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“To you,” he teased.
She grinned up at him, “After twenty-six we had to come up with another way to fix the number, so we started using specific memories or pictures. It’s probably the easiest cipher in the world to break, but it took the ancient codebreakers eight centuries to figure it out, and almost as long to create a better one. So, a picture of me on Ceasar…”
“She was telling you the code and password. And you were seven so move the letters to the left seven spaces. You are a genius.”
Harper sat back, rather pleased with herself. “Yes, I am. I knew I was missing something. I knew she wouldn’t send it to me just to hold on to. I think she knew they were after her.”
“I don’t think she knew. I think she feared they might be watching her. From what you’ve told me about Dulcie, I don’t think if she truly believed she was in danger, she’d have sent it to you. I do not believe she would have risked your safety. Now that you cracked the code, what was she on to?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Can you work on that? I want to check-in with the team and get their ETA.” Spence jogged down the stairs to the main floor to call his people.
Harper turned her attention back to the computer. “Okay, Dulcie, you and me. Caesar code, seven spaces to the left.” It didn’t take her long to figure out the file names and the headings for the test results. As Spence’s team wandered in, Harper trotted downstairs to welcome them.
“I thought you were working on decoding Dulcie’s files,” said Spence.
“She figured it out?” asked Alice. “I guess we can cancel the tech’s trip. Is it something you can give our people so they can decode the whole thing?”
“I can. It’s not all that sophisticated, but unless you knew Dulcie and me really well, I think it would have been hard to figure out. Do people want to eat? Sleep? Fuck? Oh, yeah, we already did that.”
Spence spit out his coffee while his team cracked up.
“Enough, Harper.”
“Hey, a little levity never hurt any situation—Dulcie believed that, and so do I.”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee and a snack,” said Alice. “I’m sorry to say I only managed to snag a burrito. Those cinnamon rolls got gobbled up before I could get one.”
Harper grinned. “Just so happens another dozen should be ready to go in the oven, and I’ll throw together some orange-cranberry scones and blueberry muffins.”
Once she had the muffins, scones, and rolls in the oven, she poured everyone a cup of coffee.
“I don’t have the details, but I know the gist of what’s on there. Basically, one of the people at the Dubai Racing Club had begun to believe there was something about some of the Thoroughbreds that were being imported and exported as well as some of the resulting foals being sold abroad. One of her notes talked about funky tattoos and sketchy registration papers.”
Bill raised his hand. “Is it just me, or does anybody else not understand what she’s talking about?”
Spence’s face screwed up. “I’m not seeing where forging registration papers would be worth the time or money.”
“Thoroughbred racehorses are beautiful, powerful, and somewhat fragile—Ruffian, Barbaro, and Eight Belles were amazing athletes. All three, and many others, broke their legs racing and had to be euthanized long before their time. There are those who wanted to introduce new blood into the breed that had stronger bones. The first group that leaped to mind was draft horses. The Jockey Club said no and only allows breedings by live cover, so that makes it more difficult to use a non-Thoroughbred.”
She could see the moment the light bulb went on for Spence. “So, they were using draft horses with forged papers, but what does that have to do with mustangs?”
“Remember I told you about the PMU mares and foals? Some of those farms euthanize mares that can’t produce and any male foals. But others, thinking it makes them somehow better people, dump them on the open range to fend for themselves instead of euthanizing them.”
“Well, that can’t be all that bad, can it?” asked Alice.
“It can. In some cases, euthanasia would be kinder. A foal without a mother and a herd isn’t going to last long. There are too many predators. And a mare who has never been in the wild and doesn’t have a herd isn’t going to do much better. But some of them do make it and get acclimated into the mustang herds,” said Harper as she pulled the sweet breads from the oven.
“So, they were taking mustangs and exporting them to Dubai with forged lip tattoos and registration papers. They pass them off as Thoroughbreds, race them in Dubai and other countries to get a win record, and either sell them off as breeding stock or breed them themselves and sell the foals.”
“Exactly. You suddenly have bigger, stronger racehorses. Dulcie managed to get some blood samples from some of the horses and had them tested for DNA. The reports are pretty clear—the horses in question are not purebred Thoroughbreds.”
“So?” asked Bill.
“The Jockey Club, which covers most of the horse racing in this country, only allows purebred Thoroughbreds to race.”
“I get that it might be offensive to purists but is it worth killing for?” asked Alice.
