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you’ll have to move the vehicles so we can get on with it. We’re burning daylight.”

chapter 6
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  THE SUV in the photo of the tailgating party had vanity plates. STAR POLO 1 .
    The best polo in the world is played in Wellington, Florida, during the winter months. Big-money-sponsored teams. Players with rock-star status. The ultrarich, the ultrapowerful, the ultrafamous filled the stands at the International Polo Club every Sunday. Early rounds of tournaments were played all week long on the fields stacked one after the next behind the main stadium.
    I had a passing familiarity with the sport, having dated several completely inappropriate men involved in it back in the days when pissing off my father was a priority in my life. By reputation, polo players are wild, passionate, aggressive, hot-tempered, unfaithful, and their riding skills are not limited to polo ponies.
    There were plenty of women in Wellington who believed a mad hot affair with a polo player was just the thing to spice up life. Perhaps Irina had been one of them.
    Not interested in sticking around for the arrival of Landry and his team, I got in my car and drove into town, still in my riding clothes and smelling of stale sweat and horses. No one would look at me twice. Half the population of the town went around that way every day during season.
    Still, I felt vulnerable and self-conscious, as if anyone looking at me would know instantly what had gone on that morning. I jammed a black baseball cap on my head and put on a pair of dark sunglasses and went into the Tackeria.
    The Tackeria, located in a strip mall on Wellington Trace, was a tack shop and social hub where horse people of all disciplines went to shop for essentials and catch up on the latest gossip. The specialty of the store was polo, with several aisles dedicated to polo equipment and clothing.
    I was known there, stopping in from time to time to pick up the odd thing for Sean or to buy myself a pair of breeches. One of the clerks at the counter looked up and said hello as I approached.
    â€œWhat can we help you with today, Elena?”
    So much for my disguise.
    â€œJust a question. I need to go out to Star Polo, but I’m not exactly sure where it is.”
    â€œIn the back,” the clerk said. “Jim Brody. He’s the owner. Your lucky day.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Thanks.”
    I went toward the back of the store but turned down one of the aisles of polo gear. Too many years as a narc. I always want to know what I’m walking into. Conversations were going on around me. Somebody was complaining about the price of gas. A woman wanted to know if the store carried a particular brand of gloves. Three people were in a discussion about the prognosis of an injured polo pony.
    â€œâ€¦tore up the deep flexor tendon, right hind.” Voice number one. Strong, with the potential for bluster.
    â€œHow long will that take?” Voice number two. Quieter. Even.
    â€œToo long. The season is over for her.” Voice number one again. “She may not come back at all.”
    â€œWhat a shame.” Voice number two.
    â€œThe team is so deep, you’ll never miss her.” Voice number three. A smooth Spanish accent.
    â€œBarbaro scored a lot of goals off her.” Voice number two.
    â€œBarbaro could score off a donkey.” Voice number one.
    I moved to the end of the aisle and checked them out while I pretended to look at horse halters. A big guy with a red face and a Tommy Bahama shirt. Fifty-something, gray hair, good-looking forty pounds ago. A tall, lean man in denim with a narrow face that looked to be carved from old leather. And a neat, tanned man in pressed khakis and a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up, his black hair slicked straight back. Handsome. In his fifties. Probably Argentinian. White-white teeth.
    The tall man worked in the back, repaired equipment, fitted saddles. I had