Liz let them argue a few moments, her head cocked as if trying to sort out what they were saying. Hoping to pick up something incriminating without interrupting the natural course of their fight? Clever, but only if they didn’t mangle what they had to say with pitch and volume so aggressive the meaning got lost.
That was the truth in my case. I managed to register a few choice accusations, including botched competitions, inferior horses and something to do with Violet’s seat, whatever that meant. Maybe Liz, more practiced at this sort of thing, managed to glean details from the mess of their screaming match, but if the growing frown on her face was any indicator, she wasn’t enjoying the experience either.
Finally, clearly fed up and with her full on authority showing in the set of her shoulders, the FBI agent at my side interjected with a piercing whistle produced by two fingers between her full lips.
Gretchen and Alphonse both fell instantly silent, though they glared at her like she had no right to interrupt before they realized they were doing so at a federal agent. Their expressions altered almost on cue to each other, rather comical if it hadn’t been a murder investigation.
Supposed murder. Blah.
“You,” Liz jabbed a finger at Alphonse, “lost your job as head coach here because of Ms. Canty. Correct?”
He nodded, sullen and closed off. “She fabricated lies about me,” he said, inhaling in an obvious attempt to list said lies. Like we cared. Didn’t.
Liz waved him off, pivoting toward Gretchen. “And you and Miss Canty had a falling out over her coaching practices at one point, I seem to recall.”
The facility manager grimaced. “That wasn’t public knowledge.”
I hadn’t heard that little tidbit, either. Was that what their fight had been about? Liz didn’t make a big deal of it, shrugging. “People talk, Dr. Latrell,” she said. “Especially if you speak their language. And as a fellow rider, I guess I qualify as trustworthy.” I was not going to remind myself I’d spent the first part of this whole investigation being blocked by everyone I tried to talk to and refused to let bitterness about it seep in, especially against Liz. Still. How much else had she uncovered because she didn’t have a giant anti-Patterson sign hanging around her neck?
Right, because she had such an easy time as an agent getting people to talk. And wasn’t trained and experienced and, like she said, tied to the show jumping world enough she used all her talent and skill to pull information out of those who didn’t want to talk to her.
Sour grapes, Fleming.
Liz paused, squinting past the both of them as if thinking, though I was certain she knew exactly what she planned to say long before she said it and had this whole conversation firmly under control. “This is common practice, though, I’m aware of that. Riders switch coaches all the time.”
It was? They did? News to me. But Alphonse was nodding.
“I didn’t care I lost my position,” he said, sniffing and elevating that wide nose of his, the snot. “I had no trouble finding a private coaching position and the flexibility and proper compensation my expertise provides.”
“You get paid more as a private coach?” So, unless prestige was on the menu for motive, he had no reason to kill Melina. At least, over losing his job. But what other reason was there?
“I do indeed,” he said. When Liz didn’t argue I guessed he was telling the truth.
Gretchen, unhappy as she appeared, backed him up, too. “We paid you what you were worth, Alphonse. The fact you convinced Sarah Shard’s sponsors to cover your exorbitant fee is on them, not this facility.”
But wait, didn’t the Pattersons own the center? Sniff, sniff. Smelled less horsey and more fishy around here by the minute.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Alphonse drew himself up like we’d offended him instead of caught him digging in an active investigation, “I have a rider to coach.”
Gretchen frowned after him before beginning her pursuit and while perhaps I should have gone after them to try to overhear what was likely to be a continuation of their argument, Liz’s hand on my arm held me back.
“I’m not convinced this whole job thing is the motive,” she said, low and soft. “Considering riders switch out their coaches all the time… it’s a competitive sport. And despite being an ass, a coach who’s sent as many riders to the Olympics as Alphonse Brunbaugh has is in high demand.” She shook her head. “So, if not, then who had reason to kill Melina Canty?”
My phone rang and I immediately answered it, putting Dr. Aberstock on speakerphone so Liz could hear what he had to say.
“Sorry to take so long,” he said, sounding like his cheery self despite the apology. “The forensics lab is backed up. Some kind of issue in Perfection.” The so-called “perfect American town” that had Olivia worked up since they’d started only recently trying to hijack her tourism slogan for their own uses? Two bergs over, it fell under the same jurisdiction. Before I could ask what was up, the doc went on. “Turns out you have a murder, not that you’re surprised to hear it.” He chuckled like he’d made a joke, not confirmed someone had killed someone else for reasons yet uncovered. “Let me see.” The sound of papers rustling was followed by, “Ah, yes. Here we are. Melina Canty died from cardiac arrest brought on by a ketamine overdose.”
“Ketamine?” Liz jumped on that right away while my brain tried to figure out where I’d heard that name before. “The tranquilizer?”
“Anesthetic, actually,” Dr. Aberstock said. “That’s a common misconception. Ketamine is used to sedate, not relax.” Huh. “Whoever attacked Ms. Canty wasn’t fooling around. The typical dose for a horse, according to the report, is 2.2 milligrams per kilogram of body weight. He grunted slightly. “Apologies for the metric.” Greek. He was speaking Greek. But Liz was nodding so I didn’t interrupt. “The dose in her body? Enough to put a 1000 pound horse to sleep.”
“And enough to kill her, apparently.” Liz was chewing her lower lip.
“Stopped her heart,” he said. “Likely knocked her out within seconds before it suppressed her muscular ability to contract. Effectively suffocating her while inducing cardiac arrest.”
Wait, I knew where I’d heard of ketamine before. “Isn’t it a date rape drug?” Were we dealing with something much more insidious?
But the agent at my side, while agreeing with a nod, didn’t look worried. “Tranks and sedatives are used in dosing horses,” she said. “Most, if not all, are illegal in the showjumping circuit. Though why would you use something as strong as ketamine on a show horse? What kind of benefit would you get from knocking it out?”
Dr. Aberstock made a soft, unidentifiable sound. “No idea,” he said. “That, my dear indomitable policewomen, is your job to figure out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other bodies who need my attention.”
I hung up while Liz pulled out her own phone. She scanned what looked like a text message before looking up and meeting my eyes, hers tight with anger. It was so rare to see Liz mad—had I, even, ever?—I paid close attention when she spoke.
“According to my contact, there have been cases of sabotage, where horses who previously performed outstandingly have been showing behavioral issues in the ring to the point their riders and coaches are abandoning their rides because of danger to themselves and others.”
“What does that have to do with ketamine?” I was about to do a search engine investigation when Liz beat me to it.
“Danton? My rider friend?” She pointed at the screen of her phone. “Guess what he says is one of the major side effects of sedation in a horse.”
Seriously? “Behavioral issues?”
She nodded, grim and clearly upset. “Nervousness, manageability problems, focus and attention deficit.” Liz put her phone away, face creased in a scowl. “You know, every time I think people can’t lower their estimation in my eyes? They find ways to be even more disgusting.” Her dark hair shimmered as she shook her head. “These animals are athletes, but they are innocent. They carry their riders out of love and their own passion for the sport. They’ve done nothing and yet, some asshat jerkoff is using drugs to hurt them.” So someone was a huge animal lover. Not that I wasn’t. But whoa. “You’d better catch whoever it is who did this first, Fee,” she snarled then. “Because if I do? I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
Okay then. “How about we find the killer first,” I said. “And then we can decide who gets to do what and in what order.”
She growled something under her breath before nodding abruptly, right hand resting on the handle of her gun. I was very, very glad in that moment I wasn’t the target of her upset. Because day-um.
Agent Michaud was gangsta.
“The question remains,” I said as we turned and entered Melina’s office, Liz closing the door behind us, “did the victim catch someone dosing a horse and was attacked and had the ketamine injected to shut her up?”
“Or,” the agent said as she crossed to Melina’s desk, “was she doing the doping and was caught in a struggle with a person who tried to stop her.” She shrugged. “The end result is the same. But you’re right about one thing. Knowing who was responsible might help us narrow down who to take a closer look at.” She gestured at the desk. “Let’s see if we can find some answers.”
Liz appeared to have taken firm hold of her temper again. It felt oddly comforting to know she wasn’t the perfect and all-powerful FBI agent I’d been building her up to be, despite knowing she was only human. On the other hand, seeing her temper told me more than ever we were kindred spirits.
I’d take it.
***