a stall just for a stallion, because most of them are good for nothing but eatin’, breedin’, destroyin’ stalls, and shittin’.” He looked up. “Excuse my language, ma’am.” He nodded at me. “But Stella was right. Adrian’s Hell settled right down and within six months became the best-behaved stallion I’ve ever seen. His disposition—when he gets enough exercise—is superb. Endurance horses want to move, want to run. It’s their default state.” He smiled as if the last words were part of happier memories. “Stella’s term.”
“Are the horses insured?” Occam asked.
“Of course. Seven-figure horses are often owned by multiple partners and have to be insured. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Adrian’s Hell.”
We followed Pacillo to the closest stall, the biggest box stall I had ever seen, made from black-painted timbers with black iron bars from the top of the stall walls to the ceiling. Standing placidly inside, watching us, was the big bay stallion I had seen when I first drove up, the horse FireWind had danced with, without ever moving a muscle. The white blaze was a brilliant lightning streak starting from his black forelock, zigzagging down his face, dropping to his black nose. Adrian’s Hell’s ears pricked up and he accepted a carrot from Pacillo, cracking it in his big teeth. “Stella’s pride and joy,” Pacillo said. “He’s not yet ten, but he came in second in the Tevis Cup in California, first in the Old Dominion Ride in Virginia, and he’s entered in next year’s European Endurance Championship.
“Good boy. That’s my good boy,” Pacillo murmured. “You want to go run?” The horse’s ears perked again and the trainer entered the stall, leading the horse out into the central area. The stallion danced sideways, his feet lifting as if he pranced over unseen obstacles. He was solid muscle, his red coat gleaming in the dim lights. We followed farther back and watched as the breeder led the horse outside, opened a gate, and released him into a pasture. Adrian’s Hell bucked, kicked, and raced into the dark, making happy horse sounds, probably calling to his mares, hooves pounding.
Pacillo indicated the barn and led the way back to the office. “Stella had a good eye. Last year, his sire, Adrian’s Storm, made a huge stir in France and then in Abu Dhabi in a private race put on by the sheikh. The sheikh purchased Adrian’s Storm for stud for an undisclosed sum and all Storm’s issue went way up in value. By that time, we were already breeding Adrian’s Hell. We are way ahead of any other endurance breeder, and even now have some interest for yearlings to train for European events.” Back in the office we retook our same seats.
It sounded like an extremely expensive business if a sheikh was involved. As if he read my thoughts, Occam said, “You said something about partners. Who owns Adrian’s Hell?”
“Stella has business agreements with a lot of people. You’ll have to talk to her lawyer and her business manager for particulars on the silent partners.” That sounded like an evasion, but he went on. “We have six yearlings and five foals by Adrian’s Hell, out of Anglo-Arab mares, and if they’re half as good as we think, he’ll remake Stella’s bloodlines—” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes, took and released several breaths, composing himself. Tears glimmered in his lashes. “Sorry.” He gave a slight, pained smile, blinking away the tears. “I get carried away talking about Adrian’s Hell. He’s an amazing stallion, and that’s saying a lot from a man who once swore by Rocky Mountain horses and Missouri Fox Trotters for endurance.” He swallowed as if his throat ached and whispered, “And now Stella’s gone.”
Occam gave Pacillo a moment before he asked, “Back to morning coffee?”
Pacillo shook his head as if trying to shake away his pain. “Stella seemed fine, tired of course, but happy, which always makes for good horses and good music. The take on the tour was phenomenal, the crew had gotten along well, and . . .” Pacillo seemed to run out of steam and words. He slumped back in his chair, eyes tightly shut again, as if cutting off more tears. He scratched his beard, dragging down his face, creating a grotesque expression of grief.
“I been meaning to ask,” Occam said softly. “How many employees are there?”
He had already asked, because I had seen the list in the file, but asking multiple people sometimes resulted in different answers.