worried about?”

  “Gunny’s good with the rules, and managing the guys. Not so much with the females. He’s old-school.”

  I remembered his earlier hesitation. “He’s not happy with my look?”

  She leaned one elbow onto my desk. “If I had your cheekbones and big eyes, I’d be tempted to cut my hair like yours. But the color’s a bit electric. It could stand out too much at Gulfstream. And Christine Lee’s is somewhat conservative.”

  “I’ll be wearing a wig there. But I’ll tone the color down for the track.”

  Gracie’s responding smile warmed her eyes, so I continued.

  “It’s short because a guy almost killed me when he was able to grab my hair. Besides, it’s good with the wigs I wear—I mean wore—for vice work with the Baltimore PD.” Only, with it super short, I liked the added bling of electric blond streaks.

  “And,” Gracie said, still smiling, “one set of earrings is enough.”

  I touched one of the gold rings I wore near the top of each ear.

  “I’ll take these out.”

  “Good.”

  Outside the office window, the cold had browned and shriveled the grass. On the wall next to my desk, the forced air heating blew a warm gush, spreading a scent of paper and dust. By now, my foot jiggled like a pot ready to boil over.

  “Gracie, to be honest, I’m a little surprised I got hired on.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not. Gunny likes brains. He also needs horse racing knowledge. There aren’t too many like you. And”—she swiveled her chair, glanced into the hallway, and lowered her voice—“you never heard it from me, but he liked the way you nailed the strangler.”

  Old-school. I nodded. “Thanks, Gracie.”

  She slipped out, and I went back to Serpentino on my PC after taking a strong sip of java. I wanted to see if I could find additional information on the trainer.

  Whoa. Who knew there could be half a dozen Michael Serpentinos in the world?

  But I’m good at finding things and after I got my rhythm, I realized that the information I’d read in Gunny’s folder had been gathered through noon of the day before. I kept going, sorting by date and time. Nothing new on Serpentino, so I entered the name of his company, BetBig.

  The path of the company’s partners was convoluted. Syndicate members came and went faster than shareholders on the New York Stock Exchange. People bought in, they got out. The horses BetBig owned changed names and faces as fast as a merry-go-round. So did the people who supplied them.

  Nice place to hide criminal activity.

  The previous afternoon BetBig bought a colt named Dixie Diamond for $250,000. Antonio Morales was listed as the seller. I’d seen his name before. I entered it. Morales showed up five times. Always involved with BetBig purchases of more than $200,000. Interesting.

  A preliminary background check on Morales revealed dual Mexican and U.S. citizenship, but no dirt. He was a banker heading up the Miami office of a Mexican bank.

  I studied his photo. Morales had light hair for a Mexican, almost blond. He reminded me of something or someone. It would come to me.

  But there was another face I needed to see. I didn’t care that its owner wasn’t damaging the integrity of horse racing, or that I probably shouldn’t spend company time looking him up, because this man murdered horses and broke young hearts. I typed in �
��Luis Valera.”

  Oh, was he ugly. Scar tissue around his right eye kept it from opening all the way. His long nose had been so badly broken, it looked like a fist full of clay had been smashed between his cheekbones. The eyebrow above his good eye rose up high into his forehead and formed a question mark.

  I glanced down and read the stats under his photo. Thirty-six years old, five-eight, two hundred and fifty pounds.

  He carried the weight on a squat frame, the muscles on his arms appearing strong under a layer of pudgy flesh. He had bags of fat under his eyes, and a precisely clipped mustache above an ordinary mouth. Dark hair and dark eyes that showed brutality rather than intelligence.

  “Luis,” I said, staring at his face on the computer screen. “We should go out sometime.”

  I attached his photo to an e-mail and typed a message. “Jilly, here’s a picture of Valera to use for your neighborhood watch flyers.” I sent the e-mail. Then I printed a copy of the photo, which I folded and put into my tote bag.

  I shifted back to the computer. There had to be more information about Michael Serpentino, and I intended to find it. But first I typed in Kerameikos Zanin. This man had gotten close to my brother, my niece, and me. I wanted to know what I was dealing with. No arrests, no warrants. The guy appeared to be squeaky-clean with donations from do-gooders providing him an income. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Serpentino.

  14

  I stood in the doorway to Jilly’s room, tired from the trip south cramped in the Mini from which I’d just emerged after ten hours of driving. Jilly lay on her bed wearing a purple tunic and black leggings. She was reading a fantasy novel with a picture of a winged horse on the cover.

  She set her book down. “So how are you going to see Zanin if you have to be at the track every day?”

  “I’m not seeing Zanin, but I am expected to show up at work.”

  “But we have to take care of Valera. He’ll kill other horses. Or don’t you care anymore?”

  Hadn’t I sent her his picture? “Jilly, we are not taking care of Valera. I’ll talk to Zanin, but I just got here. How are you, anyway?”

  “Fine.” She picked up the book.

  I almost asked her how school was but it was such a stupid, aunty question, I cut myself short. “Has the neighborhood been safe?”

  She perked up. “Yeah. Zanin’s flyer idea was cool. And Valera’s arrest photo was awesome. Now, everyone knows what he looks like. I think he looks like a pig. And we’re using a Twitter feed to send out alerts.”

  “Good job,” I said, thinking she was like a high-strung filly. You couldn’t restrain her. You had to distract her.

  “Dad’s even learned how to use Twitter.”

  Go, Patrick. I searched for something else to say and settled on her novel. “If you see a horse that looks like the one on that cover, bring him down to Gulfstream.”

  She leaned forward. “Can I come to Gulfstream? I mean, like on a Saturday?”

  “It’s fine with me,” I said. “I’ll have to ask Rosario if it’s okay. It’s his barn.”

  “That would be so cool. Maybe I can ride!”

  “That’s not likely,” I said quickly. “At least, not right away.” Why had I added the last part? She couldn’t gallop horses before she was sixteen and she didn’t have the faintest idea how to anyway. But her smile gave me a glow I hadn’t felt in a while.

  Besides, having her at the track could help with my cover of being a local Florida gal. Yeah, right. What was I thinking? I could already see the headline, FORMER COP CHARGED WITH RECKLESS ENDANGERMENT: NIECE USED FOR UNDERCOVER POLICE WORK.

  “We can talk more about this later,” I said. Maybe I should back out of this, yet the last thing I wanted to do was set Jilly up for another disappointment.

  * * *

  The next morning, Rosario watched as I rode Luceta toward him at his barn at Gulfstream Park. Like most racing stables, the rectangular barn held about sixty stalls, thirty per side, backed up, with doors facing out. Wood posts supported a roof overhang that sheltered the dirt aisle running outside the stalls. The short ends of the rectangular building had rooms for tack, storage, or a cot for a groom. The section of barn housing a trainer’s horses and supplies was commonly referred to as his “shedrow.”

  Rosario’s had green plastic flowerpots filled with miniature red roses hanging from the edge of the roof overhead. The hot rose red that had been so out of place in the frigid gray at Fair Hill fit perfectly with the Florida warmth and sunshine.

  Rosario had left his fur hat up north and trimmed his beard to a mustache and goatee. I hadn’t known he had a full head of hair, hadn’t even recognized him when I’d arrived that morning. Even minus the hat, with the soft gray streaks in his hair combined with his bright eyes and the way his nose wrinkled, Rosario still reminded me of a rabbit.

  I’d just breezed Luceta for three-eighths of a mile in good time, and though we’d both worked up a gleam of sweat, neither of us blew hard enough to put a match out. That final week of riding in Maryland had accomplished the job for me.

  Apparently Rosario agreed since he’d brought a string of twelve ready-to-go racers to Gulfstream and left the horses that still needed legging up with his assistant trainer at Fair Hill. I’d be riding horses that were sharp and anxious to run.

  “She looks good,” he said, studying Luceta as I walked her past him. “I got a new one that shipped in last night, a three-year-old Not for Love filly. Her name’s Last Call for Love and she has a lot of speed. But she’s quirky. Her previous trainer couldn’t do anything with her. Said she doesn’t like to train.”

  Dad had conditioned a horse by Not for Love. I was pleased we had one in our Gulfstream barn but wasn’t thrilled about a horse with a screw loose. I rode Luceta into her stall, slid off, removed her saddle and bridle, and let the groom, Julio, lead her away to cool out on the shedrow.

  When I emerged from the stall, Rosario gestured me toward him. “Why don’t you see if you can get Last Call to gallop a mile. I’ll have to lead her out for you.”

  Just what I needed, a horse that refused to walk to the track.

  “Okay.”

  I followed Rosario down the aisle breathing in the warm air and the scents of hay, grain, molasses, and roses. A hint of liniment drifted past, tangy and sharp in the salty Atlantic breeze.

  As we approached her stall, the new horse thrust her finely made head over the stall gate. She glared at us, pinned her ears, whirled, and disappeared into the depths of her stall.

  “She’s flighty,” Rosario said.

  I refrained from saying, “Really?” and instead said, “But pretty.”

  Stepping up to her gate, I stared. She was a dark blood bay with a blaze widening into a big pink splash over one nostril. She had a white sock on her right front and another on her right hind leg. Very attractive. But it was the Not for Love confirmation that made her beautiful. Rounded and muscular, with sturdy, strong-boned legs.

  The only thing I’d hold against her was her weight. She was too thin. I judged her to be under sixteen hands, but when she walked closer, back to the stall gate, she was tall. Nature had put her together so well, so compactly, it made her appear small at first glance.

  “Did her dam have Northern Dancer in the pedigree?” I asked.

  He gave me a sharp look. My dad had taught me a thing or two.

  “She’s the last foal out of an old Minstrel mare,” he said.

  Giving her two crosses of the great Northern Dancer. No wonder Rosario was willing to take her on.

  When we got the tack on her, and led her from the stall, she plunged out like she’d just left the starting gate. Then she stopped dead. Rosario gave me a leg up, and Last Call stood like carved marble, refusing to budge. Rosario had taken my whip away, saying he’d been told if you smacked her, she got worse. Like Jilly.

  I leaned forward and stroked her silky neck, trying to see if I could get her to relax. She didn’t. The muscles in her neck
were as tight as lug bolts.

  “I don’t want to get into a war with her the first day here,” Rosario said.

  “We could try a carrot.”

  He got one, broke off a little piece, and offered it to her. When she condescended to nibble the small piece, Rosario and I exchanged a glance.

  He stepped back and stretched his arm out, offering another bite slightly out of reach. She leaned toward the treat, but couldn’t get close enough. She rolled forward onto the front edge of her hooves until she was forced to take a step or fall down.

  She got her next bite and once she’d taken three steps in this manner, she gave it up and walked along with Rosario.

  He led her down the bridle path to the track, walked her out onto the deep, sandy surface, and let her go. I urged her forward and she promptly froze.

  Rosario shook his head. “They don’t sell enough carrots in Broward County to get this filly around the track.”

  “Maybe we’d better use the pony,” I said, thinking an equine escort might prompt her to be less contrary.

  Rosario threw a hand up in frustration, glaring at Last Call, before stalking off to get his stable pony.

  Fortunately, Rosario had planted us next to the outside rail where we were away from the horses galloping in the center and the speed demons working the inside rail.

  I felt idiotic sitting on a horse statue as the rest of the world went by in a whirl of motion and color, with the sound of air pumping from their lungs. I got a few comments from other exercise riders like, “Enjoying the view?” and one smart-ass who galloped past and yelled, “This dirt is for horses, not potted plants.”

  By the time Rosario jogged up, mounted on his big palomino stable pony, my face felt a fine shade of red. I wanted to throw something, but instead forced a deep breath.

  Rosario slipped a lead strap through the ring of Last Call’s bit and hauled her off with the help of his pony who bumped her shoulder hard to get her moving. Rosario and the palomino got Last Call around the track, at least putting a slow gallop into her. I went along for the ride, like a kid on a bike with training wheels.