I'd heard of one other Harrison. A name from the past. James Peters' past. "What's your father's name?"
She frowned. "John, Sr. Why?"
"Does he go by a nickname?" I said.
"Most people call him Buddy."
I gestured toward her tote. "What's T amp;T stand for?" I'd seen the logo somewhere before but couldn't place it.
Her hands clutched at the straps, and I had a sudden impression she was holding her breath. She glanced at the blue and gold letters. "I don't know. I got this from a friend."
Elsa excused herself, and as I watched her push through the door into the lounge, I remembered what Gene had said about Sanders. That he'd boarded his horse with Harrison before he'd moved it to Foxdale. Then, at the party, Sanders and Robby had argued, and I would have loved to have known what it had been about.
"I'm glad you're back," Mrs. Hill said before the receiver had come fully to rest in the cradle. She leaned back, and her chair's springs squeaked under the strain. "Mr. Ambrose has hired a security service."
"You're kidding?"
She shook her head and smiled broadly. "Someone will report in each night around ten and leave at six. Can you meet him tonight and show him around?"
"Sure. Will he be armed?"
"No." She picked up a piece of hard candy and rolled it between her fingers. "And think of any instructions you want to give him."
I stepped outside, paused, then leaned back into the office.
Mrs. Hill looked up from her paperwork.
"Thanks," I said.
She beamed at me, then waved me off.
I walked down to the barns and found that the crew was in the middle of turnouts. I led a bay gelding into the farthest paddock and turned him to face the gate. He stood perfectly still, his noble head held high as he waited for me to release him. When I slipped the chain from his halter, he wheeled around. His hindquarters bunched, and he propelled himself away from me, stretching full out, his hooves kicking up clods of earth. I draped the lead over my shoulder and walked back up the hill.
As I neared the barns, the scent of freshly-mown grass and damp soil was replaced by the sharp odor of horses and the lighter fragrance of liniments that drifted from the wash racks. It occurred to me, then, that I hadn't felt this carefree in weeks. We now had a guard, and I assumed it was only a matter of time before Ralston had someone in custody.
After the last horse had been turned out, I drove to the construction site's wide dirt entrance. Dozers, backhoes, loaders, and a scraper or two were parked in a line beyond the trailer office. Sunday afternoon, the door was locked up tight, the equipment idle. I left the truck running and crossed the rough ground to the sign at the edge of the road. "Huntfield Estates," it read. "Luxury homes on one to three acre lots." It went on to list details, options, a 1-800 number, and in the lower right hand corner, "T amp;T Industries" was printed in blue and gold.
First Elsa's bag, now this. Yet, I was certain I'd seen it before. But where?
After work, I made it to the library five minutes before they locked the doors for the night. When I got home, I picked up the phone and flipped through the pages of my notebook until I found the number for James Peters' nephew. I punched in his number.
When he answered, I told him who I was and said, "Do you remember the name of the company that's developing the land that used to belong to your uncle?"
"No. Not offhand. Some kind of initials. Oh, wait a sec. There was something about the name, made me think of… Oh, yeah. Something to do with explosives. Something like that."
I exhaled through my mouth. "T amp;T Industries?"
"Yeah." I could almost see him nod. "That's it."
Despite having been up all of Saturday night, I spent most of Sunday night lying awake in the dark. Around three in the morning, I woke from a restless sleep and remembered where I'd first seen T amp;T Industries.
When I called Detective Ralston at seven o'clock Monday morning, I was told he was unavailable. I left a message for him to call me ASAP and got through the morning's work on auto pilot. During my lunch break, the phone rang in the office, and the answering machine picked up. I half-listened to a voice I didn't recognize. It took me a second to realize the message was for me and that the voice belonged to Ralston. I swallowed the last bite of my ham and cheese sandwich and snatched up the phone.
"Steve here."
"Officer Dorsett told me you mailed out a bunch of letters about the truck and trailer last week," Ralston said.
"Yeah, but-"
"You shouldn't have done that," he snapped.
"What does it matter? We found the trailer."
There was a long pause before he said, "I wish you'd talked to me first because I don't think Drake's trailer's the one."
"It is. I'm one-hundred-percent certain. Have you found him yet?"
"Maybe it is the trailer, but we haven't found the men who are behind it, and that letter was just plain stupid."
I clenched the phone cord in my hand. I wanted to scream that somebody had to do something, that he didn't know shit about what it felt like to be a target. I clamped down on my anger and said, "What about Drake? Have you talked to him?"
"I just finished interviewing him. He has an iron-clad alibi which I've already verified with his C.O. Every weekend a trailer was used in a theft, he was on duty."
"What about what happened in Pennsylvania?"
"He backed up his fishing trip with receipts for gas, food, and lodging. He was in West Virginia, all right."
"So," I heard the bite in my voice but didn't care, "he's lending the trailer to a buddy."
"That's a possibility I'm working on. But I tell you, Steve, it doesn't feel like it. In your own words, 'the guy's clueless.'"
"Who's the trailer registered to?"
Papers rustled in the background. "Laura Anne Covington, Drake's girlfriend. Mean anything to you?"
"No." I sat on the edge of Mrs. Hill's desk. "But I know who owns the truck-"
"What?"
"— and I think I know why they're going after Foxdale." After a brief pause, I said, "Do you remember a guy named Sanders, one of the owners who had his horse stolen back in February?"
"Yes."
"I'm pretty sure he arranged for the theft or at least made sure his horse was targeted by the thieves." I told Ralston how he'd owned a horse that was stolen from a Carroll County farm, and how I suspected that the same horse had ended up at Foxdale two years later where it was stolen again. "He's been making a habit of scamming insurance companies, and I bet I know who helped him. In between the Carroll County farm and Foxdale, he boarded his horse with our hay dealer, John Harrison. Harrison's not above pulling scams of his own."
I told him how he and his brother had doctored the hay invoices and that their own sister had warned me that they were dangerous. "Her name's Elsa Timbrook. I checked the files at the library. Her husband is part owner of a land development company called T amp;T Industries. Remember when you said that the obvious is often the most likely?"
"Yeah."
"Well, Foxdale sits on five-hundred prime acres that back up to the Patuxent River State Park, and-"
"The same park where Peters' body was found," Ralston said.
"Yeah. Eighteen miles northwest from here. I checked, but I think that was just a coincidence or an indicator that they know the area. Anyway, over the past year or so, realtors have been pressuring Foxdale to sell. The farm next door already sold out and is being developed by-"
"T amp;T Industries," Ralston said.
"Yep."
"And the truck?"
"T amp;T industries owns a white, dual-axle pickup. It was on your MVA list."
Ralston snorted.
"My guess is that Mr. Timbrook, knowing full well what kind of scum his wife's brothers are, went to them when he needed someone to damage Foxdale in an effort to force the owner to sell out. And if Harrison's been teaming up with Sanders in the insurance swindles like I think he has, it would only be natural for him to fall back on stealing horses as a way to shake up the boarders. Only problem is, Timbrook didn't bargain on running into an owner who couldn't care less if his profit margin went down the tubes. And guess what?"