Summer Kisses (137 page)

He skimmed his hands over Lazer’s legs. Tendons tight, no heat or swelling. He patted the colt, relieved he had come out of the race in good shape. He sensed Sandra’s lingering presence and glanced up.

“You seem preoccupied,” she said, arching her eyebrow. “If you and Julie are so wrapped up with breakfast and stuff, I can pony your horses. After all, you two did win me a ton of money.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Julie’s quite tired today.”

Sandra giggled. He tried to scowl, tried to hide his idiotic grin but it poked through anyway. He didn’t want to encourage Sandra, so scooped up the rolled bandages and strode from the stall, eager to lock up his tack room and return to the motel. He already missed Julie, and it was time to tell her the truth.

Sandra shook her head and picked up the wheelbarrow. “Better shave before you see her dad. It looks like you rolled out of bed, and he’s pretty protective. And tell Julie her picture’s in
The Herald
. They sponsored the race, so it’s on the front page. Even Otto saw it.”

“Otto?” Kurt jerked around. “Otto was here? Already?”

“Yup, he and another guy.”

“Did the other guy have a German accent?”

“How the hell would I know? Otto’s not one for small talk. It might have been the meat man. Soon the only running that horse will be doing is from a can—”

Kurt tossed his bandages in the aisle and brushed past. “Thanks for looking after my horses,” he said.

He rushed outside and checked the parking lot, squinting against the rising sun. Otto’s trailer was still there. He felt in his pocket for sunglasses but found only his phone. Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered through the mesh fence separating the lot from the road.

A beige sedan with a buggy whip antenna was parked by the curb. Coffee cups spotted the dashboard, and two heads poked out from behind raised newspapers. Obviously the surveillance team.

He pulled out his cell, pressing Archer’s number. A recorded voice requested he leave a message. No doubt Archer was already on the plane and out of reach. He turned his phone from vibrate to ring and sent a text message:
Call me
. Slipped his phone back in his pocket.

Apprehension twisted his gut as he scanned the parking lot. It was odd Otto had come to the track early, and he didn’t like oddities.

Still, everything appeared normal. Otto’s trailer was hooked to his truck, ready to haul his ill-fated horse to the meat yard, something Kurt didn’t intend to let happen. The surveillance people had slapped a tracking device on the pickup, so there wasn’t any danger of losing him.

But was his companion really the meat buyer? And why were they at the track so early?

Kurt rushed through every barn, accepting the smattering of congratulations as he tried to shake off his worry. Otto wasn’t in any of the barns. Nor was he slouched by the rail or lazing in the track kitchen.

He skirted the oval, following the walkway to the race office.

Tiffany’s sleek head was bent over her desk, but when she looked up her mouth curved in a warm greeting. “I heard about the race last night. Congratulations again,” she said. “You going to Champs tonight?”

“Not sure what Julie and I are doing,” he said. “Did Otto Laing stop by and pick up his horse’s papers?”

Her smile turned to a pout. She swiveled her chair, crossing her legs. “I told you before, I don’t know that man.”

“Did you issue any visitor passes this morning?” Kurt asked.

“Sounds like you want special favors again.” She leaned back, her thin blouse tightening in an attractive poise he was sure she’d practiced.

“Tiffany, please. Did you issue any passes?”

Her eyes widened at the snap in his voice and she turned, tight-lipped, to the computer. “Otto Laing picked up his horse’s papers this morning.” She didn’t look up, and her painted nails clicked over the keyboard with brusque finality. “But he didn’t request a pass.”

“Anyone with him?”

“No, just him.”

“Thank you.”

She inclined her head in a regal nod, but clearly he’d used up all his favors from the race office.

“Thanks, Tiffany,” he repeated as he wheeled away.

He stalked across the walkway, weighing scenarios. No pass had been issued so Otto’s companion must have his own credentials. Probably Friedman then, not the stock buyer. But the two men weren’t supposed to meet until this afternoon.

He checked his phone. Some mundane text messages, one e-mail about an allowance win at Gulfstream, but nothing from Archer. And surely Archer would know of any change in Otto’s schedule. The surveillance people had looked unconcerned, but if Otto had met Friedman on the backside they might not even be aware the two men were together.

Kurt rubbed the back of his neck, chilled at the idea of Friedman and Otto skulking around. His instincts clamored, and he itched for his Sig. From this side of the track, it’d be a short walk to his motel. He could pick up his gun and be back in less than ten minutes. Breakfast with Julie would have to wait, at least until he’d checked on Otto’s activity.

He jogged out the grandstand entrance and cut across the meridian, weaving through the blaring horns and exhaust from impatient commuters. Traffic sounds dulled as he followed the walkway to his motel room. The air turned quiet, almost subdued.

Julie hadn’t locked the door, had even left it slightly ajar. He smiled as he glimpsed her erect in a chair, hair still damp from the shower. Tendrils framed her beautiful face, but her expression was odd. She looked lifeless, blank as a store mannequin.

He charged in.

“Close the door,” an accented voice said behind him.

The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign swayed on the inner knob as Kurt’s hand jerked in shock. He turned and pushed the door shut, trying to breathe, trying to control that first jolt of fear.

Marcus Friedman studied him from the corner chair. In an elegant charcoal suit, Friedman could have been on his way to a business meeting. The thin leather gloves were out of place though.

So was the gun.

Kurt stared down the barrel. Looked like a Walther with a business-like silencer. A gloating Otto leaned by the corner of the door, but Kurt centered his attention on Friedman.

“What the hell?” He strained to inject the appropriate amount of bewilderment.

“Interesting picture.” Friedman gestured at the newspaper spread on the bed. The winner’s circle was grainy, but Kurt’s face was clear enough, smiling beside Lazer, Julie and the rest.

“Nice picture. Kind of you to drop it off.” Kurt raised an eyebrow at the gun. “What’s the problem? Did you think we wouldn’t like it?”

Friedman’s expression darkened. “No jokes,” he hissed.

Kurt shrugged, as nonchalant as he could be with that dark barrel leveled on his chest. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” Friedman’s words were squeezed through pinched lips. “But when a trainer moves. And claims my cheap horse. And visits my shop. And when a car starts following Otto—” His voice roughened. “Are you with the police?”

“I’m a private trainer,” Kurt said, “and I work for whoever pays me. And that girl needs to get back to the barn. Everyone’s looking for her. Go on, Julie.” He motioned at the door.

“Not yet,” Friedman snapped. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Kurt’s chest kicked in raw fear. “No.” He shook his head emphatically, his mind scrambling. “We won a race, celebrated together, a one-night thing. Nothing important.”

He ignored her gasp.

Friedman sneered. “She stays until we check your briefcase. Unlock it.”

“That’s not mine.” Kurt tilted his watch and made a show of checking the time. “One of my owners left it. He’s dropping by soon to pick it up.”

Friedman’s smile turned ugly. “Open it,” he said.

“Maybe Jollymore left it unlocked.” Kurt masked his eagerness as he stepped toward the briefcase. And his gun.

“Stop.” Friedman, no fool, waved him back and nodded at Otto. “You open it.”

Otto thumped forward. His beefy fingers rammed at the catch, jarring the room with futile clicking. “It’s locked,” Otto said. “We’ll have to bust it open.”

“Doubt that’s necessary.” Friedman’s narrowed eyes settled on Kurt, the gun steady in his gloved hand. “You can visit with the girl now,” Friedman said.

Otto dropped the briefcase. The tip of his thick tongue protruded between his lips, shiny with saliva and eagerness. He lumbered across the room. The air clotted with the smell of tobacco, sweat and Julie’s fear.

She cringed as Otto hauled her from the chair. He hooked a big hand over the front of her shirt and ripped. Buttons scattered, Friedman laughed and Kurt’s breath shredded.

He jerked his head away, opening and closing his mouth, but his chest was caught in a vise, and simple breathing hurt. A button careened across the floor, a white, pristine button stark against the stained carpet. He tried to swallow his bile, tried to play the bluff.

Clothing tore. A scream. Silence.

His chest twisted in agony, and he couldn’t not look.

One of Otto’s hands plugged her mouth while the other mauled her breast. Her bra dangled in strips, and a piece of tattered lace drifted to the floor.

Otto turned Julie toward Friedman, showing her like a prize. “I always wanted to get my hands on these tits.”

She bit at his hand, but Otto only sniggered and yanked at her pants, jerking until the snap ripped. The tearing sound was louder than her muffled whimpers.

“Can I fuck her now?”

“That’s up to our friend.” Friedman brushed a languid hand over the knee of his pants, but his perceptive stare locked on Kurt.

“4-6-11-22-12,” Kurt said.

Friedman’s mouth curved in satisfaction. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to take it. You’re not the type. Enough, Otto. Come open the case.”

Otto shot Kurt a glare but reluctantly dropped Julie back in the chair. He dragged an insolent hand over her breasts before swaggering across the room. She yanked her arms and knees to her chest, wheezing in shock, but couldn’t cover her nudity or the ugly handprints that blotched her skin.

Spots jumbled Kurt’s vision. He jerked his head away, knowing he had to control his rage if there were any chance of getting her out. He steadied his breathing and worked on unclenching every rigid muscle in his body while Otto fumbled with the combination.

A familiar click.

“Open the case, Otto. Put it on the bed beside me.” Friedman’s thin nostrils flared as he shuffled through the contents. “Unusual items for a horse trainer,” he said. “A gun, handcuffs.” He pulled out Kurt’s laptop and dumped some papers on the bed. A moment later he sighed with discovery. “Otto,” he said, “move our
cop
friend to the chair. Cuff him beside the girl.”

Kurt stiffened. Otto was strong but slow. This was his chance. Friedman stared then turned and deliberately pointed his gun at Julie. Goddammit!

Kurt walked across the room and sat.

Otto yanked his arms behind the chair and snapped the cuffs together. The man’s fist blurred, and Kurt’s head smashed against the wall.

Pain ripped through his jaw, scalding the back of his head. His vision blurred, but he heard Julie’s gasp, Otto’s triumphant grunt, Friedman’s chuckle.

He straightened the chair, corralling his pain, and Julie slowly came back into focus. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it burned the bottom of his face and felt more like a snarl.

She managed a shaky smile through a mouth framed with finger-shaped bruises, and his teeth clenched as he fought his primal need to kick Otto’s head in. Yet clearly Friedman and the gun were the real danger.

Kurt turned to him, forcing his jaw to move. “Let her go. She isn’t involved in this.”

“She is now,” Friedman said, not looking up. He bent over Kurt’s laptop, pressed a button and the computer whirred to life. “What’s your password?”

Kurt’s hopes plunged. Pretending he didn’t care about Julie hadn’t gained a thing. Friedman didn’t intend to let her go, and now his hands were cuffed.

“Password?” Friedman’s eyes were flat as a shark’s as they flickered over Julie. “We can always watch. Otto does give enthusiastic service.”

Otto’s belt clinked. He jerked down his zipper, his eyes glazing as he cupped his bulging crotch. Julie shrank with revulsion, her body trembling as she pressed against Kurt.

“2-9-4-rebel,” Kurt said.

“Wise choice.” Friedman’s fingers swooped over the keys, and the laptop beeped in acceptance. “Not much here except horse files.” He shot Kurt a look of consternation.

A muscle pulsed in Kurt’s jaw, a sliver of hope. But Friedman bent over the laptop and continued his search. “Ah, but this is interesting,” he said.

Sweat tickled Kurt’s forehead. His shirt stuck to the back of the wooden chair yet he was oddly cold, every nerve chilled. Friedman wouldn’t do it here. Connor had been found in his car. There’d be another chance. Had to be.

Friedman’s voice lowered with satisfaction as he recited from the screen. “Julie West and Otto Laing are persons of interest in the death of Corporal Connor O’Neil.” He looked at Kurt and shrugged. “It couldn’t be avoided. The man was kind enough to help Otto with a flat tire. Unfortunately he noticed a loose shoe and spotted the diamonds. I had to…dispose of him.” His voice hardened. “He shouldn’t have followed Otto to my shop. Shouldn’t have been sneaking around my alley.”

His tone turned malicious as he looked at Julie. “My dear, did you know you’re a murder suspect?” His dispassionate gaze flickered over her broken necklace, one end now twisted around the lace of her bra. “That necklace was made in my shop but the stone’s a fake, just like Mr. MacKinnon. How convenient he can claim
all
your services as expenses.”

Kurt ignored her choke. Friedman’s ominous confessions chilled him. He had to get her out.

“You’re right. She’s an expense,” Kurt said. “Means nothing, knows nothing. Let her go. No need to make things worse.”

“There’s no mention of my involvement,” Friedman said. His gaze swung to Otto whose belt dangled around his open jeans as he stroked himself and stared, slack jawed, at Julie.

“I’ve been reporting over the phone,” Kurt said. “We know the diamonds are hidden in the shoes. That they’re shipped into Canada so they’re harder to trace. That you’re sending them to Antwerp as costume jewelry.”