Murder at the Racetrack (12 page)

“Uh, that might be a little bit ticklish.”

Within a matter of minutes, though, Pearsley had not only reassured him, but managed to talk him into handing the copy of
the Copper County investigation over, too. Pearsley won the argument by saying, “Better if Wade hears the explanation about
how you got it from me than from you.”

He asked if Eric would be willing to leave the car there a little longer. “I don’t know what the lab will be able to do at
this point, but I’d like to have them take a look at it.”

Eric agreed to it.

Pearsley gave him a talk about leaving the investigation to law enforcement.

Eric stayed silent. He understood what Pearsley was saying, but he also couldn’t bring himself to promise not to try to find
out who killed his brother.

Pearsley tried again.

“I understand,” Eric said.

The detective sighed in frustration.

•    •    •

By the time they finished talking to Pearsley, Eric realized he was nearly late to meet with Wade.

“I’ll take you,” Donna said. “Easier to go straight there without going back for your car.”

“I’m tying up your whole day.”

“This is important to me,” she said, then added, “Unless you’d rather meet with him alone? I can wait outside—”

“No, no—I like—I mean, I always want…” He stopped, took a breath, and said, “I’m glad you’re with me today. And not just because
of the moral support factor. And I sincerely hope my saying that doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable.”

She smiled. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Well… good,” he said. He looked out the truck window as they passed rolling pastureland, wondering how three words could
make a person feel so relieved, excited, and anxious at the same time.

The meeting with Wade went smoothly—just as he had paved the way with Pearsley, Pearsley had obviously paved the way with
Wade. Although Eric wouldn’t like to be whatever member of the department had copied the case file once Wade caught up with
him or her (a clerical volunteer seemed to be his chief suspect), Wade didn’t seem to be inclined to take it out on Eric or
Donna.

Wade showed them photographs taken by the lab of a number of fragments of plastic and metal objects, and enlarged views of
the microscopic particles of paint.

“When the two vehicles made contact, they damaged each other in ways that caused pieces to fall off each of them. They dented
and scraped each other, and each took some of the paint from the other. They tell me the level of impact, and marks on the
SUV show that her vehicle was hit from behind, on the left rear side. So we looked at the pieces that this other vehicle might
have dropped. It lost most of a headlamp, and our lab guys painstakingly put those pieces together. It’s a right-hand side—passenger
side—Ford headlamp, could fit either a Ranger or a Bronco, from years 1989 to 1992. So we’ve got someone in an older truck
or Bronco, that limits it somewhat, but then we are still looking at a hell of a lot of vehicles. Rangers are popular. You’ve
got one, right, Ms. Freepoint?”

“An F-250.”

“Lotta truck for a gal. But you’re a horse trainer, and doing towing. Besides it’s blue, and we know that this truck was white.”

“I’ve got a white truck, too,” she said, “bigger than this one.”

Eric couldn’t help smiling.

“An old Ranger?” Wade asked.

“No.”

“Well, see, if all we had was white and a truck, or even a Ford truck, you’d be in the pool of possible suspects, along with
all the other folks who owned or had access to similar vehicles. But all these little bits of info from the forensic guys
add up, and as they add up, they also narrow our pool of possible suspects. White is not an unusual color for trucks, but
this one also had paint on it that didn’t come from the factory. Now, this is a big break for us, because it was probably
custom painted on a vehicle, and we may be able to find the place that did it, if it was done nearby.”

“What color?” Eric asked.

“Red,” Wade said.

“So the truck was red, not white?”

“It was both, but the red was probably added on later.”

“Red and white—those are Shackel Farm’s colors.”

Wade’s brows went up. “Shackel Farm? The place where Mrs. Halsted was going that night?”

“Yes, and the place my brother was watching through field glasses the day he died.”

Eric showed him his copies of Mark’s notes. “Detective Pearsley has all these as well.”

Wade made a set of them, too, muttering something about it being a shame that he hadn’t seen him before Pearsley got hold
of the originals.

“Detective Wade,” Eric said, “I think it’s clear that Shackel was involved in both deaths. He was one of a handful of people
who knew that Carlotta was on the way to the farm. I’m not saying he forced her off the road himself.” He paused, taking a
deep breath to try to calm himself. “Well,” he added bitterly, “he had a great alibi, didn’t he?”

“Mr. Halsted—”

“And while you were on vacation, my brother got copies of your files, and it just confirmed what he had been thinking—that
the only people who knew that Carlotta was on that road worked for Shackel—”

Wade tried again. “Mr. Halsted—”

“Mark probably wasn’t even watching the horses that day. He was probably spying on Shackel, looking for that truck. And somehow
Shackel saw Mark, or maybe Mark confronted him, and then—I don’t know, drugged him. Then loaded him into the Corvette and
drove him out to the woods and shot him—”

“Mr. Halsted!”

Donna reached over and put a hand on Eric’s arm. He fell silent, but he could feel himself shaking with anger.

“Mr. Halsted, you have every reason to be upset, and every reason to let law enforcement professionals handle things from
here.”

“Like hell. Delmore was a law enforcement professional! He convinced me my brother’s death was a suicide! All these months—!”
He drew an unsteady breath.

“Let’s say,” Wade said, his voice low and quiet, “things went just as you theorize—and I must emphasize that it is a
theory,
and
yours,
and at the moment
completely
unproven. But let’s say you’re right. First, if your brother hadn’t tried to play detective, you probably wouldn’t be raising
his son right now.”

Eric looked away.

“Second, as long as Mr. Shackel has no idea you are catching on to him, you’re much safer. And Jimmy is safer. Do you understand?”

Eric nodded, miserable.

“Third, if we are going to put this bastard away, we need to build a case that will convince a jury, not just the people who
loved Mark and Carlotta. I can’t do that if you get in my way. Neither can Detective Pearsley.” He paused. “You got a bad
deal with Delmore, but he’s out of the picture now. Do you trust Pearsley?”

“Yes,” Eric said.

Wade’s phone rang. He answered it, then said, “Speak of the devil. Yeah, they’re still here. You and I need to talk, oP buddy.
Okay, hang on.” He handed the phone to Eric. “It’s Pearsley.”

“Hello?” Eric said.

“Mr. Halsted, I have the autopsy report on your brother here. I’m just wondering, did he have a prescription for Valium?”

“Yes,” Eric said, surprised. “I just saw the bottle yesterday.”

“Did Detective Delmore ask you that same question?”

Eric thought back. “I think he did ask if Eric was taking any prescription drugs, and I might have mentioned that he had a
prescription for sleeping pills, but didn’t like taking them. Delmore never said anything more to me about it.”

“You saw these yesterday, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Remember the prescribing doctor’s name?” He did, and gave it to Pearsley, who then asked, “Any idea how many had been taken?”

“The bottle looked full. And the prescription was over two years old. Why do you ask?”

“Your brother had a remarkably high level of diazepam in his system—”

“Of what?” Eric asked, grabbing a pen and paper.

“Diazepam. Another name for Valium. But there’s nothing to indicate that they found an empty pill bottle at the scene or in
his car.” He paused, then said, “I’d like to take a look through the house. Can we meet there tomorrow?”

They made an appointment.

When he hung up, he looked at his watch and said, “Detective Wade, I have to go. My nephew will be home from school soon,
and I like to be there.”

“Sure.”

As they were leaving, Donna turned to Wade and said, “I think you’re wrong about something.”

“And what would that be, Ms. Freepoint?”

“We aren’t safe, and we won’t be, no matter how certain Shackel is that he’s managed to get away with two murders.”

“Believe me, I’m aware that whoever did this has a dangerous amount of confidence right now.”

“No, I mean that—we didn’t get a chance to talk about motive with you. Shackel’s motive has something to do with a horse.
Maybe he wanted Zuppa Inglese, or just to be able to control how he races. But that’s what this is about.”

•    •    •

“He’ll never get him,” Eric said as they drove back.

“No, but haven’t you ever been around spoiled people? They sometimes wreck what they can’t have for themselves. I’m glad you’re
hiring security for Zuppa. In fact, let me give myself some peace of mind between now and tomorrow morning.” She used her
cell phone to call one of her workers at the Fox River track. Reassured that Zuppa was doing fine, she then asked that they
keep a close watch on him. “There will be extra security there tomorrow morning, but if you see anyone coming near him tonight,
don’t hesitate to get track security involved.”

“Thanks,” he said when she ended the call. “And not just for that. For everything. I don’t know how I could have managed getting
through the last few months without you.”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “And you’ve done as much or more for me. I don’t kid myself about why my phone is ringing more often
these days. Training Zuppa has brought me more business. But it’s more than that, really. I like spending time with you and
Jimmy.” She was silent for a time, then asked, “Do you think—do you think Carlotta was killed because she wanted to bring
Zuppa to Copper Farms?”

“It’s not your fault, if that’s what you’re asking. Owners removing horses from trainers is part of the business, right?”

“I remember Carlotta talking about how much Shackel pressured Mark, trying to get a percentage of Zuppa before he was born.
Mark and Carlotta weren’t going to sell, but I’ll bet you anything she was the one who told Shackel they wouldn’t. Maybe he
thought that Mark would sell him a share if the colt wasn’t racing well. He couldn’t slow Zuppa down if he wasn’t the trainer.
Not very easily, anyway.”

Eric thought this over. “You forget—Carlotta and Jimmy wanted to take
all
their horses from him, not just the foal. Mark sold most of their horses off not long after Carlotta died, and I think that
was because he had lost heart. But if she had lived, and they had pulled all those horses away from Shackel and brought them
to you, wouldn’t that have done serious damage to his reputation?”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. I guess Mark did eventually figure out Shackel was some kind of rat, or he wouldn’t have left Zuppa
to you and Jimmy. He would have sold him, too.”

“Who knows? Jimmy thinks Zuppa had some kind of look in his eye from the day he was born, one that said he could take on all
comers. Maybe Mark saw that, too.” He yawned. “Oh, forgive me. Next to no sleep.”

“That reminds me—tell your detective friends that diazepam is used as a horse sedative, too.”

“What?”

“Valium. I saw you write its generic name—diazepam.”

“So Shackel might have had access to a large amount of it?”

“Sure. If a racehorse’s behavior becomes dangerous to humans, you want a way to calm him down in a hurry. There are other
uses for it, too. Most would have it in injectable form.”

•    •    •

He thanked her again when she dropped him off at the house. He watched her make the turn into her own drive, wondering if
he had ever before in his life experienced so many warring emotions in a twenty-four-hour period.

He went inside and sat on the big leather sofa, exhausted, but thinking that Jimmy would be home any minute now, and he needed
to come up with some way to tell him—well, whatever it was he should tell him.

He dozed lightly, awakening with a start. “Jimmy?” he called, but the house was silent.

He glanced at his watch. Jimmy should have been home by now. He had no sooner thought this than the phone rang.

“Uncle Eric?” Jimmy sounded frightened, almost tearful.

“Jimmy? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

But before Jimmy could answer, a man’s voice came on the line. “You’ve had a busy day, haven’t you?”

“What’s going on? Let me talk to Jimmy!”

“Let’s make a trade, then. The boy for a horse. Simple. Zuppa Inglese is going to be stolen and never heard from again, you’re
going to collect insurance, and life will be beautiful. Leave the sheriff’s department out of it. Understood?”

“Yes,” said Eric, his mouth dry.

“Grab your cell phone. Get your girlfriend from across the road to go fetch Zuppa Inglese. The two of you are concerned about
his health and have decided not to race him. I’ll know if you give them any other story, understood?”

“Yes.”

“Keep your cell phone on and I’ll give you instructions once the horse is out of the gates.”

The man hung up. For a brief moment Eric stood still, too horrified to move. Then he grabbed his jacket and keys and ran to
Donna’s house. As he ran, he tried to place the man’s voice. Vaguely familiar, but not Shackel’s.

•    •    •

“What if he’s not here?” Eric asked as Fox River Racetrack came within sight. “Maybe my theory is totally wrong.”

“I don’t think so,” Donna said. “It makes sense. Whoever is doing this can’t afford to involve too many people. If he’s a
horse owner or trainer who gets caught at it, all his efforts are for nothing—he’ll be run off the track for life. If the
voice on the phone had been Shack’s, I’d say it may just be him acting alone. So it might be two—we both know he must have
had someone helping him on the night Carlotta died.” She paused as she negotiated the turn into the track grounds. “Thank
God you paid such close attention to what he said on the phone. We know at least one person has to be here, or close enough
to see our trailer leave the track, or they couldn’t call you when we leave. Jimmy’s probably with that person, because they’ll
want to send us running back here after him when they have the horse.”