Full Mortality (10 page)
“You got to hustle like yesterday,” Jim said. “Kenny’s still missing.”
We were standing outside his barn early Friday morning, wearing jackets against the chill. Above us the stars faded to the west, and the sun painted promising streaks on the eastern horizon.
“I’m trying to line up another rider.” He looked worried, brows drawn close, creating a furrow. If I got suspended, he’d have no rider.
I was afraid something bad had happened to Kenny. He’d been a good partner in the mornings. “Do you think he’s in trouble?” I asked.
Jim pursed his lips. “Nobody’s heard anything. I drove around to his apartment last night. His truck’s not there, he’s not home.”
Weird. I thought how many times I’d watched Kenny scurry and hustle for extra rides, like he needed the money. Maybe he had a gambling problem. Then there was the shiny new truck. Those payments might be bleeding him. But where was he?
Ramon, with a new diamond stud earring, showed up with the first horse of the day. I zipped around all morning trying to get done by 9:30 so I could take Hellish out before the track closed at 10. I put her in the round pen filled with deep sand so she could buck and carry on, hopefully work out some kinks before I got on her. Then I whisked on a saddle and bridle. I added a martingale so I’d have a neck strap to hold on to. I left my stirrups long so I could get a good grip on her with my legs. Ramon tossed me into the saddle.
Hellish humped her back but went on down the shedrow without exploding. We made it to the track and went the “wrong way,” my signal that speed wasn’t on the agenda. She eased into a slow gallop, then extended into a long, ground-eating stride, the track rails sliding past us faster and faster. We passed Lorna on a two-year-old colt like they were walking. Wow. This filly had an engine. Reminded me of Gildy.
Gildy?
I fought the exhilaration and stood up to slow her down. She hadn’t been out in a while, no sense in letting her do too much too soon. When I got her to a steady rhythm, we went along for about a mile, then headed for the gap leading back to the barn, back to her confining stall.
No. She wasn’t having it. She spun and faced the opposite direction. I lost my stirrups, slid my feet back in as fast as I could. She reared, came down bucking and plunging. Oh boy. Another buck. One stirrup gone. A sharp duck to the left. I clung to the yoke of the martingale. She threw her hind end up in the air so high and hard I catapulted off like a pebble from a slingshot.
I hit the ground rolling, jumped up and watched her disappearing down the track. Dust on the horizon. Damn.
An outrider flew by in hot pursuit, and the track loudspeaker crackled,
“Loose horse on the track. Repeat, there is a loose horse on the track.” I rolled my eyes.
A while later the outrider brought Hellish back and handed her over. “What do you want to fool with a horse like this for?”
“Guess I’m just crazy,” I said, trying to keep it light.
“She’ll get somebody hurt. Clements was right, sending her to that sale.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
He gave me a cold look, but I turned my back on him and led Hellish away. I should have thanked him for catching her, but was too mad. I led her back to the barn and cooled her out. She was a sweaty mess and a little off in her right front foot. Great. Who knows how fast she’d gone?
“Nikki, dude, you two all right?”
I looked up from my kneeling position in the deep straw by Hellish’s foot. Lorna stood in the stall doorway. Without her helmet I could see she’d exchanged her purple streak for two green ones.
“I’m okay,” I said. “She overdid it. Has something going on in this leg. Can’t tell if it’s the foot or ankle.”
Lorna knelt next to me. With her red hair I thought the green additions might work for the Christmas holidays. We stared at the leg. Hellish ignored us. After discussing cold-hosing, X-rays, and other options, I spread on a thick, heat-drawing poultice from above her knee down to her hoof. Then I packed the stuff into the hoof and left her to her hay.
Morning training over. The shedrow had been swept clean of straw, hay, and bits of litter. Ramon and Ron had used the heavy wide-rakes, leaving a neat zigzag pattern in the aisle way dirt. Lorna and I crept along the edge, trying not to disturb their design. The grooms had sprayed the dust down with a fine nozzle, and the smell of damp soil filled my nostrils. The sound of horse molars grinding hay, the occasional stomp caused by the crafty fly that got past the automatic insecticide sprayers, and the perpetual rattle of feed buckets soothed me like music.
The rhythm stopped. Marvin Setz stood at the end of the shedrow. Jim stepped out of his office, finger tapping a puckered lip, eyes concerned.
“You got trouble,” said Lorna.
Lorna, rocket scientist. My stomach plunged. I moved toward them. Lorna hurried alongside.
The kindness had deserted Setz’s eyes. Replaced by flint chips. “Morning, Miss Latrelle.” He held a piece of paper in his hand, pushed it toward me. “Hearing notice. You’re expected to appear before the stewards tomorrow morning at 10:30.”
I blinked. My mouth too dry to form a reply.
“She’ll be there,” said Jim.
Setz shoved the paper into my hand and strode away, his job finished.
“Serious trouble in Candy Land,” said Lorna.
Jim glared at the retreating figure of Setz, then withdrew into his office.
I got through the rest of the day on automatic pilot, my brain occupied with the next morning.
The paddock at Laurel was a pavilion-like building, with a tented roof and saddling stalls lining about a third of the rounded walls. A painted wood railing, where fans rested their elbows and programs, formed the rest of the structure’s circumference. A raised wooden kiosk occupied the center, where before each race anxious owners stood and watched their horses parade past.
Tense trainers and grooms waited in each stall for saddling time, holding blinkers and bridles. The jockeys’ valets brought in tiny saddles through a back door that opened between two of the saddling stalls. The riders were the last to arrive. Whenever I’d walked through that door I’d been determined to give it my best shot, hoped I could win, prayed I wouldn’t get hurt.
The paddock had always reminded me of a merry-go-round. Horses continuously circling. All those people reaching for that brass ring.
At 10:25 on a Saturday morning the place was deserted as I walked past. Any lingering horse smell had faded overnight. A wood-chip and dirt mixture covered the floor of the building, its odor heavy and mulch-like. Moisture beaded on the paddock’s wood railing, while above the sun struggled to break through a leaden cloud cover. I followed a path that wound behind the paddock to a locked door on the ground floor of the grandstand. Behind the glass I could see the track telephone operator look up from her cubicle. She nodded at me, buzzed me in. Through a small opening in her Plexiglas wall she told me the stewards office was just down the hall. I found it, a blank door in the wall, no windows, no way to see what lay in wait. I knocked and went in.
A small pleasant room. Forest-green carpeting, upholstered side chairs against the walls, three desks that looked like cherry veneer and a steward at each desk. Men, wearing coats and ties. They were all ex-jockeys, not like that would cut me any breaks. They looked small, nimble, and sharp-eyed.
I’d worn conservative navy pants and a navy peacoat. I pulled the hearing notice from the coat’s pocket. “I’m Nikki Latrelle. Supposed to be here at 10:30.”
The steward closest to the door pointed to a side chair that faced all three desks. “Sit there, Miss Latrelle.”
The fabric on my chair matched the padded forest-green of the men’s armchairs. I eased into it like it had teeth.
Jerry Offenbach crouched on a stool against the wall. Even sitting, he managed to tower over the rest of us, his face impassive, his body motionless.
The stewards introduced themselves, and we began. Round three. We covered the same old ground. They referred to Offenbach’s typed report, asking familiar questions. I gave the usual answers, still trying to throw some suspicion on other players. They weren’t interested. I had a strong feeling the meeting’s outcome was already decided, a sense of just going through the motions for protocol.
The meeting seemed to stall. A silence hung in the air. The steward who’d told me to sit cleared his throat and placed his palms flat on his cherry desktop. Thomas Gorman. He had a long thin face, a matching nose, and heavy creases lining his mouth. He looked over at Offenbach and nodded. The air in the room tightened. A tension seemed to grasp the stewards as they turned in unison to Offenbach.
The chief investigator opened a folder lying in his lap, flipped out a piece of paper. “Miss Latrelle, this is a report from the Maryland State Crime Lab. Your fingerprints were on the syringe found next to Mr. O’Brien’s body. You want to tell us about that?”
My stomach lurched. Fast pounding coursed through my body. “I can’t tell you anything about it. I never touched it. I don’t know how my fingerprints could be on there.” That sounded lame. “Do I need a lawyer?”
Offenbach stared at me for a few beats. Maybe hoping I’d fold, confess.
Gorman appeared uncomfortable. He twisted in his seat, his eyes sliding to mine. One steward stared at a poster of the racehorse Cigar, and the other seemed fascinated by something over my right shoulder.
“This is not a police hearing, Miss Latrelle,” Gorman said. “We are not formally investigating these crimes, nor is it our job to charge you with a crime. That’s up to the Anne Arundel County Police. Our interest here is protecting the integrity of Laurel Park.”
What about my integrity?
He cleared his throat again. “Miss Latrelle, we’ve reviewed this matter and we are going to have to suspend your license pending the outcome of the police investigation.”
My mind reeled. Surely they would stop at a suspension, not rule me off? I searched their faces. Hard,implacable expressions. Gorman closing a folder that had been lying open on his desk. My right knee began shaking. I couldn’t stop it.
“Because of the seriousness of this matter, you are denied access to Laurel Park. You are to clear the premises within the hour. If you attempt re-entry, you will be detained and subject to arrest. Do you understand?”
“What?” Jim stared at me from his desk. “You’re white as a ghost. What happened?”
“They ruled me off.” I’d headed for the security of Jim’s barn in a zombie state. Now it hit me. There was no security. “I have to leave, Jim.” I snatched back the cuff of my coat and stared at my watch. “In less than an hour.”
“Those sons of bitches ruled you off?”
I nodded, feeling my upper lip go, the sting of tears in my eyes. I pushed the barn cat to one side of a nearby chair and sank into the available space.
“God damn worthless jackasses.” Red spots flushed Jim’s cheeks. “I got no riders, you got no job.”
And Hellish. What would happen to her?
A timid knock on the door frame drew our attention. Lorna stood there with her green-streaked red hair catching light from the single window in Jim’s office. She knew I’d had the hearing, had helped get some of Jim’s horses out that morning. “What happened?”
I could tell by her expression she’d heard enough of Jim’s ranting to have gotten the gist. I started a recount, only Martha Garner appeared in the doorway. She didn’t see me at first with Lorna blocking the view. Then her eyes narrowed and she started shaking her head.
“Damn it Jim. You said you were getting rid of her. Little bitch kills horses.”
Jim was half out of his seat, but Lorna had spun on Martha. “You old biddy. You’re full of crap. Nikki didn’t kill your horse.”
Lorna was not defusing the situation. Martha took her old-lady pocket book and hit Lorna on the shoulder. Jim leapt across the room and got between them. I crouched lower in my chair, and the barn cat woke up, wide-eyed with alarm.
Jim made calming noises. Martha and Lorna faced off and glared at each other. Martha broke eye contact first, maybe intimidated by Lorna’s gold brow ring. The older woman aimed her pink glasses at Jim. “I was going to talk to you about a horse. But I don’t think I want one in your barn anymore.”
“Martha,” I said, “you’ll be happy to know I’ve been ruled off indefinitely. I have less than an hour to leave, so if you don’t mind I’d like time to make a few arrangements.” I gestured toward Jim.
She stared at me, the animosity hot in her eyes. “Good. We don’t need your kind around here.” She threw a disgusted look at Jim and stalked away down the shedrow, fingers digging into her hard-cased purse, pulling out cigarettes and a lighter. So much for rules.
Lorna rolled her eyes, and in the distance the sound of coughing receded as Martha headed for her car.
I threw a guilty look at Jim, but he waved it off. Time was running out. I told Lorna about the meeting, asked if she’d ride a few for Jim until he could find someone.
“Sure,” she said, “and I can take Hellish out on the pony, keep her going until you find a place for her . . .”
We looked at Jim, wondering if he’d be willing to keep Hellish. Who knew what law Offenbach would find for my filly?
Jim sighed and moved back to his chair behind the desk. “Nikki, I’ll keep Hellish here for a few days, but you’re going to have to find a place for her.”
Where? I couldn’t go to Pimlico or Bowie training track. I didn’t have connections with any of the people that owned private farms. How would I pay . . . for anything?
A large shadow darkened the doorway. Offenbach. Lorna shrank against the wall.
“Hello, Jim,” he said. His face held no expression, but his eyes bore into me like electric drills. “Miss Latrelle here has had her license suspended. I’m escorting her off the grounds.” He crooked his finger at me, gesturing me out of my chair. “Let’s go.”
“I’m going.” I slid from the chair, waiting for Offenbach to unblock the doorway.
“I’ll just follow you out in my truck,” he said, stepping aside, motioning me to move out.
“You’ve got a job here when this is over, Nikki,” said Jim. “We’ll work something out with Hellish.”
Offenbach gave Jim a hard look. “I wouldn’t be making promises you might not be able to keep.”
Nobody said anything. I headed for my Toyota, Offenbach tracking me from the side. I splashed through a puddle of water where a hose had been left on. A scruffy, gray barn cat fled from beneath my car carrying an unlucky mouse. Offenbach pointed at it with his finger. I could almost smell the gun smoke.
An old black man was shuffling across the parking lot beyond my Toyota. He looked vaguely familiar. He had grizzled white hair, a shabby black suit jacket, and a red bow tie. His shoes were so old, a raised outline of bunions and knotty toe joints pushed at the worn leather.
“Hold up, Latrelle,” said Offenbach. He stared at the black man. “Pinkney, you’ll have to leave the grounds. Don’t make trouble for yourself.”
The old man turned toward Offenbach. His mocha brown face split into a smile, showing ivory-colored teeth. “Good day Mr. Jerry, sir. I just be leaving now.”
“Why don’t you just be getting into my truck,” said Offenbach in a tone more amused than mocking. “I’ll drive you out. We’ll follow this lady. She’s leaving too.”
Pinkney’s eyes settled on me a moment. “Sorry for your trouble, Miss Nikki.”
How did he know my name?
Offenbach caught my expression and surprised me by acknowledging it. “Mr. Pinkney knows everything, don’t you Mello?”
“I knows things, deed I do,” he said nodding. “I know this be a good girl, don’t deserve your kind of trouble.”
“Come on Mello, in my truck.”
We drove out in a procession. Thelma stood in the guardhouse at the stable gate. She didn’t wave at me, but gave Offenbach and Mello Pinkney a curious look. I’d left the radio on earlier and the speakers were pouring out the Pretenders’ song “Back on the Chain Gang.” How appropriate.
I swung right, headed down Brock Ridge Road to 198. The chief investigator pulled up next to a bus stop, and I could see Mello climbing out of his truck in my rear-view mirror. What possible threat could an old guy like that be? Where would he go? Where would I go?
I drove to my apartment, realizing October rent was almost due. I’d spent that money on Hellish, then bought a supply of hay and feed for her. I had to get an income stream fast.
My phone started ringing as I wrestled the key in my lock. I grabbed the receiver just before the machine picked up. Maybe I’d been tracked down by a lawyer and was about to receive a large inheritance.
“Nikki?”
My body recognized the sexy voice before my brain did. A low level-thrill sped through me. “Clay?”
“Hey,” he said, “I’ve missed you. Thought I’d take a chance, see if we can get together?”
“I’d like that,” I said. “I might have jumped to the wrong conclusion.” Or not.
“I heard you’ve had a rough time recently. Thought I could cheer you up.”
“Clay, I think you should know I’m in some trouble.”
“You’re a suspect, right? That doesn’t bother me.”
I could hear another phone start to ring. He put me on hold, came right back. Said he wanted to take me to dinner but had to take care of a client on the other line.
“I’ll call you, Nikki.” And he was gone.
I stared at the receiver, then put it down. I had a lot of ambiguous feelings for this man.
The phone pealed again, and I jumped about six inches, then leaned over and snatched it up. Carla.
“How are you?” Her voice sounded nervous.
Nikki. Murder suspect. “I’m fine, Carla.”
“Sorry I disappeared on you the other day. Louis wasn’t exactly in your court. He was pressuring me not to talk to you, and I caved. I feel bad.”
Was I supposed to make her feel better?
“Anyway,” she said, “I thought I’d come to the track tomorrow. Maybe we could go to lunch afterward.”
I took a breath and told her I’d been ruled off. I had to explain what that meant, then listen to a prolonged silence.
“Carla,” I said, finally out of patience, “maybe you should wait until this blows over.”
“Maybe I should.”
“
Fine then
,” I said, and hung up on her. Gee, I’d handled that well.
I sank onto my couch and rubbed my temples. Where was Slippers anyway? Too early for a beer, but I could use a purr. The cat was asleep on the pile of clean laundry I hadn’t gotten around to putting away. It all lay in a heap on the end of my bed. Black T-shirts and jeans adorned with gray cat fur.
Damn if the phone didn’t start ringing again. I threw myself on the bed and put some laundry over my head. Slippers started paw-pushing my head through the clothing. The machine picked up.
“Nikki, hi, this is Jack Farino.”
Jeeez, the Gypsy. What did he want?
“Hear you’ve had some trouble at Laurel. I have a proposition you might be interested in. Give me a call.” He left his cell phone number and disconnected.
I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.
