| |
Life was fucking great, thought Thomas Brady, grinning as yet another person he passed gave him a thumbs-up. He’d read the girl’s article when she’d sent him the link the night before, and good thing for her, she’d kept all the names out of it. Little bitch hadn’t done a bad job, either. She said he’d inherited the best of Irish and American horsemanship, called him the Bloodline Whisperer of horse racing.
Guess she couldn’t print that he was the god of who should fuck who. His grin widened at his own irony, because before he was done, he’d make sure he fucked over all the movers and shakers who looked down their nose at him, too.
“Thomas,” called out a looker with long suntanned legs that went clear up to her—
“Ma’am.” He hated that term, but it was necessary in this business. Sometimes, the women held the purse strings, but this one looked like a well-polished piece of arm candy.
She came toward him, hips swinging, and breasts bulging out the top of her shirt. Yeah, some guy was lucky to have this one wrapped around him.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Visions of naked skin flashed through his head, but he still couldn’t come up with a name.
“We met in Hawaii. You oiled my back.”
His dick twitched. He’d like to oil her front right now. With his tongue. “I took sick in Hawaii and don’t have much memory of the trip.” He held out a hand, and when she took it, pulled her in. And froze when he heard a deep voice from behind her ask, “Grace, where are you going?”
Thomas took a quick glance and was nearly blinded by the rock on her left hand. Married. But those were the most fun. He tickled her palm as he relaxed his grip and turned his attention to the tall, tanned, and fit man striding toward them.
Brady cleared his throat. “I have a lovely colt I was hoping you and Grace would take a look at. He’s probably not a good fit for a high end stable like yours, but you never know, right?”
He led them to his barn, and had the boy bring the horse out for them.
“Oh, Logan, isn’t he pretty?”
Ah, there it was. Now he had the guy’s name and wouldn’t have to ask. Always better when a buyer thought you recognized him.
“Hmm,” was all her husband said as he walked around the colt. He spread his hand under the throatlatch, and felt both front legs as though he knew what he was doing. Then he had the groom lead it away from him, and back.
Thomas stood very close to Grace, while her husband inspected the horse. Brushing against her shoulder, flicking a few looks her way, but she wasn’t biting.
At least he got to watch her ass when they eventually walked away, and he was soon distracted as things were about to get underway.
By the time his first horse went into the sales ring, things had warmed up nicely. Money and champagne were flowing.
He slipped into a seat in the pavilion, and watched the rhythm of the spotters. Made a couple of low bids to make sure they knew he was live and to keep an eye on him. When the hammer fell with a resounding, “Sold! Your man, Chuck.” Thomas smiled.
Warm-up was complete.
He ran the bidding up on his own consignments and with the help of a handful of friends, he brought in an easy three quarters of a million dollars. Twenty percent of that would go into his own pocket. Well worth the five grand he’d paid his bidding helpers.
When he arrived home that night, he stood and stared at the house. Nice, but not good enough. No way in hell was it good enough for Thomas Brady.
Tomorrow would be the day. The day when Hip four-twenty-seven changed everything for Thomas Brady—and the world better watch the fuck out.
On day two, the sales pavilion hummed with activity. Grace sat beside Logan, front and center, where everyone could see them, and Angie waited at the back.
Minutes before Brady’s colt was due in the ring, Angie slipped into the seat beside him and crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up.
“Hi, Mr. Brady,” she whispered, as the announcer talked about the horse currently up for auction. “Did you read the article?”
“Hey, Amy. Yeah, it was good.”
“Angela.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, Angela. Nice,” he said, staring at her lap.
“I wanted to be here when your special colt went through. Do you have a reserve on him?”
“Of course.”
She flipped the page of her catalogue over and held her pen at the ready. “What is it?”
His focus moved to her face, quick and sharp, until she caught her tongue between her teeth and he swallowed.
“The reserve? For my notes, Mr. Brady.”
He cleared his throat. “I, ah, can’t say. It’s unethical.”
“Oh.” She stuck her bottom lip out and crossed her legs the other way. Watching his reaction was so much fun that she played with him, squirming in her seat a few times, and making noises in the back of her throat, but had to stop when the laughter she was fighting nearly broke free. “Oh, look. Isn’t that your colt coming in now?”
He blinked then turned his attention to the auctioneer.
Perfect.
Bidding opened at a hundred thousand and quickly skipped up to a million where it stalled. The announcer worked the crowd with comments like “solid bottom line,” and “a promising freshman sire,” before things picked up again, but the bid increments had dropped to five thousand, until they finally stalled out.
Brady, with a smug smile on his face, held the last bid of a million four, and the gavel was about to come down. Angie, fighting a smile of her own, turned slightly toward him and watched his reaction when Logan boldly flashed six fingers, and the lights on the board flashed one million, six hundred thousand.
Thomas bolted upright, his gaze tracking the stands as though trying to find who was bidding against him.
“Wow. Fantastic,” she said. “You’re headed for two million, Thomas. Nice work.”
His jaw was clenched as tight as his fists, and his skin went an ugly dark red.
“Hey, Mr. Brady, the spotter’s trying to get your attention. Do you need to bid to get over your reserve?”
He shook his head.
There was a stir in the room when the auctioneer cried, “Sold!”
Thomas stared as the sales rep passed the clipboard with the form for the winning bidder to Logan. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong, Mr. Brady?”
Without another word, he stormed out of the pavilion. She followed and when he was intercepted by a guy in a dark blue suit, she wasn’t surprised to see Thomas strike fast and hard with the same quick jab he’d used on the horse yesterday.
Thankful she was wired for audio and video, she said, “Get security on him, now, guys.”
How the fuck had it gone wrong? The colt wasn’t worth half that fucking price, and now the whole deal was... Where the fuck was he going to get the money to pay back the fucking guy who’d bought the fucking horse before the sale?
He kicked a white plastic bucket, and sent it flying into next week. “What the fuck are you staring at, asshole?” He stomped after a groom who’d disappeared into a dimly lit shedrow.
“Stop. I need to stop and fucking think.” He crammed his fists into his pockets and marched toward his own barn. What kind of a moron paid that kind of money for a horse with no pedigree? Did the guy simply buy it for the hot bitch on his arm? Maybe there was some way to undo...
If he got to the guy before he paid, the sale could be voided.
He spun and headed back the way he’d come. A million, six. He’d get twenty percent for the first five-hundred thousand, and fifty percent for the rest. His take-home would be six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The deal he’d worked out beforehand—where the mark was paying a mil three—there was a payback of the three, then the split with the owner, and Thomas’s cut in the end would be three-fifty.
But the mark’s mil had to be repaid somehow. That meant he’d be out three-fifty and fucked for the down payment he needed.
Banging his head against the wall or slamming a fist into one, wasn’t an option. He had to keep his nose clean around here. And there you go, perfect fucking timing. There was the hot bitch with her idiot husband, making their way to see their purchase, no doubt. He’d have to suck it up and get them to change their minds.
He’d rather bend her over a feed barrel and fuck her blind.
“Thomas, we bought your colt.” Jesus, her voice was screechy like an excited teenager.
The husband didn’t look nearly as pleased, and that could work in Thomas’s favor.
“If you haven’t paid yet, we can have him run back through,” he said. “People get caught up in the bidding sometimes and spend more than they intended.”
“Logan already paid,” Grace said, still clinging to his arm. “It’s a done deal. I just can’t wait until—” She frowned. “What’s his name?”
“We call him Slick, but you’ll get to choose a racing name for him.”
She nodded. “Oh, I’ll pick him a fabulous name, and I’ll have silks designed just for him.”
What would this bitch know about naming a Thoroughbred? Some poor announcer would be doomed to saying, “It’s Bambi’s Snookie Bear, by a nose,” while the poor jockey decked out in pink and purple ruffles, rode across the wire.
One glance at her pussy-whipped sidekick and Thomas nearly shit his pants. Christ, it was like the guy had read his mind. Keeping sight of the big man’s clenched fists, Thomas scooted backwards. “Colt’s in the second stall if you wanna check on him. I gotta get back up to the sales ring.” And get the hell outta Dodge. He needed a drink and a fucking change of scenery.
#
Back in Texas, in the Meyers secondary boardroom, Jake taped another huge piece of newsprint to the wall. On this one, was a list of places Thomas Brady had worked in the last nine years. Each farm would be investigated.
The other pages tacked up around the room bore lists of stallions, mares, and foals that he’d had contact with. Piles of printouts covered the center of the long table.
Thomas’s link with the horse on the plane was as damning as his connection with Vedigan Way. Now, every horse the crooked bastard had had anything to do with would be checked out so Meyers could help the feds build a solid case against him.
The Registry, the agency responsible for Thoroughbred registration records, had come on board fast and furious, determined to stop the alleged abuse of their system, and anxious to repair even the most miniscule of loopholes in their process.
DNA testing, introduced a few years earlier, was supposed to have eliminated any possibility of fraudulent registration. But with thousands of foals born each year and millions of dollars constantly changing hands, there would always be a criminal element to stay a step in front of. Now, the agency would be putting boots on the ground to verify births, obtain DNA samples, and utilize micro-chip technology. A massive undertaking.
And speaking of size, thought Jake, just look at the way Quinn’s wife maneuvered that huge belly—graceful, despite looking like she’d swallowed a watermelon.
“Why are you staring at me?” asked Rachel.
“Can’t figure out how you lug those kids around without tipping over.”
She grinned. “It’s easy at moments like this when they’re sleeping. But playtime can throw me off balance.”
“Playtime?”
“I swear they’re doing back flips and cartwheels in here sometimes,” she said, resting both hands on her middle. “We get any answers back from Ireland?”
“Nope.”
She lowered herself onto a chair. “You don’t expect them to verify Brady’s identification because you think his story and accent are phony.”
“True. But now that we can’t find any data on him before two thousand and five,” he tapped one stack of paper, “I’m starting to wonder.”
“Any word back from Interpol?”
“Samuels said he’d hit some unusual roadblocks.”
“What’s your gut saying?”
“Fake with a capital F.” He shoved a hand through his hair and met Rachel’s gaze. “And Tara knows a lot more than she’s telling us.”
“Well, she did say as much when she gave you the first bunch of lists last winter.”
“Yeah. Made it seem as if there was information buried in what she was sharing, but it’s more than that.”
Rachel trapped him with a look. “Must be tough for you not to trust her when your heart’s involved.”
Quinn strode into the room. “New message from Samuels.” He leaned down and kissed Rachel. “They’ve located Thomas Brady’s family in Ireland. According to them, he traveled to Canada to live with a family friend at the age of fourteen. Took off from there a couple months later. Wrote a few letters saying he’d found a pot of gold in America. But now it’s been over forty years since they’ve heard from him, which makes them think he’s hiding from Immigration.”
“So what Jake thought was a fake accent could be the result of trying to mask his accent for years, then dredging it up again because it’s useful now and sounds fashionable,” said Rachel.
“True,” said Quinn. “And he’s hard for us to track because he has fake papers, and a talent for staying under the radar. Was there anything in his financials for travel outside the country?”
“Nothing. Not even Mexico or Canada.” Rachel smiled. “He does however fly frequently within the US, so I’d say he has no fear of flying, but doesn’t have a passport, so international travel isn’t possible.” She went to work on the keyboard in front of her.
“He could be traveling under a different name.” Jake knew this wasn’t easy since nine-eleven, but far from impossible. “Especially if our guy isn’t really Thomas Brady and has a legal persona that includes ID and credit cards.”
Quinn nodded. “Precisely why Interpol asked the Irish family for DNA samples.”
“And?”
“They were more than happy to comply. They want answers too. All we need now is a sample from Brady to do a comparison.”
“I don’t think we need DNA,” said Rachel and she pointed to where she’d put three photos up on a wall screen. “Brady and his parents. What do you think?”
Jake went closer then shook his head. “His parents have blue eyes.”
“Exactly. And our Thomas Brady has brown.”