The Stars Shine Bright (50 page)

The human mole was still pacing the television screens. But with the day's races over, he seemed even more restless. The remaining public moved aimlessly about the track. A couple strolling by the white rail. Old men walking through the grandstands. Picking up discarded betting tickets. Casting them away again. Their freedom seemed to set Mr. Yuck on edge. He kept his eyes on them as I spoke.

“The fire inspector showed me the smoke detectors.”

“Not this nonsense again.” His small hand paddled the air, dismissing my words. “I told him, if he's got a problem with garbage, take it up with somebody who cares.”

“They were used to build a bomb. A dirty bomb.”

He turned. “Bomb?”

“The radioactive source is missing from all those trashed smoke detectors.”

The pudgy fingers tickled the air, beckoning me to continue.

“Every detector has an alpha emitter inside, but somebody removed them. In the hundreds, it's an effective weapon. Not to mention the fallout.”

“Nuclear fallout?”

“And public relations. Who would want to come here if a nuke went off?”

His eyes slid toward the screens.

“Right,” I said. “Why risk their lives, when they can wager on their computers. Or an off-track betting parlor. One dirty bomb would be a death blow to the track's business.”

I saw a strange light in his bulging eyes. And he was smiling. I had just described a nightmare scenario, but the dour smile pushed into his fleshy face. This horror was the stuff he dreamed about.

“Ready to tell me what you have?” I asked.

“Whatever you need,” he said.

From Yuck's bunker, I hurried across the backstretch, heading for that corrugated steel building where Gordon had been toking his joint. Two days ago, I realized. That didn't seem possible. Forty-eight hours? And then another thought flitted through my mind. The day DeMott was here. And another idea, crueler: Why didn't I call DeMott and tell him about my resignation?

Because DeMott would say,
“Come home. Now.”

Opposites attracted in magnets and ionization chambers. Electrons and protons. The particles could be trusted to find their missing halves. But in love, I wondered. Our differences were so extreme. He wanted Weyanoke, that life under a protective bubble. But this is what I wanted—unvarnished moments, stripped of all pretense. Alive. Fully alive.

When I reached the maintenance building, no music was playing. And this time I stepped inside the front door. The hangar-like space smelled of diesel and grease, and a metallic hammering sound was coming from the other side. Following the bangs, I found a middle-aged man standing beside an enormous tractor. He held a long wrench, and the machine's side hood was propped open, resting on a bifold hinge. The man's eyes were hooded, bagged with dark circles.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I'm looking for Gordon Donaldson.”

“Junior or senior.”

“Senior.”

“That's me.”

I held out my hand. “Raleigh Harmon. I'm with Hot Tin.”

He moved the wrench to his left hand and shook. A cold and dry grip, but strong.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” I said. “Your maintenance crew removed some old smoke detectors from the barns. In the early spring?”

He frowned. And looked even more tired. “Smoke detectors?”

“Yes. Your crew took them out of the barns. Then put in new ones.”

Mr. Yuck explained it this way: The track paid top price for the best smoke detectors, and then the owners complained about the false alarms scaring the animals. They demanded replacements. The maintenance crew took care of it. But Emerald Meadows kept two maintenance crews. One for the five-month racing season, and a year-round crew that was much smaller. Gordon Donaldson was in charge of both teams.

Gordon was also responsible for grooming the track.

I tried to smile politely. “You remember? The smoke detectors that were too sensitive?”

He tapped the wrench on the tractor. “Sonny, you know about this?”

A muffled reply came from under the machine, and Gordon Junior slid out. The pothead lay on a rolling board, his face streaked with thick brown grease.

His father said, “You know about this?”

“The office told us to replace 'em. That's what we did. End of story.”

He slid back under the tractor.

Senior glanced at me. “There you go.”

I deployed another smile. “But aren't you in charge of maintenance?”

“I am.”

Junior called out from under the machine, “You weren't here that day. You were driving Mom to Fred Hutch.”

His father glanced at me, preparing to explain. But the pain in his eyes made me interrupt.

“I heard about your wife's medical condition.” Her blood, Junior told me. Doctors didn't know what was wrong. “I'm sorry.”

He puckered his lips, as if holding something inside from getting out. “So what's the problem? The smoke detectors don't work?”

“Oh, they work fine. But the problem old ones were never thrown out.”

He glanced down. “Junior!”

Junior slid out, looking even more irritated. “What?”

“What'd you do with the detectors?” Senior looked at me as another question came to him. “Wait. Why's it matter, that they weren't thrown out?”

“Right now I'd rather not say.”

He hesitated but seemed to accept the answer. Not submissively. But as a man with pouched eyes and a dying wife and a callow son. “Answer her,” he said.

“You might've noticed,” Junior said. “We're busy. I just never got around to throwing them out.”

“Seems odd,” I said.

Junior refused to meet my eyes.

“More than a hundred detectors would take up a lot of space.” I glanced around the maintenance garage, then down at Junior on his board. “Unless you had plans for them.”

Junior looked at his father. Then quickly looked away.

“Well?” the older man said.

“I told you, I just didn't get around to it. Like I said.”

“The arson inspector just collected them.” I turned to the father. “Each one is missing an important component.”

Senior straightened and placed one boot on the sliding board. He gave it a quick shove, but Junior caught himself before going under the tractor again.

“What d'you got to say?”

Junior scowled. “I dunno.”

But his father seemed to detect something. That parental radar, picking up a sound. “You know something.”

“I'm telling you, I don't know.”

Senior looked at me. His frown said he wasn't buying it. But he seemed too tired to fight.

I looked at Junior. “You must see so many things, standing at the back door.”

He gave me a scowl. Caught but not fessing up.

“Who tampered with them, Gordon?”

“I've got too much work right here. Why would I walk all the way over there?”

“Over where?”

He looked at me like I was stupid. “Where I dumped 'em.”

“Which was . . . ?”

“The medical clinic.”

“What?” His father jumped in ahead of me. “What'd you do that for?”

“I threw a tarp over 'em.”

His father looked incredulous. “This is what you're doing when I'm not here?”

Junior flicked a glance toward me, full of hate. His dad had a different work ethic. And I'd riled it up.

“I was following orders.”

“Junior.” He lifted the wrench. “If you get me fired . . .”

“Excuse me.” I wanted to get in my question before the beating started. “Who told you to put them there?”

Junior clammed up again.

I wanted to grab the wrench, start the pounding myself.

“She asked you a question!”

“Brent.”

“Brent?” Senior blinked. “Brent who?”

“You know,” Junior said. “The vet's assistant?”

I ran down the backstretch, holding the phone to my ear.

“Personnel file on Brent Roth,” I told Mr. Yuck.

“Who?”

Another one, I thought.

“Vet's assistant,” I said. “He had the maintenance crew leave the detectors behind the medical clinic. Told them he would make sure they were disposed of properly. For the environment.”

A cloudy silence fell over the phone, and I was still waiting for him to speak when I walked into the Quarterchute. Birdie was gone. The grill was closed. But the old guys still crowded around the gingham tables. Nobody wanting to get home. Probably empty apartments and cable television and maybe a cat. Then again, given my home life, who was I to judge?

“Hello?”
I said into the phone.

Mr. Yuck had hung up.

My second call was speed dialed, because Jack had programmed his number into the system. Using the number 1, of course.

“So you're still alive,” he said.

“The fire inspector's sending in my Glock. Let McLeod know.”

“Harmon, if I'd known Ortiz was that kind of person—”

“You haven't met her?”

“No.”

“Next time, remember the Alamo.”

“Raleigh—”

I stopped. Not just because he'd used my first name. It was his tone.

“If I'd known Ortiz was like that, I would've driven to Selah myself and gotten you out of jail.”

“So you owe me a favor.”

“Ashley Trenner, right. I got her background check.”

“Go ahead.”

“She's one of Corke's kids. The guy on Bainbridge? He used to take in girls too. But there was a rape. I mentioned that, didn't I?”

“Yes. She's not—”

“No, not the victim. But she was seventeen when it happened. The state allows legal emancipation at that age. She left, and she's been on Sal Gagliardo's payroll ever since. And you were right. He claimed her as a dependent on his taxes. When she was at Corke's place.”

Uncle Sal
.

I turned to look at the old guys, huddled behind me. The Polish Prince was holding court. His story made the bald heads nod. Toothpicks waggled between dentures.

“Thanks,” I said.

“But . . .”

“How did you know?”

“I know you, Harmon.”

“I need another background check.”

Jack was silent. I didn't expect anything else. My request was over the line, since I was no longer with the FBI. But I plowed forward.

“Brent Roth. Male, midtwenties. Works here as an assistant veterinarian. Everything and anything. If you can find it.”