by Sasscer Hill
This guy's personality was as mismatched as his legs. "Fine. But what am I supposed to do?"
The investigator relaxed a bit, leaned against the hood of his SUV. "What I said before. Keep an eye out for anything peculiar with other riders. Stopping the favorite. Carrying a battery. Anyone appears to be on drugs."
I'd seen a jockey or two pretend to ride-out the favorite when in reality he had a stranglehold on the reins. But the stewards usually caught it if they reviewed the race film carefully. Or if someone gave them a tip. I'd never seen anyone with a "battery," a small device like a miniature cattle prod used to make a loser win. Of course, that was the idea. You weren't supposed to see it. How would I . . . then the obvious hit me.
"I don't have access to the male jocks' room. I won't know what's going on in there." The cold breeze picked up again as a cloud scudded across the sun, darkening the stable area. I fumbled with my zipper, trying to close my jacket.
Cormack's lips compressed into a dismissive line. "I know that. But we have more girl riders each year. I need to keep tabs on everyone."
So, he had a spy among the guys already. Of course he did.
"And Ms. Latrelle, keep an eye out for anyone in trouble."
"In trouble?"
"You know, like the Martinez boy."
An increasing chill prickled at my hands and face. I shivered, pushing away the memory of Paco collapsed in that hallway. "I'll do what I can. Could I ask you a question?"
He rubbed his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut a moment, then nodded.
"Lorna and I got here Tuesday evening and set up the shedrow. We drove out of here after nine, and there were police all over the road. We saw a body, saw the guy's face." I paused. "It was horrible, like melted wax. Was that someone from the track?"
Cormack straightened. Worked his lower lip between his teeth. "Police think it's a murder victim. Someone dumped the body. Maybe drug related. Victim's still unidentified. Management's hoping it wasn't anyone from here." He stared off toward the horizon a moment.
"Now let me ask you a question. Who clocked your face?"
I'd almost forgotten how I looked. The swelling had gone down and it didn't hurt much. I told him about the mugging, and his teeth got going on his lower lip again. "Methamphetamine's a nationwide problem," he said. “Got it here in southern Virginia." He exhaled slowly. "You say that man's face looked like it melted?"
When I nodded, he said, "Might have been a lab fire. These people cook up pseudophed with some nasty chemicals to produce meth. Stuff's real volatile. Blows up, torches everything in its path. Local county hospitals get a lot of burn victims. Most of ‘em don't have insurance. Gets real messy.”
A Dumpster truck lumbered toward us, heading for a nearby manure container. The engine whined as the driver reversed, grinding the rig back, stopping inches from the metal container and slanting the truck bed to the ground. The driver hopped from the cab, hooked the winch cable to a loop on the nose of the container, then climbed back in the truck. With metal shrieking, and gears moaning, the machine dragged the container onto the truck.
Cormack gazed at the bare spot where the container had been. "Too bad law enforcement can't use one of them things to clean up the meth problem." He rubbed at the corner of one eye and yawned.
In the colder air, a hot fetid steam had begun to rise from the rotting manure. The driver shifted into gear, the truck lurched forward, and just like that, the whole smelly mess disappeared around the corner.
Something tugged at my peripheral vision. Bobby Duvayne walking along the shedrow toward Lorna. He'd pulled his glossy brown hair into a ponytail, enhancing the finely molded bones of his face. A beaded woven-leather strip adorned his neck. Faded blue jeans hugged his long muscular legs. I felt like whimpering.
When I glanced at Cormack, his eyes were studying the newcomer. Bobby spoke to Jim and shook my boss's hand. Lorna, practically vibrating with excitement, stepped closer to Bobby, touching his arm, then his hand like she couldn't stop.
Cormack shook his head.
"What?" I said. "Is there something we should know about him?"
"Tell your girl there to be careful." A deep weariness appeared in the investigator's eyes as he sighed. "Police think young Duvayne might have some connection to a multiple homicide happened a while back."
"Homicide?" Oh, God.
"The way I heard it, two friends of his were killed. Duvayne might've been at the scene or know what happened. But he's never talked. Police think the murders were drug related."
Why didn't that surprise me?
Cormack pulled out a slim leather wallet and a pen. His manicured fingers selected a business card. "This is my private number." He scribbled it down. "Far as anyone's concerned – and especially young Duvayne over there – we’ve been discussing your filly and Pinkney. You got that?"
His words faded against the noise inside my head. Homicide. The question wouldn't wait. "Who was killed?"
But I already knew the answer and felt a dizzying surge of panic.
"Cheswick boys." He pushed his card at me. "You're staying in the cottage where they used to live."
Chapter 16
Sitting in a blue side-chair in the women's lounge, I struggled to pull on my paper-weight racing boots and suppress mental questions about Bunny Cheswick's boys. I squeezed the second boot over my heel, staring at the spacious and comfortable jockey’s quarters.
In September of 1997 a group of Virginia horsemen had won hard-fought legislation to return pari-mutuel wagering and live racing to the Commonwealth. By that time, women jockeys had come a long way. When Diane Crump rode that first race at Hialeah back in 1969 she'd been forced to change in the public ladies room nearest the paddock.
Whoever designed the Virginia track had acknowledged women riders weren't going away. Instead of the narrow lockers I struggled with at the older Maryland tracks, Colonial's large dressing room had a long wall of pale blue dressing cabinets, each with a rod for hanging clothes, a large well-lit mirror, and a counter with cabinets underneath. The clutter of shampoo, cans of mousse, moisturizers and a pink cosmetic bag might seem incongruous with the tough sport of race riding, but we were female and needed our hair products.
I slipped on Amarilla's silks, closing the Velcro strip down the front before tucking them into my white nylon breeches. The body or "jacket" of the silks was a rich brown, the sleeves and collar an iridescent yellow. The program described the knifelike design stitched at chest level as "crossed gold swords." Looked more like yellow-jacket barbs to me. My riding helmet, snug in a matching yellow cover, lay on a wood table next to me. I poked a finger at the brown pompom adorning the top.
Over the outside loudspeaker I heard the track announcer calling the fourth. My race would be soon. Ready or not, Sunday had come at me like a church collection plate, and I had to give Stinger what I could. Saturday evening I'd studied tapes of his last few races, noticing his habit of gunning to the lead early, then burning out in the stretch. I'd have to see if I could get him to relax and save some fuel for the finish.
Kim Kravel, and another rider I didn't know, came into the lounge giggling and carrying paper sacks from the jock room's kitchen.
"Hey, Nikki," Kim said. "You in the fifth?"
I nodded and pulled my helmet closer to make more room for the two women as they sat at the table next to me, pulling sandwiches, drinks and napkins from their brown bags.
"Didn't you have one in the first?" I asked Kim.
Her freckled face lit up. "Yeah, horse named Will Not Be Denied."
"And he wouldn't," Kim's companion said.
"You won?"
Kim swallowed a bite of turkey-on-rye. "Yeah, he . . ."
A taller, bony girl wrapped in a damp green towel walked from the shower area at the room's other end. Her dark hair hung in a wet mat about her shoulders. Susan Stark.
I hardly recognized her and wondered if her appearance had quieted Kim. "Painfully thin" would be an understat
ement. Her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut bread.
Kim stared, a smoldering anger heating her eyes. "You almost cost me the win, Stark."
The skeletal girl wrapped her towel tighter, glaring at Kim. "My horse drifted. Sorry if he got in your way."
She didn't sound sorry, and I hoped a fight wasn't brewing. I put my hands on the edge of the table. Never hurts to be ready to go.
"Had a hole big enough to drive the starting gate through and you fucking blocked it. I had to go five wide. You cost me a lot of ground, and I know why."
Stark's dark eyes cut to the floor. She turned and moved toward her dressing cabinet.
But Kim had just gotten started. "You're so starved you couldn't even steer the damn horse. If you want to kill yourself, that's your business, but stay the hell out of my way!"
"Easy, Kim," I said.
"Well she shouldn't have gotten in my way." But her voice had softened to a grumble.
Stark swung a cabinet open, snatched a carryall, then slammed the door shut. She didn't say anything else. She grabbed a hairbrush from her bag, but her hand trembled and she dropped the brush, then had to steady herself on the counter after leaning over to grab it from the floor.
Weak and thin. Anorexia, or were drugs involved? The girl was in trouble. Should I tell Cormack? He could still rule Hellish off and make trouble for Mello.
"If you're in the fifth, you'd better get a move on." Kim pointed at the wall clock.
My fingers worried Amarilla's pompom as a rush of race nerves punched my stomach. I'd probably never be anointed with one of those slick names like "The Ice-woman," or "Cool Hands Nikki." Still, I needed to stay focused. I took a long slow breath, then dashed for my tube of gel, and slicked back my short, spiky hair in less than five seconds.
I slid my helmet on, locking my hair in place. I'd have a nasty case of helmet head later, but no stray strands would whip my face in the meantime. I bolted from the ladies' lounge into the main hallway, where three guys riding in the fifth headed for the paddock.
Outside, the previous day's cold front had left the air crisp. Breath steamed from the nostrils of a big bay that marched past, dragging his groom around the oval paddock. I glanced at the four horses already circling. Stinger and Ramon hadn't come in yet.
Amarilla Chaquette stood in the grassy center with a tall, flamboyant man who smoked a brown-and-white pipe decorated with carved ivory curlicues. Amarilla and her companion wore brown felt hats sprouting canary-yellow feathers, the style suggesting an Alpine shopping spree. The colors woven through the man's richly-textured tweed complemented Amarilla's flame-gold velvet suit worn beneath an ankle-length fur vest.
"Just taking in the scenery, or riding the four horse?" Will Marshall had pushed through the door behind me.
"That's the owner, the woman with the big sunglasses."
Amarrilla's pipe smoking companion turned sideways, revealing a magnificent belly. As he marched across the manicured lawn to speak with another man, Pipe Man's stomach extended so far ahead it appeared to be leading him.
"Somebody should put a leash on that thing." Will said.
I snickered, then noticed Pipe Man speak to a tall guy who looked familiar. Their conversation appeared urgent. Then I remembered, Chuck Cheswick, our landlord. The father of the murdered boys.
Ramon led Stinger into the paddock, and my attention narrowed to a pinpoint. I could almost feel the horse's anxiety. The way the veins popped on his skin told me his heart pounded as wildly as his eyes stared. The little gelding knew he was going to run. I hurried over to stall four, where Lilly Best, who'd offered to help out, stood waiting for the valet to bring the saddle and girth.
"Little nervous," she said, eying Stinger as Ramon led him past.
"I think he hates the whole business. Owner put him in. What he needs is a rest."
Lilly nodded.
All nine entrants had arrived and were parading around the paddock. Across the grass oval, a crowd crushed against the railing, intent on Daily Racing Forms, track programs, cups of beer and the horses. A small child waved his arms and crowed from the shoulders of a man, causing a horse to skitter sideways.
Amarilla had joined Pipe Man, who appeared to speak sharply to Cheswick. My landlord rushed away toward the grandstand, his long stride appearing ungainly as if the length of his legs had forced his hip joints to work too hard for too many years. The paddock judge called, "Put your horses in," and the grooms began to lead the animals into the saddling enclosures. Though cranked, Stinger kept a tight lid on as he stepped into his slot. Two doors down, a flashy looking gray reared, then kicked the stall wall, the crack loud and ringing. From the grass, Amarilla stared at me as if I'd committed a crime. What was her problem?
The valet showed up, and he and Lilly smoothed the folded saddle towel onto Stinger's trembling back, placing a rubber pad and my tiny saddle on top.
"This girth's too big." Lilly glared at the valet. "Get a smaller one."
The man dashed toward the jocks' room, and my stomach did a lovely series of flips. No pressure here.
Somehow, they got the horse saddled in time for the paddock judge's call of "Riders up!" and before I knew it, I was out on the track moving Stinger into a gentle warmup.
As the race was a six-furlong sprint, the tractor had pulled the starting gate to a point exactly three-quarters-of-a-mile before the finish line. From the paddock I jogged Stinger the wrong way, heading backwards up the home stretch, keeping the gate far away, catty-cornered across the mile-oval. Stinger didn't need to be confronted with the rattling steel monster any sooner than necessary. I listened to his body. He seemed fluid enough, but I still wondered why Amarilla had entered him in such a competitive race.
When a horse runs for a $40,000 claiming tag, there's bound to be some good horses in there with him. The two and the eight were co-favorites. Neither had run for a tag before, their past performances listing only non claiming or "allowance" races. In the track vernacular, these two were "dropping down."
The two horse, the flashy gray, floated by us on long loose legs. He carried a healthy amount of flesh and a gleaming eye. The ever changing numbers on the tote board declared him the favorite. I searched the field and spotted the eight horse, now picked to run second. A sturdy bay, so dark he appeared black. Damn, he looked good, too. I patted Stinger's neck.
Will came alongside on the six horse, an unassuming bay with dull past performances. "Can your horse run?" he asked.
"Not really," I said. "What about him?"
"Like a potted plant." He booted the horse into a slow gallop and left us behind.
"Come on, Stinger. Let's get this over with."
The assistant starters loaded us up fast. One horse tried to bust out of his stall, others thrashed about. When it grew quiet, the starter hit the switch. The gate crashed open.
Stinger was out of there quick as a wink, rushing for that early lead. We lay about fourth. I took a long, slow hold and steered him over toward the rail, neatly covering him up with the front runners, leaving him nowhere to go. Relax, little dude.
We raced down the backstretch and headed into the turn. Some of the riders started making moves. No whips, just more body action, arms, backs and seats pumping the horses. The gray moved alongside me, crowding me into the rail. I sat chilly, asking for restraint, and Stinger listened, allowing the favorite to go by. I waited. Then waited some more.
We were through the turn, at the top of the stretch, lying about sixth, when I asked him. Stinger turned on the speed, rushing to the heels of the gray just ahead. I planned to use the favorite and hoped he'd live up to his short odds. He did, shoving his head into a nonexistent hole next to the rail, hammering through it. Mental "Yes!" as Stinger drafted in his wake.
We'd saved ground, and I still had some horse under me. We lay second, the wire coming at us fast. I asked Stinger for more, but the gray opened up, leaving us behind. The black horse loomed in my peripheral vision. No! My hands and legs
got busy scrubbing Stinger out. He dug in, holding head-and-head with the black for a few strides, but at the wire the second-favorite shoved his head forward, leaving us third by a whisker.
Damn. We almost had the place. But hey, we were supposed to be last. I eased Stinger, slowing to a canter as Will and his potted plant caught up with us.
"How'd you manage that, Latrelle?"
I just grinned, too busy sucking air to say anything. Wasn't every day a plan worked so well. I really had Stinger's number. I pulled him down to a jog and turned toward the waiting grooms.
Amarilla stood behind the rail, near Ramon, her eyes boring into me. What kind of trouble was I in this time?
Chapter 17
Ramon held Stinger while I dismounted. He'd dressed up to bring the horse over for the race, wearing a crisp white shirt, neatly pomaded hair, and pants as tight and black as a matador's.
"This horse, he run a little, no?"
"Yeah, he can." I loosened the girth and pulled the saddle from Stinger, who tried to scratch his sweaty head against Ramon's shoulder. The poor horse had been running steadily for almost two years. Who knew what he might do with some time off? I searched for Amarilla's yellow velvet, but the woman had disappeared. I needed to find her, convince her about Stinger. Daffodil, too.
"Excuse me, Ms. Latrelle?" A small man with wet lips and a false smile stood next to me. He clasped his palms, as if in supplication. "The Baron and Ms. Chaquette would like you to join them for a drink in the Baron's suite."
I stared at the guy a moment, taking in his pointy nose, weak chin, and the way he fluttered like a baby bird. The word flunkey came to mind. He was probably over thirty, but I worried he might cry if I declined his invitation.
"Sure, I guess. After I change." And do something about the helmet head.
"Wonderful, wonderful," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Take the elevator to the fourth floor. Ask for the Baron's suite. They'll know who you mean." He nodded several times as if agreeing with himself, then scuttled off. His diminutive form disappeared into the crowd.
