Summer Kisses (132 page)

“Packing up his apartment,” Archer said. “He had a few phone calls. One from Friedman, two about some gambling debts, and the last from a horse buyer. He made a deal to sell an eleven-hundred pound Thoroughbred to the local meat man.”

“That horse doesn’t weigh eleven,” Kurt said. “And he’ll weigh a lot less if they don’t pick him up soon. Maybe we should buy him. We might need him, you know, for evidence. He’s not a bad fellow. Be a shame if he went for meat.”

“Absolutely not. The last animal we bought wasn’t any use.”

“But maybe—”

“Forget the horse. Our phone tap confirms a payoff tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll pick up both men then. We’ll have full search warrants. If Friedman has diamonds in his possession, we’ll be okay. Maybe we’ll find the murder weapon or something that shows how they smuggled the rocks.”

“They had to come up in the shoes.” Kurt rubbed his jaw. “The second horse had his hind shoes pulled the moment he arrived at the track, same as the mare. Had to be a reason, but damn, it’s a puzzle. Julie saw the first set of shoes, said they were normal.”

“Julie, that jockey? Can you trust her?”

“With my life,” Kurt said.

Silence. Uncomfortable silence and it was clear they both remembered the time he’d trusted Anne Marie. But she’d been working him too; her loyalties were with the gang and when he’d confided he was undercover, an informant had been hurt. However that was years ago, before he’d learned to play it cool. Before he’d learned to stop feeling.

“Well, your instincts are good,” Archer finally said. “I know you don’t need the money, but I hope you’ll consider coming back to work for us.”

“This kind of work isn’t good for me,” Kurt said, rubbing his thigh.

Archer laughed but not unkindly. “It’s good for us though. You’ve one of our highest success rates.”

“Just let me know when Otto’s on the move,” Kurt said.

“Don’t spook him. And what’s this Friedman like? Will he give us any trouble?”

“Don’t know,” Kurt said. “But his employees are scared. And he keeps Otto in line.”

“Can you check him out? Get a read. His file is thin—I don’t want any surprises tomorrow.”

“All right. I’m picking up something from his store. I’ll try to talk to him then.”

Kurt parked four blocks south of ‘Pieces of Eight’ hoping the walk might help, but his thigh still throbbed from Cody’s boot. He approached from the back of the store and scanned the alley. The fender of a silver Mercedes protruded from the lone parking space. Marcus Friedman was in.

“Good morning,” Betty said, putting away her rag and spray bottle when Kurt walked into the shop. “Ted finished your piece. I have it right here.” Beaming, she centered a silver pendant on a blue velvet tray.

“Nice,” he said. “I like the way the mountain is feathered. And that stone at the bottom looks real.” He watched her face when he mentioned the stone, but her expression didn’t change.

“Even jewelers have mistaken zircons for diamonds,” she said.

“What’s the difference?”

“I think it’s the hardness.” Her shrug was quick and apologetic. “I don’t know much about them, but zircons are more sensitive to knocks. And the price, of course. This necklace is six hundred and eighty-five dollars. A real diamond would be much more expensive.”

He waved his credit card for effect then paused, holding it slightly out of reach. “I really would like to know more about this stone. May I talk to Mr. Friedman?”

Her eyes widened; she shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. He wants to finish his own work. In fact, Teddy and I have the weekend off. Monday as well.” She shook her head again, her expression imploring. “We really shouldn’t bother him. He doesn’t like interruptions and now…well, he’s very busy.”

“I’m very busy myself. And I expect he’d want to help a customer.” Kurt palmed his card, feeling like a bully as he leveled her with his relentless stare.

“Yes, well…maybe.” She pursed her lips, slowly backed away, turned and retreated into the back room.

Ten minutes later Marcus Friedman emerged, carrying the subtle smell of expensive cologne and a more obvious air of displeasure. He straightened the collar of his silk shirt, swept Kurt’s casual clothes with a look of disdain and sniffed. “You require some assistance?”

Bingo. A satisfied smile curved Kurt’s face. It was the voice. The voice from the barn—Otto’s late-night visitor.

“Yeah.” Kurt smoothed his expression, struggling to look like a confused shopper. “I’m buying this zircon pendant for my girlfriend. I need to know if she’ll believe it’s a real diamond,” he gave Friedman a man-to-man wink, “and what the difference is.”

“Of course, she’ll think it’s a diamond.” Friedman’s lip curled. “I’ve spent twenty years working with these stones. The absorption spectra is the difference, but you wouldn’t understand that.”

“Try me,” Kurt said.

Friedman’s lips thinned as he stared over the showcase.

“You’re probably right,” Kurt added, struggling for a little more humility. “I probably won’t understand, but I’d like to know. My girlfriend’s pretty smart.”

“The diamond measures ten on the hardness scale,” Friedman snapped, “the zircon only seven and a half. The zircon has double refraction so, of course, has inferior hardness. Typically the crystal system is tetragonal with indistinct cleavage. Specific gravity is four point six to four point seven.” He stared at Kurt, his voice slightly malicious as he recited. “Crystals are transparent to translucent.”

“I thought most zircons were colored.” Kurt’s humble smile hurt his face.

“This zircon has been heat treated to obtain its lack of color.” Friedman made a disparaging gesture at the necklace. “The stones occur in igneous rocks as browns and greens. In the Middle Ages, zircons were thought to bring wisdom, honor and riches. That they would drive away evil spirits.”

“Price seems pretty high for a fake rock,” Kurt said.

“You’re not listening.” Friedman’s voice rose, and his pronunciation became more clipped. “It is not a fake. Don’t confuse it with cubic zirconia, a cheap, artificial material.”

“All right, I won’t. Gotta admit, the silver design is nice.” Kurt gave a meek nod. “Thank you for your time.”

Friedman didn’t bother to reply. “No more interruptions,” he snapped at Betty before returning to the workshop. The door slammed behind him.

Betty’s cheeks flagged with pink, and she stared down at her thick-soled shoes.

“Thank you, Betty.” Kurt passed over his credit card, trying to hide his sympathy. “I imagine he’s tired, from his trip and all.”

Betty’s head bobbed. “Yes, he always likes to be alone after his travel. Usually he closes the shop for a few days. The break is nice except Ted works on commissions, and we need more sales.”

“Maybe Ted should take his best pieces home,” Kurt said. “Sell the stuff somewhere else, a place where there’s more traffic.” He scrawled his name on the credit card slip and pocketed the blue box. “He could always put aside Mr. Friedman’s share of the money.”

“Yes, maybe we should do that.” Betty tilted her head. “There’s a craft fair at the mall tomorrow. It’s a very busy spot.”

Kurt nodded in solemn agreement. By tomorrow evening, this place would be crawling with cops, and the jewelry in legal limbo. “I think you should take as much stock as you can,” he said.

Kurt tilted his chair against Cisco’s stall and flipped
The Racing Form
open to the eighth race. A mottled nose reached over his shoulder and snorted against the page.

“Yeah, Lazer’s not very impressive.” Kurt gave Cisco’s jaw an absent scratch. “He’s the only horse in the race who’s never finished in the money.”

He studied the form of the other runners. Frostbite and Brenna’s Hitter were the two speed horses, and both would want to be on the front.

Bixton was riding the favorite, Sweating Bullet, a horse with an explosive closing kick. The unbeaten colt had won all his starts from off the pace. Kurt remembered the horse’s morning gallops, and it was apparent he was training well. Bullet would be the one to beat, and the race would set up well for his running style. Frostbite and Brenna’s Hitter would battle early, but both of them looked incapable of rating—leaving it ripe for a late runner.

He couldn’t discount Brenna’s Hitter though. She was a game little filly and had beaten the boys before. If early fractions weren’t too fast, she was capable of wiring it, especially if the track favored speed. She had a win and a third but in her last start had hooked up with another speed horse and faded badly in the stretch.

Frostbite had one win but appeared to stop cold unless the pace was dawdling. Kurt circled that horse’s name. He didn’t want Lazer behind Frostbite after the quarter pole.

TerryJoh was a stalker and always a factor. In his last start he’d finished second to Sweating Bullet and had never run worse than fourth. Aussie Cal was a late runner and would be motoring at the quarter pole. He was coming off a win, but the time was leisurely. Probably a lightweight. Kurt drew a line through Aussie Cal.

He also crossed out the two remaining horses, Fort Point and Norvik. They were moving up in class and, unless they had great racing luck, would be well back.

And then there was the enigmatic Lazer.

Lazer had morning odds of twelve to one, based largely on his breeding and the fact that he’d raced at Woodbine. Kurt doubted the bettors would be as generous as the track handicapper. He added a heavy question mark by Lazer’s name.

It was possible the colt would run big. He loved the Calgary surface and was adept at the tight bullring turns. Kurt penciled a line through Lazer’s last race. That was in the cold rain, and Lazer had hated the weather. He drew another line through the first race. A horse could be forgiven anything their first start.

The second race was troubling though and not so easy to excuse. The jockey had checked Lazer to keep from clipping another horse, and the colt had simply stopped trying. The remaining races were just as mystifying. Maybe the colt lacked courage. Or maybe, as Julie believed, the loafing really was related to some sort of focus problem.

Kurt wasn’t certain but it was best to be optimistic, so he drew a heavy black line through the remaining three races. Now Lazer had a clean slate and looked damn good. He’d bet Lazer to win, Sweating Bullet second and the game little filly, Brenna’s Hitter, to hang on for third. Conditions were setting up for a nice payday. It was almost a sure thing.

Behind him Cisco gave a derisive snort, scattering water spots across the page.

For the second time that day, a warm mouth woke Julie. She pushed Blue away, stretched in contentment then dropped her arms in horror.

Oh, no.
She covered her face with her hands as her brain spit out memories, every one of them bad.

She’d been sick. Had she thrown up in Kurt’s truck? She scrunched her face, trying to remember. No, probably not. She had a vague recollection of sitting in the ditch. The shooters! Just the thought of them made her stomach lurch. She’d guzzled way too many of those silly drinks trying to forget her feelings for Kurt. And she had a huge race tonight.

Gingerly she lowered her hands and propped herself up. Everything worked. Her stomach and head hurt, but she’d ridden with much worse pain. It wasn’t such a disaster.

Not such a disaster! Oh, God!

She dropped her head in her hands, appalled at her behavior. The night before the biggest race of her fledging career, and she had drunk like an idiot, to the extent that the trainer himself had to drive her home. It was surprising he was still letting her ride Lazer.

She was hazy as to how she’d ended up in his truck. Hopefully she hadn’t begged him for a drive. Embarrassment surged, and her face hammered hot against her hands. Lucky she hadn’t been with Cody; she guessed he wouldn’t have been so mannerly. And Kurt had been a gentleman. He didn’t have to ply his women with liquor—quite the opposite.

She pressed the pillow over her face remembering that in the truck he’d been the one to push her away, literally. No doubt he’d be in one of his frosty moods today. And who could blame him?

Thump, thump
. Blue rested his head on the edge of the bed, his tail knocking the floor, his brown eyes shining with approval. He thought everything she did was perfect. She patted his head, marginally cheered by his devotion.

Besides, Kurt had been kind this morning. He must like her a little. Maybe with time his feelings would turn into a lot more. She was used to fighting for what she wanted, and it was a long season. She just had to make sure Lazer ran well so Kurt would stick around. And that he’d keep using her as his jockey.

Energized, she tossed the covers aside and scrambled from the bed. Rushed to the bathroom scales. One hundred and seven pounds. Great, she could use her three-pound saddle and hit her weight. She dashed into the shower, already focused on the race. Lazer had better be ready to run tonight, because she was going to insist he make a big effort.

Lazer swung his head, jarring Martin’s arm. The brush ricocheted off the wall and clattered to the floor.

“I tied him but he won’t stand still,” Martin complained as he bent down and scooped the brush from the straw. “He keeps pawing and jumping around.”

“He’s excited. Knows he’s going to race.” Kurt stepped into the stall and jerked on the rope. “Quit.”

Lazer stopped his gyrations. He still shimmered with energy, but Martin was able to brush his mane. “How does he know he’s racing?” Martin asked.

“Mostly from us. He senses our excitement. Plus he was only jogged this morning so there’s been a schedule change. He knows something’s up.”

Kurt watched as Martin brushed Lazer with proprietary pride. The kid was a good groom but kept such a low profile other trainers didn’t notice. It would be a shame to leave him without a job when he was clearly flourishing in the track environment. “Can you help me in the paddock?” Kurt asked.

Martin whipped around, eyes incredulous. “You mean tonight? In the race where everyone will be dressed up? Lazer’s race?”