The Trojan Colt (10 page)

“Such as?”

“Let me see. Where to start?” he said, frowning. “Or rather, who to start with?”

“There's more than Billy Paulson?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “That's up to you to find out. But let's start with Paulson.”

“Shoot.”

“He phoned the station thirty-eight days ago. He didn't expressly ask for me, just for any cop, and my phone wasn't in use at the moment. He told me that he'd learned something, or discovered something, or found something out—he was a little vague, not purposely; I think he just wasn't a clear thinker, at least not that day—and that he was scared. I questioned him, but he didn't want to tell me what was frightening him, just that he wanted a name to ask for if he came to some decision or other and wanted to call back. He also wanted us to search for him every day if he didn't check in with us—and we did, for a few days anyway.”

“Did he say what he might call back about?” I asked.

MacDonald shook his head. “Could have been to tell me what was frightening him, could even have been to ask for police protection. He was pretty vague. All I could get out of him was name, rank, and serial number . . . which is to say his name and where he worked, which doubled as his address. Mighty few grooms go home at night. One of the benefits of being a groom is that you don't pay room and board.” He smiled. “It's a consideration at any level. My wife says when we retire—she's working at Walgreen's—we should buy a little farm, partly for some retirement income and mainly because the house comes with the farm.”

“Okay,” I said. “So the kid worked for Bigelow. And you never heard from him again.”

“That's right.”

“That's all you had last night.”

He nodded. “That was everything I had last night. Today I've got a little more.”

“Okay.”

“I can supply the dots. I don't know if they can be connected, but that'll be your job.”

“We'll see,” I said. “What have you got?”

He was about to answer when Tilly approached the table and gave us each a plate of eggs Benedict smothered in hollandaise sauce, plus hash browns and toast, as well as a cup of coffee for MacDonald and a refill for me.

“Looks good,” I remarked.

“Tastes even better,” he said. “Trust me on this.” He turned to Tilly. “Someday I'm going to kidnap you, cart you off to a desert island, and have you cook just for me.”

“Get me a new stove and freezer and I just might go willingly,” she said with a smile, and retreated to her workplace behind the counter.

“So,” I said, “you were about to tell me something?”

“A few things. We figured that if the kid actually learned anything dangerous, he had to have learned it at Mill Creek Farm, since he lived there and according to his coworkers hadn't driven anywhere in his ancient Rambler for almost a week.”

“Makes sense,” I agreed.

“So we did a little research on Bigelow,” he continued. “The man's in deep financial trouble.”

“Well, until two days ago, anyway,” I said. “His place is falling apart. And it's the kind of damage that looks like it's been that way and getting worse for a few years.”

“It's more than the farm,” said MacDonald. “He needed money to buy the damned farm in the first place. The clothing company he owned went belly-up ten years ago, and the brokerage house he had a share in closed its doors four years ago.” He paused. “Not only that, but he owned three shares in Moonbeam and a share in Trojan, and he sold them all in the past eighteen months.”

“What would they have been worth?”

“Whatever the market will bear,” answered MacDonald. “Trojan syndicated into forty shares for thirty million dollars when he retired, so theoretically that makes each share worth about three-quarters of a million, but it's a free market, so if you want a share and no one will sell for that price, you pay a million or a million and a half or whatever it takes. And of course, if he produces ten or twelve stakes winners in his first crop, and maybe a champion or two, it'll be four or five times that much two years from now. Moonbeam is an established sire, maybe a dozen years old, so his price is pretty much set. Near as I can tell, shares are trading for about four hundred thousand.

“What do you get for a share?”

“Depending on the stallion and the agreement, one or two stud services a year. You can use them on your own mares or sell one or both to other mare owners.”

“So he made maybe two million dollars in the last year or so just selling those shares, and he still needed money?”

“He did when Billy Paulson went missing,” said MacDonald. “I don't know about now. He just got over three million for the Trojan colt, and he sold five others for another million and a quarter total.” He paused. “That's all I've got on Bigelow. The man was in trouble before the sale. He just picked up a quick four mil, so that may have gotten him free and clear. As for the kid, maybe he stumbled on something, some phony business deal Bigelow was going to dupe investors with.” He shrugged. “Or maybe not.”

“Well, it's something to look into, if my clients want to pursue the case,” I said.

“Dig in, Eli,” he said. “I kid you not, this is the best eggs Benedict in the state.”

I took a bite. Damned if he wasn't right.

“So,” I said, wolfing down a couple more mouthfuls, “is that all you've got?”

“Probably,” he answered. “I don't know.”

“
What
don't you know?”

“If I've got anything else. It seems awfully tenuous. The only connection is the date.”

“Try me.”

“Okay,” said MacDonald. “Another thing I did was check our files for anything unusual, anything of interest, the day Billy Paulson vanished.” He looked across the table at me. “You ever hear of Horatio Jimenez?”

“Sounds like a nightclub comedian.”

He shook his head. “Not hardly.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who is he?”

“A shooter from New Mexico.”

“Mob?”

“Indy.”

“So what's he got to do with Paulson or Bigelow?” I asked.

“Probably nothing,” answered MacDonald. “I have no proof, not even a hint that Bigelow knows him or even knows who he is, or that they ever had any dealings, and I'll bet the farm we're going to buy that he didn't know Paulson.”

“So why mention him at all?”

“Because someone answering his description—we think it was him, but we don't know for sure—was spotted in town the day Paulson vanished and hasn't been seen since. Until now.”

“Now?” I repeated.

“He occasionally stops by during sales week. Never attends the sale itself, never spends more than an evening here. We figure he's just renewing contacts—I mean, hell, the guys who can afford him are precisely the guys who can blow big money on untried yearlings—and this time we got a positive identification. Anyway, I checked the Hilton Suites, which is where he usually stays when he's in town, and where we assume he stayed last month.”

“So did he have a room there?”

MacDonald shrugged helplessly. “Who knows? Hitters don't travel under their own names, and they invariably pay cash for everything so they don't leave a trail. Anyway, he was out of there the next morning. Now, even if it was him, maybe he was just on his way to New York or Chicago—they like out-of-town shooters in the big cities—or maybe he actually had business here. And if he did, we don't know what it was, and there's no reason in the world to link it to Bigelow or Paulson.”

“Anything else?”

He shook his head. “That's everything.”

“No one else vanished from Bigelow's farm?” I persisted.

“As far as I can tell, no one else even quit. He must pay the staff on time. Most of them live hand to mouth; pay 'em late once or twice and they're gone. But outside of those two grooms, he hasn't lost anyone since Frank Standish started working for him maybe six months ago.”

“I met him,” I said. “Seems like a nice enough guy.”

“He must be,” agreed MacDonald. “Anyway, they seem to like working for him. Usually there's a pretty regular turnover, except when you get one of these billionaires who pays too much and wants everyone to feel like a big happy family.”

“I get the feeling that was never Bigelow's problem,” I said wryly.

“I don't know what his problems are, but he seems to have his share of them. Every now and then, when one of these huge operations goes down the drain, I can't help but ask myself: they had to be worth millions, probably tens of millions, to get into the game. Where the hell did it all go?”

“I'd say on horses who quit fifty yards short of six furlongs,” I answered. “But that's not Bigelow's problem. He never ran his horses.”

“Well, he probably bought some wrong horses,” said MacDonald. “Or some wrong mares, actually. You can't be much of a market breeder without a top broodmare band, and since he didn't race, he had to buy them.”

“I don't know much about breeding,” I said. “My interest in racing is pretty much limited to buying two-dollar tickets and ripping them up a few minutes later . . . but I'd have to say that if he can sell one yearling for over three million, Trojan colt or not, and five more non-Trojans for over a million total, he must have an eye for a broodmare.”

“Him, or Frank Standish,” replied MacDonald. “Well, Standish's predecessor. It's too soon for any mare Standish told him to buy to have a foal ready for market. Besides, from what I can tell, he probably couldn't drop more than fifty grand or so on any mare this year.”

“Fifty grand will buy you a hell of a nice car,” I said.

“Yeah, but it won't buy you the kind of mare you want to breed to Trojan or Moonbeam.”

“Okay, I'll take your word for it.”

He yawned. “If that's everything, I'm off to grab forty or fifty winks. Let me know if you find out anything interesting. And breakfast is on the Lexington police department.”

“Thanks,” I said, sliding out of the booth and getting to my feet as he did the same opposite me.

“You think anything I told you will help with your missing kid?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I think the first thing I'd better do is check in with his parents and see if they want to keep spending their money.”

“And if they do?”

“Then I've still got to find out what he thought he knew and why he thought he might have to talk to me about it the next day.”

He shook my hand. “Good luck, Eli.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I have a feeling I'll be needing it.”

The Sanders lived in a modest little ranch house on the edge of town—not the rich, thoroughbred-laden edge of town, the
other
edge. It was after nine-thirty when I pulled into their driveway and got out of the car. I figured Mr. Sanders would already have left for work, but they were both at home and had walked out to greet me before I was halfway to their door.

“Good morning, Mr. Paxton,” said Sanders. “Do you have any news for us?”

I shook my head. “I'm afraid not,” I said. “I just thought I'd give you an update on what I haven't found, and see if you want me to keep looking.”

I could tell by the way their faces fell that despite what I'd told them when they hired me, they'd pretty much expected me to have found Tony by now. They escorted me into the living room where Mrs. Sanders offered me, in quick succession, coffee, wine, beer, and brandy, all of which I turned down.

“Let me begin by asking you a pair of strange questions,” I said as they sat together on a couch and learned forward intently. “First, did Tony ever mention another Mill Creek groom, a young man named Billy Paulson?” I held up a hand before they could answer. “Now, this is going to sound strange, but he never met this Paulson fellow. They couldn't possibly have been friends. I just want to know if you ever heard him mention Paulson's name.”

Sanders shook his head. “No, not to the best of my memory.”

I turned to Mrs. Sanders. “And you, ma'am?”

“No, Mr. Paxton.”

“All right,” I said. “My other question: did Tony ever talk about Bigelow's finances?”

“He was just a kid working there,” said Sanders. “He wouldn't know anything about that.”

“He never talked about people dunning Bigelow for money?” I persisted. “Or about the sorry condition of the property? Or about maybe some paychecks bouncing?”

Sanders shook his head again. “He was only there a month, and he spent all his time with the horses. Well, with the one horse, anyway.”

“He could have heard rumors or other people talking,” I continued.

“If he did, he kept it to himself,” said Mrs. Sanders.

“Okay,” I said. “I only have one more question. Did he or any of his associates—friends, trainers, jockeys, anyone in the industry—ever mention a man named Horatio Jimenez?”