He nodded. “I understand.” He hesitated a moment, holding her gaze. “But putting all sentiment aside, you insured both horses and surely intend to collect on the policies if you can.”
A cold feeling moved up Samantha’s spine and lingered there. “I haven’t had time to contact the insurance company yet or think that far ahead. But, yes, both horses are insured, and I’ll definitely file claims. As you say, putting all sentiment aside, I’m running a business here, and I’ve invested a lot of money in both animals. The policies will barely cover my losses.”
“Really?” Galloway raised his eyebrows and chuckled dryly. “I’m sorry, but this is all foreign to me. It’s difficult to conceive how a horse could be worth more than my house.”
“Cilantro had champion bloodlines. She wasn’t an ordinary horse.”
“Ah,” he said. “That helps to explain it then.”
“Explain what?”
“Why you have the colt insured for so much. A hundred thousand dollars, isn’t it?”
Samantha had taken out the policy on Hickory just recently, and his estimated value was still fresh in her mind, allowing her to respond to the question with a positive, “Yes.”
“Is his value due to his mother’s bloodlines?”
“His dam’s,” she corrected. “And, yes, it’s due to the bloodlines of both dam and sire.” Samantha squeezed her father’s hand more tightly. She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. Galloway exhibited only polite curiosity, but the sharp intensity of his azure gaze told her he never wasted time on unimportant chitchat. There was a reason behind every question. “Just in case you’re wondering, it’s common practice to insure all the foals in a high-end stable.”
“Really?” Galloway frowned. “How many foals are in your stable right now?”
“Eight, counting Hickory, the foal we just buried.”
“Eight. I see.” His frown deepened. “Perhaps I missed something when I spoke with your insurance agent. I thought he told me that you had only one foal covered by an equine mortality rider. Is that correct?”
“Yes, only Hickory.”
“But didn’t you just tell me it’s common practice in a high-end stable to insure all the foals? Yet out of eight you insured only one, the foal that died last night.”
“I misspoke,” Samantha explained. “I should have said all valuable foals.”
“So your other foals aren’t valuable?”
“Yes, quite valuable. All of my horses are fine animals. But Hickory was a blue roan with the homozygous roan gene.”
“Stick to English, please.”
“Homozygous essentially means a double roan or lethal roan gene, coming from both his sire and dam. That made him quite rare. Hickory’s sire, Gorgonzola, commands ninety thousand a pop in stud fees, and his dam, Cilantro, dropped gorgeous foals, many of which became champions, making her extraordinarily valuable as well. In addition to that, I had genetic testing done on Hickory to verify his bloodlines.”
“I’ve seen lots of blue roans. It doesn’t seem to me they can be all that rare.”
“No,” Samantha corrected. “You think you’ve seen blue roans. They aren’t that common. Grays are often mistaken for blue roans by amateurs. True blue roans aren’t easy to breed, and blues like Hickory with the homozygous roan gene are particularly rare because until recently breeders believed that the fetus always died in utero. Only a few exceptions existed, and people were reluctant to try for a double roan for fear of losing their stud fee or possibly losing their mare to complications. For small-time breeders, there was also the financial blow of a missed season.”
“A missed season?”
“People with only one or two good broodmares often count on their foals for income. Mares carrying a foal with the lethal roan gene normally abort approximately five months into gestation, making it difficult, if not impossible, to get her with foal again that year.” Samantha lifted her hands. “That equates to no issue from the mare and no income until she goes into estrus again.”
“But you’ve been breeding foals with the lethal gene? I can only assume you’re more adventurous than most breeders?”
It was obvious to Samantha that this man had no idea who her father was and knew zip about horse breeding. “I’ve built my business around producing fine quarter horses, but my real success comes from my beautiful blue roans. In answer to your question, yes, I have been more adventurous than most, I suppose. My father taught me all I know about horses, and to achieve any acclaim, sometimes you have to gamble.”
“At the expense of your mares? What if Hickory had died in utero? Wasn’t there a chance that…Cilantro—was that her name?—might have had complications and died with him?”
“In Hickory’s case, the in-utero fatality theory had already been disproved when Cilantro was bred to Gorgonzola. A wonderful doctor, the late Ann Bowling of the University of California at Davis, did a study just shortly before her death that proved that an equine fetus with the homozygous roan gene isn’t doomed to die in utero.”
“So you felt safe breeding two blue roans together?” At Samantha’s nod, the detective asked, “And how about before the theory was proven to be false? Did you breed any other blue roans to have the lethal roan gene before you knew it wasn’t lethal?”
Samantha glanced at her father. “Yes.”
“What about your mares’ health?”
Frank Harrigan suddenly sat forward on his chair. “Where the hell is this goin’?”
The blond jerked at the sudden outburst and slopped coffee on his suit.
“If you’re accusin’ my daughter of somethin’,” Frank went on, “you’d best spit it out, because I’m fast runnin’ out of patience.”
“Dad,” Samantha whispered. To Galloway she said, “It’s difficult for my father to comprehend that the general public has no idea of the equine genetics that produce different colors—or the procedures that take place behind the scenes in top-notch stables. You asked a fair question, and I’ll try to answer it.”
“Please do.”
“Before the theory was disproved, the risk to Cilantro when bred to another blue roan was no greater than if she’d been bred to a black. Most of the time when a foal dies in utero, the mare simply aborts. That’s no harder on a mare and possibly even easier on her than if she dropped a healthy foal. Second, we aren’t backyard breeders. When we still believed a double roan foal might die in utero, we took every precaution with Cilantro’s health. During her pregnancies she was regularly examined to be sure her foal’s heartbeat was still strong. If the vet suspected at any time that the fetus had died, he would have induced labor, and Cilantro would have been fine.”
“Ah. So it was fairly safe all along.”
“Apart from unrelated complications that may occur during any equine gestation, it was absolutely safe except for the foal. Fortunately we never had an in-utero death. Long before the double roan theory was disproved, we suspected it was false because we’d had such success in our breeding programs.”
Galloway took a long swallow of ice water and then cleared his throat. In that instant his hard-edged expression softened, and he smiled genuinely for the first time. “I hope you’ll accept my apology, Mr. Harrigan. I meant no offense. It’s my job to ask questions, and half the time they’re stupid ones.”
Frank sat back on his chair. “Apology accepted.”
Galloway directed his gaze at Samantha again. “Speaking of vets, yours is named Coulter, correct?”
“Yes, Tucker Coulter.”
Galloway nodded. “We received a fax from him this afternoon—the official report on the deaths of your horses. We found it very interesting. Didn’t we, Detective James?”
The blond looked up from blotting his jacket. “Yeah, interesting. And informational.” He tossed down the napkin. “I never realized there were horses in Crystal Falls as valuable as yours—or that people actually insure horses for so much money. Famous racehorses, maybe, but not plain
old quarter horses.”
“There is nothing plain about my quarter horses,” Samantha reminded him.
“Right. I’m starting to get that.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from within his jacket, put it on the table, and slid it toward her. “That’s a copy of the vet’s report. You may want to go over it later.”
“I’m sure Tucker will supply me with my own copy.”
“Take it all the same. Maybe you’ll find it as illuminating as we did. This is my first case involving equine mortality insurance fraud.”
“Excuse me?” Samantha’s heart went still in her chest. “Did you say insurance fraud?”
The blond inclined his head at the report. “It clearly wasn’t a random act, Ms. Harrigan, and it definitely wasn’t perpetrated by teenagers. Coulter makes references to the first incident, involving two other horses, one doped with morphine, another with arsenic. He clearly states in the report that the guilty party has to know about horses and how they react to opiates. It’s also his opinion that the arsenic used to kill the horses last night had to be highly concentrated. Where does the average Joe get his hands on arsenic? Coulter speculates that the most likely source would be outdated swine or poultry feed, both of which were laced with arsenic to promote weight gain and growth. The practice has been outlawed here in the States, so far as he knows.” He pushed up from his chair. “Have you ever raised pigs on this ranch?”
Samantha’s father shoved up so suddenly from his seat that the chair went skidding backward. “All right, I’ve heard enough. I’ll kindly ask you gents to take your leave. The next time you want to speak to my daughter, call for an appointment. She’ll want to have her attorney present.”
“We’re finished questioning her for the moment,” Galloway replied. “Now we’d like permission to search the property.”
“For what?” her father demanded.
“Traces of arsenic,” the detective replied. “The vet clearly states in the report that the horses may have been fed outdated swine or poultry feed. We’ll be looking for that, or arsenic residue in the storage areas. We will also be taking grass samples in case the pastures were sprayed with an herbicide or insecticide containing arsenicals.”
“You can go straight to hell,” Frank bit out. “Not without a search warrant, you won’t.”
“Dad,” Samantha cried softly as she pushed up from the chair. “I have nothing to hide. If the detectives wish to search the property, why not let them?”
“Because it only stands to reason that they will find traces of arsenic somewhere,” Frank shot back. “Your horses were poisoned with the damned stuff.”
“We can drive back to town, ask a judge to sign a warrant, and be back here before dark,” Galloway inserted. To Frank he added, “You can delay the search, but you can’t stop it.”
Frank retorted, “True, but a warrant will specify where you can search and what you can search for, providing my daughter with at least some protection.”
“I don’t need protection,” Samantha insisted. “I’m not guilty of anything.” She moved to stand beside her father. “Someone killed my horses, Dad. I want to get to the bottom of this every bit as much as they do, and the faster, the better. Until the person’s caught, my horses will remain in danger.”
Frank sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “All right,” he finally agreed. “But you aren’t executing a search alone. I’m going with you.”
Samantha stood in the doorway. At the steps, her father turned to look at her. “This won’t take long.”
From the yard Galloway said, “It isn’t necessary for you to accompany us, Mr. Harrigan.”
“Damned if it ain’t.” Frank’s boots echoed on the planks as he descended the porch steps. “You think I don’t watch the news? All you cops care about is pinnin’ the crime on someone and makin’ yourselves look good. There’ll be no plantin’ of evidence on this property, I can guaran-ass-tee you that.”
Samantha felt weak at the knees. Turning back to the table, she resumed her seat and picked up the copy of Tucker’s report. Tears burned in her eyes as she scanned the paperwork. Time of death, probable cause of death, a list of the clinical evidence. Reading the information sharply reminded her of the horror she’d seen last night. As she went over Tucker’s concluding statements, her heart squeezed with regret that he’d been put into such an awful position, obligated to state the facts, even if they implicated a friend. She knew it must have pained him to type every word.
With trembling fingertips she touched the letters, imagining him at his computer and then sending the fax, his forehead creased in a frown, his jaw muscle ticking. A sad smile touched her mouth, for even in a report, he was honest to a fault.
Chapter Fourteen
By five o’clock that same afternoon, at her father’s behest, Samantha had hurriedly interviewed three local security companies via telephone and hired Hawkeye Security Services to patrol her ranch, starting immediately. It was Frank’s feeling that the entire property, including its perimeters, needed to be under constant surveillance until the individual who’d poisoned the horses had been caught. They couldn’t take the chance that someone might sneak onto Samantha’s land to spray the grazing pastures with arsenicals or contaminate the hay storage.
Samantha wasn’t sure how she felt about her place being protected by armed guards. Out of necessity, she had employees coming and going throughout the day, and she was reluctant to interrupt the horses’ normal routines. On the other hand, she and Jerome couldn’t possibly keep an eye on two hundred acres by themselves, and the safety of her animals had to be her top priority.
Hawkeye Security came highly recommended to Samantha’s father by his youngest brother, Hugh, an Oregon state policeman. According to Hugh, the firm not only provided more extensive training programs for their employees than most, but also supplied them with state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, including night-vision goggles and portable, battery-powered motion detectors and video cameras.
By six thirty that evening, armed strangers had descended upon the ranch and were rushing about, setting up camera surveillance and motion detectors. It fell to Samantha to help focus their efforts on key areas, all the places where her horses might be put out to graze and also on any outbuildings used for grain or hay storage. As a result, she was still outside at seven thirty, walking the property with Nona Redcliff, the security team’s senior officer, a slender but well-muscled young woman of Native American ancestry.
When they reached the hay shed, Samantha asked, “How, exactly, will cameras protect this area? Pictures or videotapes reviewed after the fact won’t stop someone from spraying my hay with poison.”
Nona motioned to a white van parked near the stable. “There’s an entire bank of monitors inside our van that picks up images via wireless transmission.” She crouched by the equipment that Chuck, a blond underling, had just deposited on the ground. As she untangled cords, she explained, “These cameras are motion-activated. The moment the electronic eyes detect movement anywhere near this structure, the cameras will come on and send images to a monitor in the van. The person watching the monitors”—she thumbed her khaki uniform shirt—“namely me, will determine if there’s a genuine threat. In short, Ms. Harrigan, if a mouse so much as twitches its tail near this hay, I’ll know it.” She swung her arm toward the farthest reaches of the ranch. “Same goes for the perimeters, except that the long-range motion detectors are marginally less sensitive and are also equipped with infrared heat detectors. A rabbit or small dog will be able to cross your fence lines, but any larger warm-blooded creature, animal or human, will trigger the detectors, alerting me in the van and transmitting real-time images onto my screens.”
“Do the cameras work well in the dark?”
Nona pushed erect. “After dark, they automatically switch into night mode. The images are weird-looking, sort of gray-green, but they’re clear enough.”
Samantha could only wonder how much all this electronic sur
veillance might cost. Luckily her father had offered to pick up the tab, and he had deep pockets. “Well, it certainly sounds as if you have everything under control.”
“Guaranteed,” Nona assured her. “Well, maybe I should rephrase that. There’ll be no more incidents on your ranch unless your perp is someone allowed to come and go—a friend, family member, or employee. That’s why we asked you to supply us with a list of all individuals you want allowed on the property. If you’ve forgotten anyone, just let me know and I’ll add the name.” At Samantha’s horrified look, Nona quickly added, “I’m not suggesting it’s someone you know and trust, only that there’s always that possibility. All the high-tech surveillance equipment in the world can’t protect your animals from an inside job.”
“I understand.” Samantha mentally went back over the list of names. “Did I mention Dee Dee, our cleaning lady? Her daughter just gave birth to her first grandchild, and she’s been out of town for about a month. I’m not sure when she’ll be coming home, but when she does, I don’t want her to be hassled. She’s like a mother to me.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s on the list, but I’ll double-check,” Nona promised.
“Where do you want this?” Chuck asked, holding up a black box with dangling cords.
Nona started to excuse herself but stopped midsentence and narrowed her gaze on a green Dodge truck that had just parked beside the surveillance van. “Who’s that?”
Samantha smiled. “My vet, Tucker Coulter. He’s definitely on your list—right at the top, if I remember right.”
Nona drew her two-way from her belt, keyed the mike, and spoke briefly with another guard who stood sentry at the arena personnel door, telling him that the vet should be allowed inside. Samantha considered walking over to the stable to say hello to Tucker, but her stomach rumbled with hunger and she had the weak shakes. She hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. Talking with Tucker would have to wait.