The J D Bragg Mystery Series Box Set

by Ron Fisher

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I followed Natasha over to the Kennedys table, and she introduced me, telling them I was a sportswriter, writing a story about the community and the Upcountry Steeplechase. She asked if they would mind sharing some of their experience raising and training thoroughbred horses with me.

  Natasha said, “Mr. Kennedy has raised several steeplechase champions.”

  “Impressive,” I said. I hope we’re not intruding.”

  “Not at all. We’d be happy to help if we can,” Mr. Kennedy said. “Do you write for some horse or steeplechase publication?”

  “I’m with SportsWord magazine,” I said.

  “I know that magazine,” he said, “but I didn’t know it covered equine sports.”

  “We cover the results of most major flat track races, but I don’t do that. I’m a feature writer, and this is as much a human-interest piece, as it is about the race this weekend.”

  They invited us to sit with them.

  Mr. Kennedy was a distinguished looking man with a thick head of the whitest hair I’d ever seen and bright cerulean blue eyes. He wore a brown corduroy jacket and a beige necktie with tiny prints of horses on it, looking every bit the horse breeder. His wife was pleasant looking and probably considered “cute” when she was young.

  “What would you like to know?” Mr. Kennedy asked.

  What I wanted to know was if Wilson Kroll’s prize horse was infertile and he had it killed it for the insurance money, but I couldn’t begin with that.

  “How long have you been breeding and raising horses?” I asked.

  “Since I was a child,” he said, smiling. “My father raised horses in Maryland and I helped him with them from a young age. Her father raised horses, too,” he added, looking at his wife. Their place was right next to ours, so you could say we grew up in the business together.”

  “We were childhood sweethearts,” she smiled and said, “and we shared such a love for horses that after we were married and set out on our own, we bought land down here and built the house we still live in.”

  “Do you breed your mares to your own stallions, or do you use stud services?” I asked, already knowing the answer to half of that question.

  “Both,” Mr. Kennedy said. “There are always better stallions elsewhere that can sire more valuable foals. You can’t afford to own them all. Lineage and breeding, that’s the name of the game.”

  I know absolutely nothing about horse breeding,” I said, “Maybe you can tell me how you do it.”

  Mr. Kennedy took me through the whole process with a detailed description so vivid that anyone outside of horse breeding, myself included, would probably find uncomfortable, especially in mixed company. The part about jacking off a stallion and then sticking a hand and arm up to the elbow in a mare’s vagina to insert the semen was particularly X-rated. Edith Kennedy and Natasha listened in as if we were discussing pie baking. I tried to avoid their eyes and couldn’t help looking at the buffet table and hoping that these horse people all washed their hands before coming here tonight.

  When he’d finished, I said, “I was just talking to another breeder, Wilson Kroll. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I know him,” Kennedy said, and looked like he’d just bitten into something sour.

  “It’s a shame about this horse of his getting shot,” I said. “What was its name, Emperor? I understand he was a very valuable stallion. Did you ever breed any of your mares to him?”

  “Three times,” he said and gave me an evasive look. It was apparently a subject he wasn’t comfortable talking about.

  “How did it go?” I asked. “Were the matings successful?”

  Again, I got the sour expression.

  “The first time was, the second two weren’t.” he said.

  Kroll’s records showed the first of the second two was marked NOCHG, but the next one, the one I assumed was a do-over, was marked PAID, and was therefore successful. What was going on here?

  “Do you have to pay for the service if a mating is unsuccessful?” I asked.

  “Not usually, with a reputable breeder,” he said.

  Ah, I thought. The first shot fired at Wilson Kroll.

  “So, what went on with these last two matings? Why didn’t they work?”

  “It depends on who you talk to,” he said. “Mr. Kroll and I have differing opinions. He blamed it on my mare, I blame it on his stallion.”

  “So, did you end up paying, even though no foal was produced?” I asked.

  “Yes, I did,” he said, and there was an underlying tone to his voice that said he was still angry about it. “But there’s no use talking about it now,” he added. “What’s done is done.”

  “I’d still like to hear about it,” I said.

  “Nothing was wrong with my mare,” he said, his face darkening. “My vet checked her out thoroughly. She was ovulating both times. She is a foaling machine. She is presently carrying a foal from a different stud service.”

  “So what was the problem?”

  “I questioned the quality of Emperor’s semen, and so did my vet. Kroll took offense. He produced a document that showed Emperor was registered and in good standing with the appropriate horse associations, his semen tested for fertility, viability, and freedom from disease, and approved for breeding. It was signed by Kroll’s veterinarian, Samuel Squires. My vet expressed his doubts about that report, and Mr. Kroll didn’t take that well. We got into it, words were said, and Kroll hung up on me. He sent a bill, and I got a lawyer. It wasn’t a matter of money anymore, it was a matter of principle.”

  “What happened then?”

  “My lawyer wanted Kroll to get a third-party veterinarian do another semen evaluation on Emperor. When Wilson heard that, he got madder than hell and said that just the suggestion of that amounted to slander, and he threatened to sue me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I sat down and thought about it long and hard. The stud fee for a horse like Emperor was substantial, but the legal fees would top that if I went to trial and lost. My lawyer advised me to drop the case. He said we couldn’t win it. Even if we got a judge to sign an order to test the horse, the new test wouldn’t supersede Kroll’s vet’s test, which was done—supposedly—at the time of the mating. I knew I was in the right, and Wilson Kroll was wrong, but I realized it's impossible to win a battle over principle if you’re fighting someone with no principles. So, I paid his bill to be done with it.”

  “I take it you and Wilson Kroll don’t do business anymore,” I said.

  “Of course not,” Kennedy snapped. “This is the first time in a long time I’ve even been in the same room with the man.”

  He had obviously seen Kroll.

  “What would you think if I told you Mr. Kroll stopped selling Emperor’s fresh semen presentations right after the failed attempts with your mare, and for the last few months has sold only chilled and frozen semen?”

  Kennedy stared at me a little too long, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

  “I don’t believe I told you the dates of my trouble with Kroll,” he said. “You seem to know more about this than you let on, Mr. Bragg.”

  He and his wife were both frowning at me.

  “What is this your story of yours really about?” he asked.

  “It’s what I said it was. But there may be a subplot. I don’t think the kid, Jamal Johnson, shot Wilson Kroll’s horse. I think Emperor became infertile some time back and Kroll had it killed before anyone could learn of it. I hope to prove that.”

  Kennedy was slowly shaking his head. “Mr. Bragg, you seem like a nice fellow, but you don’t know who you're dealing with. There’s a part of my story I didn’t tell you. Two days after Kroll heard we were going to ask for the semen evaluation, a couple of men caught my lawyer in a restaurant parking lot in Greenville and damn near killed him. They beat him senseless. He has a wife and two young kids. They never found out who did it, nor why. I have my ideas, of course, but I’ve got no
way to prove it.”

  “When did your lawyer advise you to drop the case,” I asked.

  “When I went to visit him in the hospital the next day.”

  “Who did he say beat him up?”

  “Muggers. They took his wallet and watch. It was dark, they hit him from behind, and he couldn’t describe them. Or at least that’s what he said. I think he was afraid to identify them. Last I heard, he was working with his father-in-law over in Alabama and studying for his Alabama law license.”

  “You think Wilson Kroll did it?”

  It was a moment before he answered.

  “Not Kroll himself, perhaps, but someone on his behalf. I hear he has mobster friends. Maybe he sent them.”

  Kennedy stood up and pulled his wife out of her seat with him.

  “Come on mother, it’s time to go,” he said, and turned back to me.

  “Look, Mr. Bragg,” he said, “Wilson Kroll is a dangerous, wealthy man who has no problem spending his money to get what he wants—or, spending it to get what he doesn’t want to go away. My advice is to stay clear of him.”

  He paused long enough to make sure I understood. “Good night to you, Natasha, and good luck to you, Mr. Bragg.”

  I stood thinking as I watched the Kennedys walk away. Natasha told me the rumor about Kroll having mob connections, and I believed her. I’d seen two of them with Kroll tonight. But as to Kroll having them beat up Kennedy’s lawyer, as Kennedy suspected, I didn’t buy that. Mr. Wise, the insurance investigator, told me Kroll’s horse syndicate had millions of dollars of his friend’s money invested in it. If these mob buddies were those friends, Kroll wouldn’t want them anywhere near a lawyer who was trying to prove Emperor’s infertility. Any hint of that and they would suspect they were in an investment gone bad, and wouldn’t be happy about it. And these guys weren’t the types to take Kroll to civil court. They were more likely to take him out somewhere and put a bullet in him.

  My bet for the lawyer-beating was this Eddie Smoke Natasha told me about, with Teddy Crane, the arranger, and go-between. I had Smoke down as Teddy’s drug supplier, and who knows what else. It was a short leap from that to Teddy paying a couple of Smoke’s knee-breakers to do an odd job for Wilson Kroll. And if Wilson Kroll would have a lawyer beaten to keep Emperor’s infertility a secret, what would he do to shut Jamal’s mouth?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  More people were arriving by the minute, and the place was beginning to fill up.

  “Mr. Kennedy and I share the same veterinarian,” Natasha said. “Dr. Whitmore. If he had doubts about Kroll’s records or contracts, there were probably good reasons. Dr. Whitmore is a great vet. The best and most respected in the area.”

  “Do you think he’s here tonight?” I asked Natasha. “I’d like to talk to him. See if he’ll add anything to it, or has heard anything about Kroll’s dead horse. It’s bound to have been a big topic of conversation lately.”

  “I saw him when we came in. Let’s see if we can find him.”

  We wandered around the room, grabbing a plate of food along the way. She introduced me to her neighbors, the Rosses, who employed Millie Johnson. They could have been as rich as King Solomon, but from their genuine friendliness to me and down to earth demeanor, they could have been anybody’s next door neighbors.

  I met another nice lady, a widow from a family whose name was synonymous with the tobacco industry in America, and she was as warm and friendly as your favorite aunt. The rich may be different, but to some, it’s only the number of zeroes on their bank accounts.

  Not everyone there were trust-fund-babies, but most were wealthy. I saw but didn’t meet, a retired network TV news anchor whom I would have known even if I was blind. I kept hearing his familiar baritone wafting across the room. Another was an aging, but still very recognizable major league baseball player, who I think I remembered reading somewhere lived in the area and raised thoroughbred horses. I didn’t get a chance to ask him if he did business with Wilson Kroll.

  As we mingled, Natasha asked friends here and there if they’d seen Dr. Whitmore, her veterinarian. Some had seen him earlier; others hadn’t seen him at all.

  We came upon a group of men out on the front porch, drinks in hand, a few of them grabbing smokes. We caught them laughing uproariously over something, but they quieted down as we joined them. If they were laughing at something too indelicate for Natasha’s ears, I couldn’t imagine what that would be. She could probably swap jokes with a group of Australian sailors. Obviously, it was the stranger on her arm that put the damper on them.

  Chuck Norman and Teddy Crane were on the outside perimeter of the group, Teddy in his trademark hat and cowboy duster. They didn’t seem to be joining in on the joke. Both wore serious expressions as they watched us approach.

  Natasha kissed Teddy on the cheek, but he was visibly cool to her. Chuck had probably told him we were talking about him and asking questions. I nodded to Teddy, but he didn’t speak. He just glared at me with undisguised distaste. I guess he’d come to dislike me as much as I disliked him.

  Natasha looked at him with concern. She had felt his snub, and I knew her thoughts would be antithetical to mine. She cared if he was mad at us.

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me away to introduce the rest of group; they were the husbands of so and so, or this or that acquaintance. An ex-boyfriend and an ex-husband were in the group, which probably added to the cold-shoulder they initially gave me, but nobody asked me any personal or intimate questions. Of which I was thankful.

  Teddy still watched us with a smug look that rankled me. But of course, everything he did annoyed me. I left Natasha talking to her friends and edged back over to him. I had a burning desire to wipe that smugness off his face, even if I had to tell a white lie or two to do it.

  “Don’t know if you heard,” I quietly said, “but Jamal Johnson kept a journal—like a dairy—and I’m about to get my hands on it.”

  “Why would I give a fuck about that?” he snapped.

  “Because I hear you’re in it.”

  He looked at me with disbelief. “Bullshit,” he said. “What could he possibly say about me? I told you, I barely knew him.”

  “Evidently, he knows you. I’ll tell you more when I read the journal.”

  Teddy didn’t respond, but his eyes revealed wheels grinding in his head as if he were trying hard to process what I’d told him.

  I moved back to Natasha’s side. I didn’t think she’d even noticed I’d been away. She was talking and laughing, the center of attraction, which I was sure she was accustomed to in any gathering of males.

  I asked the group if anyone had seen Doctor Whitmore, the vet, and for a change, got a positive answer. One of them said the doctor was down at the Steeplechase barns. Something about a sick horse.

  Natasha explained to me that the Steeplechase barns were outside the narrow end of the track on the east side.

  “Is that close enough to walk?” I asked.

  “If you’re up to it. It’s five-hundred yards or so, I guess,” she said, “Why?”

  “I think I’ll take a walk down there and try to find your vet. Want to come?”

  “These Jimmy Choos I’m wearing aren’t made for hiking, but you can go. Just tell Dr. Whitmore you’re a friend of mine. He’ll talk to you. I’ll hang out here with the boys until you get back.”

  I noticed her drink was empty. “Can I get you another drink before I go?”

  “If you insist.” She handed me her glass.

  When I got back with her drink I noticed Teddy and Chuck had left. “Where’s Teddy?” I asked her.

  “He’s in one of his moods. Angry at the world. Chuck went to find his mother, I think.”

  I stayed and small-talked a bit with Natasha and her friends, then left her with them, and headed for the track.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Outside the USEC Center, I set off down the winding lane to the racetrack and the barn where I hoped to find Dr. Whitmore.

>   At the dead-end at Hunting Country Road, I hung a left and followed Hunting Country underneath the bridges of Interstate 26, as a steady stream of cars sped overhead on their way north to Asheville or south to Spartanburg. The highway presented a disconcerting modern sight and sound, contrasting rudely with the serene landscape of wooded hills and manicured meadows of Hunting Country Road below. I thought I heard a horse cross the road somewhere on a parallel course to me while walking under the bridges, but I realized it could have been the car tires bumping over the dividers in the concrete surface of the bridge above.

  I cut through the trees off the road to the course where the Upcountry Steeplechase would take place on Saturday. The lights from the barns to my left, which must be the where I would find Dr. Whitmore, illuminated part of the track. A dense layer of grass created a surface quite different from a flat dirt track like the Kentucky Derby’s Churchill Downs. The rest of the course, the infield, the other barns, and most of the four-mile track faded into the darkness beyond the barn lights.

  To my right in the middle of the track was a hurdle, or jump, looking very much like a hedge grown in exactly that spot for that purpose. I knew from my homework it was constructed of a steel frame, stuffed with either plastic “brush,” or fresh cut branches of evergreens, made to look like a hedge. I walked onto the track to take a closer look.

  Something stopped me. I felt it a split second before I heard it as the earth shook beneath my feet. Then the sound of thundering hooves came echoing from behind the hedge. I stood frozen in place for a second, trying to figure out what was happening, then, like the quarterback I used to be, my instincts drove me toward the base of the hedge to avoid what I realized was coming. A thousand pounds of leaping muscle and bone and lethal hooves were about to come over the jump and down upon me like a crash-landing plane.