At Risk (12 page)

He introduced himself to his Howard County
counterparts, mentioned Detective Linquist, then looked at me.
"What've we got, Steve?"

For an answer, I pushed the door open with my
boot. Detective Ralston walked inside, looked around, and came back
out.

He yawned. "Did you touch anything?"

I rubbed my thumb across my fingertips. "The
light switch." I pointed across the room. "Over there." He looked
at me as if I should have known better. "I didn't in the other tack
rooms, though," I said and thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in
his eyes.

"How many people have access to this
room?"

"Fifty-plus."

Ralston grunted, and the plainclothes cop,
who was standing behind him, scowled. His expression said loud and
clear that he thought he was wasting his time.

"If the burglars had any sense," Ralston
continued, "they wore gloves."

"Even if they didn't," the plainclothes cop
said, "with all that traffic, it won't matter."

Ralston looked at the man, and a muscle
twitched in his jaw. "When's Gary gonna show?" he said.

The cop shrugged.

After the Howard County team stepped into the
tack room and dumped their equipment on the floor, Ralston went
back to his car. I separated out four flakes of hay, fed the last
two horses at the far end of the aisle, and squinted at Ralston's
car. He was on the phone, and I would have bet half my paycheck
that he was bending Detective Sgt. Gary Linquist's ear.

Five minutes later, Ralston strolled back
into the barn and stood looking into the tack room. He folded his
arms across his chest and watched the uniformed officer take
pictures. The glare of the flash bounced off the walls and the
ceiling . . . and Boris. I checked my watch. Seven-ten. It would be
a miracle if the crew didn't end up standing around with their
mouths open, gawking at the cat, then telling everyone they could
think of about it, and the story would become unnecessarily
sensationalized and blown out of proportion.

I stuck my head in the doorway. "Would you
let me know when you're done in there? I want to clean up as soon
as possible."

The uniformed cop looked up and nodded. "No
problem."

Ralston started in on the questions. I hadn't
seen anyone. The sodium vapors were still on. The place had been
dead. He rubbed his face. "You're the first person here every
morning?"

"Usually."

"How common's that knowledge?"

"I have no idea."

"What did you think when you saw the
blood?"

"That there was a person around the corner."
I looked him in the eye. "A dead person."

He grunted. "What did you think when you saw
the cat?"

I blinked. "Think?"

He waited.

"That someone was playing a game," I said and
felt that Ralston could read my every thought. Was sure he could
imagine every damn feeling I'd had the pleasure of exploring
earlier that morning. "A mind game."

"You think it was directed at you
personally?"

I shrugged.

"If it's the same crew, they probably had you
in mind." When I didn't respond, he said, "When, exactly, did you
discover the burglary?"

"Around five-thirty."

He frowned. "Was the blood dry?"

"It was damp. Kind of tacky."

"They hadn't been gone long."

I looked at the floor and kicked at a few
wisps of hay with the toe of my boot. Someone hadn't done a very
good job sweeping up the night before.

"You might want to change your routine."

Change my routine. Easy for him to say.

"So," Ralston said. "You think the events are
related because of the excessive brutality."

I nodded. "They didn't need to do that."

Ralston shifted his weight and leaned on the
doorjamb. "Burglars normally don't waste time leaving such an
elaborate message, not unless there's a reason for it. Especially
since they must have known they were running out of time." Ralston
poked his head into the tack room. "Did Gary tell you this case
might be related to an open homicide?"

The uniformed cop looked up from where he'd
been trying to enhance a print, a small brush poised in his hand.
"Yes, sir. He did."

"Also," I said to Ralston. "It looks like
they knew the layout of the farm. They didn't touch the school
horses' tack room. The saddles in there are cheap."

I glanced over Ralston's shoulder. Marty was
strolling into the barn, a questioning look on his face. I hurried
to cut him off.

"Steve, what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Someone made off with a truck load of
saddles and--"

"No shit."

"No shit. The police are collecting evidence
now, so please stay away from all three tack rooms. If you see the
guys before I do, let them know. Oh, and the school horses' tack
room wasn't touched, so you can do whatever you have to in
there."

"Wow. I don't believe it. First the horses,
now this." He calmly looked at my face. "Someone doesn't like us
very much, do they?"

"Apparently not. By the way, has this
happened before? A tack theft I mean?"

"Not that I know of. Not since I've been
here."

I sighed. The morning seemed to be going on
forever. "Let's get to work. Most of the haying's done over here.
Go help out in barn B, then we'll start turnouts."

"Okay, boss."

I watched him saunter off without a care in
the world, and I envied him.

A half hour later, the uniformed cop told me
they were finished in the tack room.

"How'd it go?" I asked.

"Everywhere they would've touched, we got
nothin' but smudges."

"They were wearing gloves," I said.

"Looks that way. We do have some good tool
marks to work with, which reminds me. I need your signature." He
handed me the clipboard and showed me where to sign.

"What good are tool marks?"

"Aren't good for nothin', not until Detective
Ralston figures out who did it. Then we can compare their tools
with the impressions."

"Oh," I said, and he could probably see I
wasn't impressed.

I watched him head to the other barn. Out in
the lane, Ralston and Detective Linquist were talking to Brian, and
I wondered when I'd hear about that.

* * *

I was leaning against a locker, working
halfheartedly on the inventory, when Mrs. Hill marched into the
room. I pushed myself off the locker and straightened my spine. She
circled the room with her hands on her hips.

I closed one locker, squatted down, and was
checking the locker on the bottom row when I became aware of a
stillness in the room. I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Hill was
standing in the middle of the room with her hands in her pockets
and her head bowed. I stopped what I was doing and stood up.

"Oh, Stephen," she said. "What a mess. I hate
to think what Mr. Ambrose is going to say when he hears about this.
He's going to have a fit."

I doubted Mr. Ambrose would care one little
bit. Although he was Foxdale's owner, his wife had been behind
Foxdale's inception. A talented rider who had represented the
United States in numerous Olympic and World Cup competitions, she
had died of cancer a month after the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

"He doesn't care about the place," I
said.

"Oh, that's not true, dear. He likes anything
that makes a profit, which we do. And I must say, you've helped
tremendously in that department. I tell him all the time what
innovations and improvements you've come up with. He's quite
pleased." She frowned. "He won't be now."

"No." I slid my pencil under the clasp on the
clipboard and thought about money and insurance . . . and tax
write-offs. Contrary to what he tells her, what if Ambrose wanted
Foxdale to lose money? Even if he was rolling in the stuff, I found
his avoidance of the place a little strange. "Who do you send the
payroll information to?" I said.

She frowned. "Farpoint Industries in
Baltimore. Why?"

"Just curious."

"What are you doing?"

"Working on a list for the police." I looked
at my scribbled notes. "But without the boarders' help, it won't be
complete. I don't know the saddles' values. All I can do is write
down the names of everyone who's had their saddles stolen. And if
by chance they've taken them home to clean, I've got that wrong,
too."

"You're right. I'll start making calls. We'll
need an accurate itemization from each boarder."

I looked at her face and saw by her
expression that she'd already shifted into high gear. Making plans,
working out procedures, focusing on the days ahead. She turned and
left with a characteristic "Carry on, dear," floating over her
shoulder.

I carried on but with little enthusiasm.

The resultant uproar was predictable and
worsened by the fact that Foxdale was holding a schooling show the
following morning. Two boarders gave notice that they were taking
their horses and belongings elsewhere. I overheard more than one
boarder asking Mrs. Hill about a night watchman and privately
wondered how she would fare with the frugal Mr. Ambrose.

Three boarders asked if I knew where Boris
was. I didn't. No one seemed to notice that he had disappeared
along with the saddles. Dave spent all of the afternoon and most of
the evening restoring the tack rooms to their former perfection,
and life went on except, of course, for Boris.

* * *

Sunday afternoon, "the schooling show that
wasn't" was thankfully half over. Some of the boarders had borrowed
saddles, but most had stayed home. Sitting around, watching
competitors from other farms win all the ribbons, was no one's idea
of fun. I walked into the southwest field that served as a parking
area during show days and scanned the rows of trailers.

Checking had become a habit. Checking locks,
checking horses. Checking trailers, looking for the elusive dualie
and old trailer, my personal introduction to hell.

There were far too many trucks and trailers
in the pasture to check them from a distance, so I walked up and
down the rows. Quite a few saddles had been left sitting on their
stands. On the off chance I might recognize one of the more
distinctive saddles that had been stolen from the tack room, I took
note of them, too. More checking.

There were few people in the parking
area--most had gone to lunch--so I was surprised to hear heavy,
quick footsteps behind me. Before I could react, someone grabbed my
shoulder and spun me around.

He tightened his grip on my jacket. "What in
the hell do you think you're doing, snooping 'round out here?"

I looked up at him. Had to. He had a good
four inches on me. Maybe thirty-five, and overweight, I had never
seen him before. He didn't look like a rider or a trainer.

"You looking to steal somebody's stuff?" He
shook my shoulder with each inflection of his voice. "Is that it?
What're you doing? Speak up."

He hadn't given me a chance. I resisted an
urge to kick him in the shins and said with irritation, spitting my
words out slowly, "Actually, I was looking for stolen tack . . .
not trying to steal any." I exhaled and made an effort to relax.
"I'm Foxdale's barn manager. Somebody cleaned out our tack rooms
Friday morning, and I was hoping to find a lead of some kind."

"Oh." He let go. "Sorry, then. I heard about
that."

I smoothed out my shirt. "Have you had any
tack stolen?"

"What do you think? I run a show barn in
Pennsylvania, and right before Christmas, our tack room was broken
into." He ran a hand through his hair and stared off into the
middle distance as if reliving the event. "We couldn't believe it
'cause our house sits across the road from the barn, and somebody
had the balls to go in there with a truck and empty the place out.
We never thought it would happen to us."

"No." I sighed. "Have you had any horses
stolen?"

"Hell, no."

"Do you know anyone who has?"

"Yeah. Come to think of it, I do. A buddy of
mine had four of his horses stolen right from under his nose."

"When?"

"Two years ago. Maybe longer. Don't rightly
recall."

"Where does he live?" I asked without much
hope.

"He runs a dressage barn in northern Carroll
County, just south of the Maryland-PA line. Four of his best
horses, gone without a trace, and he didn't have any damn insurance
on them, either."

Carroll County. James Peters lived in Carroll
County. We weren't far from Carroll County. The world wasn't that
small a place.

"What's your friend's name."

"George Irons. Why?"

"I'd like to talk to him. Do you know anyone
who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored six-horse?"

"No."

He'd answered quickly, without thinking. "Are
you sure?" I said. "It's important."

He smoothed a hand over his hair and down the
back of his neck. "No, can't think of anyone. Why?"

"In February, someone stole seven horses from
Foxdale with a rig like that. And last June, seven horses were
stolen from James Peters' farm in Carroll County. Ever heard of
him?"

"No."

"Apparently the same truck and trailer were
used. If you see a rig like that, could you let me know? Just call
Foxdale. Ask for Steve."

"Sure, but you aren't ever gonna get your
horses back."

"I know. But whoever did it, whoever stole
the horses . . . murdered James Peters."

His mouth fell open, and he gaped at me like
a fool.

I knew intimately how he felt.

He gave me an idea, though. A risky idea,
nonetheless. From that day on, I would tell everyone I met the same
thing. Many of the exhibitors traveled a circuit. Who's to say the
thief slash murderer wasn't doing the same thing elsewhere. With
luck, I might learn something useful. Consequently, I spent the
rest of the day, not watching the show, not working, but talking.
By the end of the day, there wasn't a soul on the grounds who
hadn't heard of James Peters, the stolen horses, and the white
dualie and old six-horse.