Jack King - False Blood

1:47 a.m., June 12, 2001

The temperature hovered just below 80 degrees. The early morning air was bone dry and unusually still. For Dwayne McDavid, the very wealthy owner of the plush M Circle D Ranch, the last two days had been a welcome respite from the massive flooding and howling winds of Tropical Storm Allison, which had hammered Houston and the outlying areas the previous week.

There had been some water damage to the little house and to the adjacent end of the stables, which fortunately had been unoccupied by any equestrian guests at the time. A bigger issue was that the storm had played havoc with the alarm system. McDavid had not been informed of that problem until yesterday afternoon.

He had been livid. Lunch time was the earliest an electrician could come out to inspect the security setup.

The lack of any breeze whatsoever offset the absence of humidity, and it felt hotter than what was displayed by the 1936 vintage metal outdoor thermometer mounted on the center pole of the long awning structure fronting the immaculate, whitewashed stables.

It was deathly quiet, too.

Except for two noisy mockingbirds and one mournful owl off in the nearby brooding woodland shadows, there was total silence. Not even the sounds of crickets, frogs, small nocturnal animals, and normally noisy insects could be heard in the predawn.

Suddenly, the sound of tires could be heard, crunching slowly down the lightly graveled road that bordered the red cedar split-rail and western-style fence. The truck carefully approached, its lights out, until it came to a soft stop in the darkness parallel to the horse stables looming on the right inside the compound.

The vehicle had a large horse trailer attached.

Three figures emerged from the truck, two with chainsaws. They began speedily cutting adjoining fenceposts close to the ground. It took less than ten seconds for them to take down the slender pieces of lumber and quietly lay the three rails on the emerald-green grass beside the posts.

The small live-in cottage for the one hostler was located at the other end of the elongated structure. And it was well-known among the well-heeled rodeo and equestrian enthusiasts of the area that old Bob, originally from Tucson and a retired former bronc buster with a body full of aches and pains, loved to bend the elbowa lotafter hours.

The figures rightly assumed he was dead to the world now, sleeping it off.

You got the Dormosedan? a voice said in a whisper.

Yeah, We gotta do it IV, to make it faster. Bud, you bring the apple slices.

Okay.

The three shadows melted away toward the closest stable and began their work.

Lets split up, guys, and each take a horse. Here, give me a syringe and a couple of apple pieces.

Thirteen minutes later, expensive saddles and other tack along with three blooded, highly prized, professional rodeotrained horsestwo stallions and one marewere quickly loaded into the trailer and spirited away.

Meanwhile, in the little cottage down the lane, Bob Smiley Anderson slept on, oblivious to the theft of three of his bosss most valuable animals. He would not be smiling in the morning.

Dwayne (Dave) McDavid had painstakingly built a billion-dollar empire from scratch over twenty-four years. He still owned majority control of a national wholesale supply chain company that distributed grocery and non-food items to convenience stores, discount retailers, wholesale clubs, drugstores, military bases, quick service restaurants, and casual dining restaurants.

He was a shrewd, hardnosed businessman who loved horse riding and competition. Rodeo and football were his favorite sports.

He fired old Bob the next morning and raised holy hell with the police that afternoon.

Dammit, Lieutenant, I dont care if you have to let a few robberies slide. Shit, even a murder or two. But I want my babies found.

Detective Husto leaned back in his chair and sighed. This was small fry stuff. A waste of department resources, really. ButDwayne McDavid was a rich man with big connections.

Shame his horse farm isnt outside the Houston jurisdiction , Cliff thought. But out loud, he simply said, Let me see what I can do for you, Dave.

You better. I rub noses with the chief of police, the mayor, and most of the city council damn near every other week.

Yeah, okay. Ill put a good man on it. He smiled and nodded. Well get your animals and gear back. I hope. He stood and reached over his desk to shake McDavids hand.

You know Wilson had me come talk to you, dont you?

I figured as much. Look. Well find em, Dave. He clicked his tongue encouragingly and strolled around his desk to walk with McDavid out of his office back through the maze of desks in the open bullpen area to the buildings front door.

I value those horses almost as much as my flesh-and-blood kids, Lieutenant, and a hell of a lot more than that brainless trophy wife of mine. He sneered. All her brains are in her boobs, he muttered under his breath. In a louder voice, he said, Dont let me down. He ignored Cliffs outstretched hand this time, as he turned brusquely on his heel and stormed into the parking lot.

Brian Wilson was the new chief of police, and McDavid had gotten him to put one of his best detectives on the case. So good ol Husto had to come through.

Somehow.

Husto went back to his office, drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking, then flicked the intercom on.

Sally, can you buzz Meeks and ask him to come in here?

CHAPTER 1

Saturday morning, June 16, 2001

Cliff slowly drained his third cup of coffee. He sat comfortably in the shade of the covered patio watching his two boys play one-on-one.

His youngest, J-Boy (Johnny), had shown early promise in hoops in grade school, so he and Betty had opted then to build a nice concrete slab half court in the backyard instead of a pool.

J-Boy did a double fake right, a crossover between the legs, followed by another hard fake left, then a lightning quick step back. Cliffy, his oldest son, off guard, belatedly leaped forward with an outstretched arm, but his brother easily got the shot off, hitting nothing but net.

Eight to five, big bro. You shouldve taken me up on my offer to spot you two points.

Yeah, well, wait until I get the ball back. Im going to eat your lunch. Cliffy wiped his brow and slung the sweat off his fingers. He retrieved the ball and threw a hard pass to his brother, who just grinned back.

You and who else? Johnny laughed. He suddenly jerked the ball high in the air, causing Cliffy to throw up his hands, then smoothly bounce-passed it through his brothers spread legs. Cliffy slapped helplessly at J-Boy as he darted around to pick up the ball behind his brother and drive in for an uncontested layup.

Nine to five, chump.

J-Boy started singing, Working nine to five, just to further annoy his brother. Cliffy playfully slammed into Johnnys shoulder as he strutted past him to the top of the key. Although J-Boy was the taller by two inchesboth were over six feethis big brother was meatier.