Driving through the stable gate, Fred Rockston’s close buddy, the security guard Pete, sent me a cold and distant stare. Usually he’d offer a friendly wave. The few people who noticed me in Lorna’s Jetta stood still, their eyes following me down the road. I quickly learned to stare straight ahead. Lorna dropped me off just outside my barn. Before I climbed out of her car, I turned to her.
“Listen, you might want to keep your distance from me ’til this blows over.”
She looked offended. “I’m not turning my back on you. Babe, I’ve been there. I understand. Totally.”
She drove off, and I slipped into the relative security of my barn. I stuck my head in Jim’s office. Might as well get this over with.
He sat at his desk studying the overnight, probably for a race he’d entered. He half rose out of his chair when he saw me, his brows climbing up his forehead. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I said sliding into a chair. “Sorry I wasn’t here this morning.”
He waved the comment away. “What’s the matter with the cops thinking you coulda offed O’Brien? They give you a hard time?”
I relayed events, and read only concern on his face. I shouldn’t have worried about Jim, he was a stand up guy. Still, finding Dennis had shaken me. I’d shied from the image of O’Brien all morning, dodged it that afternoon.
Jim slammed his fist on the desk. The electronic calculator next to him jumped, then whirred and clattered as paper fed through the keeper and ink was wasted on a series of zero balances. “I’ve never even seen you smack a horse.” He glared at the calculator.
I leaned forward in my chair. “There was a dead horse in that stall with O’Brien. You know who owned it?”
“Huh?” He appeared to focus on my question. “Belonged to Janet LeGrange.”
Why didn’t that surprise me? “Don’t you think it’s kind of an odd coincidence that two horses are killed and they both belong to rich widows?”
“Nah, this place is crawling with wealthy women.”
Women sure, but widows? And what were the chances that O’Brien would be in there with a plain bay horse? I’d lay odds it was a Dark Mountain horse. “What are people saying, Jim? Do they think Dennis killed the horse?”
“What is she doing here?” A voice so familiar but so changed. Martha Garner stood behind me in the door to Jim’s office. “I know what you did.” Her eyes burned with outrage. “You killed my Gildy.”
“Martha, no. I didn’t . . .”
”Shut up. I want her out of here.” The woman’s narrowed eyes fired electric bolts at her trainer. “I mean it, Jim. Get her out of here, or you’ll never train another horse for me.”
“Easy, Martha.” Jim stepped from behind his desk. “Nikki would never do a thing like that.”
“Don’t you be so naive, Jim Ravinsky.” Martha turned on me, her face bright pink. “Who paid you, you little bitch? How much did you get?”
“Martha, why are you so sure it’s Nikki?” I knew that tone. Jim used it on frenzied fillies.
Her mouth set into hard, straight lines. “Janet LeGrange told me. She thought I should know. This person,” she almost spit out the word, “has access to all your horses, Jim. What are you thinking?” Martha’s smoker’s cough suddenly consumed her, and it only flamed her fury.
I’d never been on the receiving end of anger so righteous and virulent. It impaled me with unwarranted guilt, fear, and a sense of impending disaster. Attempting to reason seemed futile. My eyes slid to Jim, my voice a grating whisper. “I’m gonna leave now.”
Jim nodded. I sidestepped around Martha, who stood her ground, coughing and glaring at me, her gaze filled with hate, this woman who’d been my friend. I ducked out of the office, almost breaking into a run down the shedrow. I found Ramon, thrust a 20 at him, thanked him for feeding Hellish earlier, asked if he’d do it again that evening. “I gotta leave right now,” I said.
“What happen? You arrested?” Wariness shadowed his features.
“No, just questioned.” I slipped out the far end of the barn and avoided inquiring glances by studying my feet as they ferried me to my car.
At home, Slippers’ friendly greeting almost confused me, it was so out of line with the rest of the day. “Don’t you know I’m a suspect?” I spoke into the fur on the top of his head as I picked him up and closed my eyes. The cat’s motor cranked into big-purr, and I held on to him as I sank to the couch.
How could Martha think I’d killed two horses? It had to have been O’Brien, at least for Legrange’s horse, and probably for Gildy, too. Bastard. But I sure hadn’t wished him the cards he’d been handed. Who was the dealer? O’Brien hadn’t fired a bullet into his own brain, and whoever had was still out there. I shuddered, moved to the door of my apartment and stared at the motionless parking lot through my peep hole. I checked the door locks again, picked up the can of pepper spray I’d bought on the way home, then set it down it down and paced around my apartment.
The day’s events overwhelmed me around seven, and I crawled into bed, falling into a deep sleep for nearly five hours. Just after midnight I heard Arthur Clements snarling that I’d better get the hell out of his barn or I’d be sorry. I couldn’t see Dennis but recognized his voice. It sounded thin and wispy, like mist. “She was at Dark Mountain,” the voice said.
I sat up in a rush, my eyes flying open, my hand groping for the lamp switch. In the sudden light the room was, of course, empty. Only Slippers glared at me from the end of my bed. He hopped from the comforter and stalked out the door, his tail an indignant plume.
Arthur Clements, yes. Definitely my first pick for murderer. I’d mentioned him to the homicide detectives. Had they listened? Clements was in on whatever this thing was with the Dark Mountain horses, and he’d been angry at O’Brien. Had O’Brien been killed so he wouldn’t talk? About what? And that Jack Farino. He’d been there with them that afternoon.
I pressed my hands over my eyes, failing to block the image of Dennis slumped against the stable wall.
Kenny Grimes didn’t show up for work the next morning. Jim said he’d been missing the day before, hadn’t called in or responded to messages. I had to ride the entire morning schedule, and the horses just kept coming. Using my saddle and Kenny’s, the grooms, Ron and Ramon, pulled me off one horse and threw me up on the next. I felt like a pogo stick. Before long I was reeling, wishing I’d gotten more sleep. Where was Kenny?
The morning sunshine hurt my eyes and was at odds with my mood. A warm breeze carried humid southern air. I got a short breather when they closed the track at 8:00 for the interim harrowing. At 8:30, when they reopened with a smooth surface, I was supposed to work a two-year-old filly named Lavender that belonged to Louis Fein. In the meantime I sagged on a hay bale with a bagel and coffee. My debut ride on Hellish would have to wait another day.
Fein’s Jaguar eased its silver nose around the corner of the barn a little before 8:30. The incandescent blond hair in the passenger seat identified Carla. They came into the barn, and Louis disappeared into Jim’s office. Carla spotted me and headed over. She said something about telephone tag, and asked me what happened after I left with Clay that evening.
“We didn’t really hit it off that well.” Did Carla know about the murder? Her expression was open and bubbly, sort of like the pink stretch top she wore over jeans and cowgirl boots.
“That’s not the way it looked to me. You two couldn’t take your eyes off each other.”
“There might be more to him than I realized. Maybe not good.”
“Tell me.” Carla’s brown eyes were bright with interest.
I told her about the phone call he’d received, about the horse with two crosses of Destroyer, and him taking a commission at both ends, padding the price, wanting me to pressure Martha into the purchase.
“But he’s a salesman, probably just sees it as business. It’s not illegal, is it?”
I sighed. “Not really. There’s been publicity recently, an effort to curb games played at the bloodstock sales. Some agents and consignors can be pretty fraudulent. A group got together and wrote this code of ethics. I don’t know how they’ll enforce it. Too many different states, too many different laws.”
We both moved against the inside wall as Ron came by with the last horse I’d ridden. Light steam rose from the gray’s flanks and withers. Puffs of dirt followed his hooves. “Whoa, back,” said Ramon, halting the gray beside a water bucket hanging from a screw eye. The animal grabbed a few thirsty sips before Ramon tugged him away and continued cooling him out. The horse knew he’d get more water next time around.
I turned back to Carla. “I hate to think Clay would sell a horse to Martha for way more than its worth.” I still felt protective toward Martha? Yeah, I did.
“Clay’s got so much going for him. I think it outweighs a little wheeling and dealing. That’s how you make money, Nikki.”
I let it go, too tired and worn down by recent events to stand up for ethics.
Jim and Louis emerged from the office. Ramon brought Lavender down the shedrow. The filly was a pretty-faced chestnut with a white blaze and a lot of blond in her mane and tail. Ramon gave me a leg up while Jim held the bridle.
“She’s ready to go five-eighths,” said Jim. “Might as well break her from the gate, see if she can get her card.”
“What’s a gate car?” asked Carla.
Louis rolled his eyes. Jim was busy adjusting Lavender’s blinkers.
“A horse gets his gate
card
from the track starter once he’s shown he’ll load,” I said. “Then, he’s got to stand in there without going berserk, and zip on out in a straight line.”
“They don’t just do that?” Carla got a big eye-roll accompanied by an exasperated sigh from Louis. Trouble in paradise?
I jumped back in. “I’ve seen youngsters do all kinds of stuff. Refuse to load, rear up and flip over in the gate. Zigzag on the way out and trash whoever’s in the next lane. The starter forces the rogues to come back to the gate until they get it right. Every once in a while a really bad actor comes along and flunks out.” The last, I said over my shoulder as Ramon led me down the shedrow.
Lavender seemed precocious, willing to go with the program. She had potential. Jim had lined up another two-year-old from Burke’s barn to work with us and I met the rider, Luke, outside the barn where we headed for the track. The work went well, Lavender exploding from the gate like a blond bullet, going head-and-head with Burke’s colt, then opening up and outworking him by four at the wire. Galloping her out afterwards, I stroked her neck and told her she was a star. Luke had pulled up behind us and had already turned back for the barn.
Nearing the exit gap, I saw a group of watchers. Carla stood next to Jim, and Louis was huddled with Bill Burke and Janet LeGrange. A little pellet of dread sank in my stomach. This might not go well. I knew the gossip would be rampant by now. As we drew closer, LeGrange threw me a dirty look, her eyes even harder than her lacquered hairdo. Louis moved over to Carla and said something. Jim started tapping his lip, and Carla suddenly drew back from Louis and threw me a startled glance. Oh boy.
Normally I would ride closer, and we’d talk briefly about the work, but today I kept on going. In the barn Ramon waited for Lavender, and Ron held Bourbon Bonnet, all saddled and ready to go. I went, but not quite soon enough. Louis’s voice, as he came in the barn, was quick and urgent.
“I’m not saying I believe it, Jim. I’m saying I don’t want to take any chances. You know how much these horses cost me, and the mortality insurance is so high — they’re all way under insured. I don’t want her . . .” He grew silent when he saw me on Bonnet, turned, and walked in the other direction.
Carla’s face wore an anxious, embarrassed look. She threw an uneasy glance my way, then followed Louis. My corner was emptying out fast. Jim, as I might have expected, disappeared into his office. I rode through the rest of the morning, acutely aware that many riders who’d normally call out a greeting or bantering comment, ignored me.
Lorna and a few others asked how I was doing and it worried me how much I clung to these small signs of support.
I slid from my last horse after the track closed at 10, cleaned both saddles and was wiping my hands on a towel when a heavyset older guy in a cap approached me and asked if I was Nikki Latrelle. He had nice eyes, but they weren’t especially friendly.
“You got anyplace to go right now?”
I shook my head, wondering what this was about.
“Jerry Offenbach wants you in his office in the grandstand at 11. If I was you, I’d be there on time.”
“Could I ask what about?” Meeting with the chief investigator for the Maryland State Racing Commission did not make my heart leap with joy.
“Well,” he said,his voice edged with sarcasm, “it might be on account of you being found with two dead bodies yesterday?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. The man gave a curt nod and left. He moved across the pavement outside the barn, and I could see Arthur Clements’ attention drawn by the investigator’s departure. Clements was grinning.
I felt sick. A rabbit hole had opened up and sucked me in. It spiraled me downward so fast, my mind couldn’t catch up.
A prickle of internal radar shifted my focus. Jack Farino stood across the way. The planes of his face appeared harder than usual. He stared at me, a knowing, predatory look in his eyes.
Jerry Offenbach’s room hid inside the racing secretary’s offices next to the paddock at Laurel. Just outside and to the right of these rooms, a ramp and small set of stairs led to the jockeys’ room, and I wished like hell I were going in there — anywhere other than Offenbach’s lair.
Inside the room a long counter faced me. The assistant secretaries sat behind this all day, accessible, and in plain view of anyone who walked in. The top-dog racing secretary had her own office.
They must have been taking entries for races later in the week, as the phones were ringing nonstop. A couple of trainers stood at the counter studying the overnight sheet, an essential piece of paper. It told them if the race they’d entered had gone or not, and, if so, what post position they’d drawn, how many they had to run against, and if the jockey they’d requested ended up on their horse or someone else’s. When two or more trainers request the same jockey, the rider’s agent usually makes the call. I didn’t have an agent and could count on one hand the times I’d been named on more than one horse in the same race.
Eleven o’clock. I caught the eye of a nearby assistant named David, and in a low voice asked if the door to my left was the investigator’s office. He gave a little start when he saw me. Cocked his head sideways and with unnecessary volume said, “Here to see Jerry Offenbach? Have an appointment?
Of course you do.”
The two trainers at the counter turned as one and gave me a look. For some reason the phones stopped ringing, and I had everybody’s attention. A vending machine out of sight around the corner clanked, rattled, and dropped some junk food. Arthur Clements appeared, holding a bag of chips. He stared at me, then glanced toward the security office and smirked. I wished that rabbit hole would swallow me up.
I knocked on Offenbach’s door and heard a voice say to come in. I opened the door and stuck my head in. My body seemed disinclined to follow.
Offenbach sat at a cluttered desk to the left. He examined me with expressionless eyes. The man’s features were strong but well made. His hair was clipped short, lightly sprinkled with gray. I couldn’t guess his age. Probably over fifty.
“I’m Nikki Latrelle. Supposed to be here at 11:00?”
The man dwarfed his large leather office chair. He was that tall. I was real glad he was sitting down. He crooked a finger at me, flexing the joint to motion me closer.
“Come here.”
I crept forward two steps.
He pointed at a straight-backed chair.
I obediently perched on its edge. The man studied me, maintaining a long silence. I fought the urge to squirm. When his gaze left me for a moment to open a drawer and pull out a notebook, I felt like he’d released a pin that had me fastened to the chair.
“Tell me about Dennis O’Brien.” His thoughts remained hidden behind flat eyes.
“I only knew Dennis from the few races I rode up at Shepherds Town.” The room was small, crowded with three desks and some filing cabinets. Though the other desks were in use, Offenbach was the only investigator in the room.
“But you had an incident on,” he glanced at his notebook, “August 15?”
“I guess.” Two of the walls were painted dark green, and one had a door that appeared to lead directly outside. Probably so the chief investigator could snake out a long arm and collar unwary jockeys suspected of drug use or race-fixing.
“The man struck you in the face during the eighth race, pushed your horse into the rail. Your horse fell in the stretch, causing his death and you to be unconscious. You never lodged an objection with the stewards. Why not, Miss Latrelle?”
He had my attention.
“You don’t have an answer? Or did you have your own plan for paying him back?”
“No. That’s crazy.”
The door opened and the muted ringing of telephones grew louder. The assistant investigator who’d nailed me that morning came in. He was shorter than Offenbach, had warmer eyes. He sat at a nearby desk and rolled his chair to face me, said his name was Marvin Setz.
I’d heard they played good cop, bad cop. Not hard to peg the bad cop. The chief glanced at Setz. “I was asking Miss Latrelle about Dennis O’Brien.”
For the next hour I was like a fish on a grill. They asked the same questions in different ways, loud and soft, harsh and gentle. Tried to trip me up. I kept repeating my story, from Shepherds Town to finding the dead eyes on Dennis O’Brien.
The only time I saw a shift in Offenbach’s expression was when I brought up Jack Farino. His eyes moved to Setz, then snapped back to me, but neither investigator bit at my offering of suspects. Finally, I got mad.
“I keep trying to tell you that something’s going on with Arthur Clements and this Jack Farino guy. Why don’t you listen?”
Offenbach’s eyes remained about as readable as a steel wall. He could make a living playing poker. “You’re here to answer questions, not raise them.”
When they wound down, Setz said they’d give their report to the racing stewards. I didn’t like the sound of that. The stewards could do nasty stuff like suspend my license, rule me off the track. Setz interrupted my thoughts, nodding me to the door. The phone rang, and Offenbach answered as I stood to leave.
In the racing office, a group of jockeys’ agents were hanging around like vultures. An interesting species, their habit was to promise trainers their top jockey, then often renege by putting their good rider on a better horse, the moment an offer came along. Next these guys tried to stick the first trainer with a second-string rider. When the musical rider’s scramble came to a standstill, agents lurked about in the racing office, pouncing on any horse with a shot that came up riderless.
I’d seen this happen to Jim a number of times. He’d say no thank you to the second-rate rider and put me on. I had nothing against vultures. They’d provided me a number of rides.
I sidestepped the agents and slipped outside. The morning sun had given way to metallic clouds, heavy with rain. The wind had shifted to the north. Damp air brushed my back and clung like cold wet leaves. I suddenly realized Offenbach had been talking about me to whoever rang in as I left. He’d turned away from me, speaking quietly. Something about fingerprints.