At four I went out and fed the horses. By five I had showered. It had been so long since I'd had to introduce myself to people and care about what they thought of me that I couldn't remember how to go about it. I couldn't shake the idea that I would be rejected on sight, or if not on sight, on reputation.
What a strange conceit to believe everyone in the world knew all about me, all about what I'd done and what had happened to end my career. I had been a story on the evening news for a couple of days. A sound bite. Something to fill the airtime before the weather came on. The truth was probably that no one not directly involved with what had happened, no one not living in that world of cops, had given the story more than the most cursory attention. The truth is that people seldom really care about the catastrophic events of someone else's life beyond thinking, "Better her than me."
I stood in my underwear, staring at myself in the mirror. I put some gel in my hair and tried to make it look as if it had an intentional style. I wondered if I should attempt makeup. I hadn't worn any since the surgery to put my face back together. My plastic surgeon had given me the card of a woman who specialized in postsurgical makeup. The Post-Traumatic Avon Lady. I had thrown the card away.
I dressed, discarding a dozen different choices and finally settling on a sleeveless silk blouse the color of fresh-poured concrete and a pair of brown trousers that were so big around the waist, I had to pin them shut to keep them from sliding down my hips.
I used to care about fashion.
I killed some time on the Internet, chewed my nails, and made some notes.
I found nothing of interest on Tomas Van Zandt. His name did not appear even on his own Web site: worldhorsesales.com. The site listed on his business card showed photos of horses that had been brokered through Van Zandt's business. Phone numbers were listed for a business office in Brussels, a number for European sales, and for two U.S. subagents, one of whom was Don Jade.
I found several articles about Paris Montgomery in the Chronicle of the Horse and Horses Daily describing recent wins in the showring, talking about her humble beginnings riding ponies bareback in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. According to the propaganda, she had worked her way up the ranks from groom to working student to assistant trainer; succeeding on hard work and raw talent. And charm. And the fact that she could have been a model.
She had been Don Jade's assistant trainer for three years and was so grateful for the opportunity, blah, blah, blah. So few people realized what a great guy he really was. He'd been unfortunate to do business with some people of questionable ethics, but shouldn't be condemned by association, et cetera, et cetera. Jade was quoted as saying Paris Montgomery had a bright future and the ambition and talent to attain whatever she set her sights on.
Photographs with the articles showed Montgomery going over a fence on a horse called Park Lane, and close-ups of her flashing the big smile.
The smile irritated me. It was too bright and came too easily. The charm seemed insincere. Then again, I'd only just met her for ten minutes. Maybe I didn't like her because I couldn't smile and wasn't charming.
I flipped the screen shut on my laptop and went outside. Dawn was a pale notion on the edge of the eastern sky as I let myself into Sean's house through the French doors into the dining room. He was alone in bed, snoring. I sat down beside him and patted his cheek. His eyelids pulled slowly upward, revealing a lot of red veins. He rubbed a hand over his face.
"I was hoping for Tom Cruise," he said in a voice full of gravel.
"Sorry to disappoint. If a horse dealer named Van Zandt comes around, my name is Elle Stevens and you're looking for a groom."
"What?" He pushed himself upright and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "Van Zandt? Tomas Van Zandt?"
"You know him?"
"I know of him. He's the second-biggest crook in Europe. Why would he come here?"
"Because he thinks you might buy horses from him."
"Why would he think that?"
"Because I pretty much led him to believe it."
"Uh!!"
"Don't look offended," I said. "That expression emphasizes the lines around your mouth."
"Bitch."
He pouted for a moment, then caught himself and rubbed his hands over his face-outward and upward from his mouth. The ten-second face-lift. "You know I already have a European connection. You know I only work with Toine."
"Yes, I know. The last honest horse dealer."
"The only one in the history of the world, as far as I know."
"So let Van Zandt think he's wooing you away from Toine. He'll have an orgasm. If he comes around, pretend you're interested. You owe me."
"I don't owe you that much."
"Really?" I said. "Thanks to you, I now have a client and a career I didn't want."
"You'll thank me later."
"I'll exact my revenge later." I leaned over and patted his stubbled cheek again. "Happy horse dealing."
He groaned.
"And, by the way," I said, pausing at the door. "He thinks I'm a Palm Beach dilettante and that I'm leasing D'Artagnon from you."
"I'm supposed to keep this all straight?"
I shrugged. "What else have you got to do with your time?"
I was almost out the bedroom door when he spoke again.
"El…"
I turned back toward him, one hand on the door frame. He looked at me, uncharacteristically serious, a certain softness in his expression. He wanted to say something kind. I wanted him to pretend this day was like any other. We each seemed fully aware of the other's thoughts. I held my breath. One side of his mouth lifted in a smile of concession.
"Nice outfit," he said.
I waved at him and left the house.
M olly Seabright lived in a two-story stucco house on the edge of a development called Binks Forest. Upscale. Backyard on a fairway. A white Lexus in the drive. There were lights on in the house. The hardworking upper middle class preparing to face another day. I parked down the street and waited.
At seven-thirty kids in the neighborhood began drifting out of their homes and wandering past me toward the school bus stop at the end of the block. Molly emerged from the Seabright house pulling a wheeled book bag behind her, looking like a miniature corporate exec on her way to catch a plane. I got out of my car and leaned back against it with my arms crossed. She spotted me from twenty feet away.
"I've reconsidered," I said as she stopped in front of me. "I'll help you find your sister."
She didn't smile. She didn't jump for joy. She stared up at me and said, "Why?"
"Because I don't like the people your sister was mixed up with."
"Do you think something bad has happened to her?"
"We know something has happened to her," I said. "She was here and now she isn't. Whether or not it's something bad remains to be seen."
Molly nodded at that, apparently pleased I hadn't tried to falsely reassure her. Most adults speak to children as if they're stupid simply because they haven't lived as many years. Molly Seabright wasn't stupid. She was smart and she was brave. I wasn't going to talk down to her. I had even decided not to lie to her if I could help myself.
"But if you're not a private investigator, what good are you?" she asked.
I shrugged. "How hard can it be? Ask a few questions, make a few phone calls. It's not brain surgery."
She considered my answer. Or maybe she was considering whether or not to say what she said next. "You were a sheriff's detective once."
I might have been that stunned if she had reached up and hit me in the head with a hammer. I who wouldn't talk down to a child. It hadn't occurred to me Molly Seabright would run home and do her own detective work online. I felt suddenly naked, exposed in that way I had earlier convinced myself was unlikely to happen. Blindsided by a twelve-year-old.