Part 40 (1/2)

He was shaking. He wanted to go back into the building and beat Bruce Seabright unconscious. The son of a b.i.t.c.h. His wife's daughter kidnapped and his solution was to do nothing. Let her rot. Let them rape her, kill her, throw her in a ca.n.a.l. Jesus H.

I asked you to help me! Why won't you help me? Do you hate me that much?

Seabright hadn't said anything about having spoken with Erin directly. Landry was willing to bet his pension Seabright had another tape stashed somewhere. A tape where Erin begged for help. And Bruce Seabright hadn't done a G.o.ddam thing.

But that wasn't why Erin was being punished, was it? She was in that filthy place, chained naked to a bed, being beaten with a whip because the rules had been broken and the Sheriff's Office had been called in.

It could have been that Estes had poked at the wrong hornet's nest. She'd spoken with everyone involved with Erin Seabright. Maybe Van Zandt had figured out she wasn't what she seemed to be.

All of Jade's crowd had been interviewed Sat.u.r.day regarding Jill Morone's death. Erin's name had been

raised. Jade might have been tipped off that way.

Someone in the neighborhood might have been watching, but Landry didn't believe it. He'd looked over the reports on the neighbors: their families, their professions, their connections to the Seabrights.

Nothing.

Maybe the kidnappers had had the house bugged, but that seemed a long stretch. This wasn't some multibillionaire they were trying to shake down.

Or the kidnappers had inside information. That kid of Seabright's. Or Seabright himself. What better way to distance himself from suspicion than to cooperate with the cops, then blame it onthem when things went south. He would never have done a thing to help Erin if Estes hadn't stuck hernose in it.

He would have done exactly what Landry had said in the beginning: kept all the info to himself until thegirl turned up dead-if she turned up at all. And he would have told his wife he'd done everything hecould, everything he'd thought best. Too bad it hadn't worked out, but what the h.e.l.l, Erin was just awhite trash liability anyway.

The cigarette was gone. Landry dropped it on the sidewalk, ground the b.u.t.t out, picked it up and threw it in the trash.

And how did Don Jade fit into the picture?

Estes had told him: Seabright sold land to Trey Hughes, Don Jade worked for Trey Hughes. Bruce got Erin the job with Jade through Hughes. The girl would have been better off running away from home to live on the street in Miami.

Everything goes back to Jade, Estes had said in the beginning. But that wasn't quite true. Everything wentback to Trey Hughes. Landry dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Dwyer, who had the tail on Jade. ”Where is he?” ”Having dinner at Michael's Pasta. Specials of the night: penne putanesca and seafood risotto.” ”Who's he with?” ”Some tiny old broad with big fake t.i.ts and orange hair. Can we pick him up?” ”No.” ”What happened at the drop?” ”It was a setup. They knew we'd be there.” ”How?” ”I've got a hunch.” ”They've got medication for that now.”

”Yeah, it's called an arrest. Do you know where the feds are?”

”Sitting with their thumbs up their a.s.ses. They say Van Zandt hasn't left the town house. The Mercedes issitting in the driveway.” ”And where's the Carlton woman's car?” ”Don't ask me. I'm doing my job.” ”Great.” Landry wished for a second cigarette as he watched Dugan come out the door behind Bruce Seabright.

Seabright went across the parking lot to his Jaguar, got in, and drove away. His wife was noticeablyabsent from the pa.s.senger's seat. Dugan turned and came down the sidewalk. ”I've gotta go,” Landry said to Dwyer, and snapped the phone shut. ”What do you know about Elena Estes?” Dugan asked. ”She used to be a narc.” ”What do you know about her being a private investigator?” ”I know she's not.”

”Why does Seabright think otherwise?”

Landry shrugged. ”Why does he think anything? He's a f.u.c.king a.s.shole. He thinks it's a good idea to let perverts have an eighteen-year-old girl so they can beat her with a whip.”

”What do you know about Estes in relation to this case?” Dugan asked. His face was tight with temper.

”I know there wouldn't be a case if she hadn't come into this office and told me what was going on,”Landry said. ”She's involved in this.” ”It's a free country.” ”It's not that free,” Dugan snapped. ”Get her in here.”

Suddenly living in rural Loxahatchee made sense. Secluded, away from the throng of horse people, it was the perfect place to conduct a clandestine affair.

Apparently, Don Jade wasn't the only one in his barn willing to play bedroom games to further his cause. If Trey Hughes was in that house for something other than a discussion of how his horse had gone in the ring that day, then Paris Montgomery had snagged Jade's most affluent patron. With malice aforethought.

Or maybe Jade knew. Perhaps she had his blessing. Perhaps she was Jade's insurance policy for keeping Trey's attention.

My gut said no. I had witnessed no overt displays of affection between Paris and Trey. Their interaction at the barn had appeared to be nothing more than client and trainer.

Paris was a smart, ambitious girl. If Paris made Trey happy, Trey could certainly make Paris happy.

As I drove back to Wellington, I wondered if Paris knew Hughes had been involved with Michael Berne'

s wife before her. That certainly hadn't insured Michael a place in the posh new stables-or Stella Berne

either, for that matter.

I wondered how long the affair had been going on. Hughes had taken his horses to Jade about nine months previous, meaning they had gone up to Jade's barn in the Hamptons for the summer. Trey had likely spent the summer there, soaking up the social swirl. A relations.h.i.+p might have sparked.

Turning these things over in my mind, I drove back to Wellington and swung by Sag Harbor Court.

The Mercedes Trey Hughes had loaned to Van Zandt was parked in the driveway. In the visitor parking spots down the street, two men in s.h.i.+rts and ties sat in a dark Ford Taurus.

Feds.

I parked a couple of slots down from the sedan and approached the vehicle from the front. The guy in

the driver's seat rolled his window down. ”FYI guys,” I said, ”I saw him this morning driving a dark blue Chevy Malibu.” The driver stared at me with cop eyes. ”I'm sorry?” ”Tomas Van Zandt. That's who you're supposed to be sitting on, right?” They looked at each other, then back at me. ”Ma'am? Who are you?” the driver asked. ”I used to be a friend of that p.r.i.c.k Armedgian. Tell him I said that.” I left them sitting there like a couple of a.s.sholes, watching a car that probably hadn't left the driveway all day. Tomas Van Zandt was a free man. Until later . . . I put my gun on the pa.s.senger seat of my car and drove home to wait. There was no obvious sign of an intruder in the area of Sean's farm. I knew Sean would not have given Van Zandt the gate code. But my senses were humming just the same.