The Trojan Colt (9 page)

“Nope.”

“Poor bastard. She trains for a couple of big stables out West—and she also posed for some magazine's center spread. Talk about everything in one package! Too bad Frank didn't see her first.”

“Your sympathy is heartwarming,” I said. “Now how about my sandwich?”

He walked over to the grill and was back a few minutes later.

“I don't mean to be nosy,” he said nosily, “but why the hell are you still here?”

“I'm looking for Tony Sanders.”

“The groom. Wish I could help you.”

“Let me try one more name out on you,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“Billy Paulson.”

“Didn't he used to ride at Bowie or Delaware Park?”

I shook my head. “He's another groom.”

“So two of them flew the coop during the sale? That's unusual.”

“No, Paulson's been missing for a month.”

“Who knows where the hell he's gotten to by now?” was the response.

“Oh, somebody must,” I said.

“Lotsa luck,” he said, and walked off to serve another customer.

Problem was, luck was in short supply—or at least it was until I pulled up to the Motel 6 lot and walked in the front entrance.

I don't know why I walked into the lobby. I already had a room; all I had to do was park in front of it. I wasn't short of cigarettes or change, and they didn't sell beer. Just force of habit, I guess.

“Hi, Mr. Paxton,” said the clerk. “Phone message for you. You can pick it up on your room's phone, or I can give it to you right here.”

“I don't think I have any secrets worth hiding since I broke up with Pam Anderson last week,” I said. “Let's have it.”

He handed me a slip of paper he'd written on. His scrawl was so illegible that I couldn't make out a word of it.

“A Mr. Berger phoned and said to contact him, that he had some information for you.” He shrugged. “I don't know what it could be. They haven't run at Keeneland since the end of April, and the sale ended a couple of hours ago.”

He looked at me expectantly, as if I was supposed to confide in him.

“Paris Hilton's boyfriend,” I said. “Jealous as hell.”

“You private eyes do get around,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “That's why we all stay at Motel 6's. Those jealous boyfriends never think to look for us here.”

I went to my room, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and walked over to the phone. The message light was blinking, and I pressed it, then sat down to hear what Berger had to say.

“Hello, Eli? This is Lou Berger. It was a slow afternoon, so I had time to do a little checking in our files, and I found something I think might interest you. I'll be here 'til eight tonight, or give me a call tomorrow.”

I checked my watch. It was a quarter to seven, and his office was no more than seven or eight minutes away, so I hopped back into the Ford and drove over to the police station.

Bernice the redhead gave me a welcoming smile as I entered.

“Welcome again,” she said. “I assume you're here to see Officer Berger?”

I nodded. “That's right. I believe he's expecting me.”

“I'll take you there,” she said, starting to walk around the desk.

“It's not necessary, Bernice,” I said. “I can find my own way.”

“How did you know my name is Bernice?”

“You just look like a Bernice,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Gorgeous, redheaded, not a hair out of place, not a button unbuttoned. What could it be but Bernice?”

She was still beaming when I walked down the hall and entered Lou Berger's room. He was on the phone. He smiled and waved to me, pointed to a chair, and finished up his conversation in maybe half a minute.

“Glad you could make it,” he said. “I didn't really expect to see you until tomorrow.”

“I got your call maybe ten minutes ago. It was nothing to drive over here before you're off-duty.”

“Want some coffee?”

“Not right now,” I said, leaning forward. “What have you got on Tony Sanders?”

“Not a damned thing.”

“But your call said—”

“My call said I did a little digging and came up with something interesting,” replied Berger. “And I did.”

“So what is it?”

“The other groom you mentioned—Billy Paulson?”

“Yeah?”

“Seems he phoned us the day before he vanished,” said Berger. “I was on vacation that week, but I found the records. He thought someone might want to kill him. We asked him who and why, and he said he didn't want to talk about it yet, that he might be wrong, but if he didn't call in every day to go looking for him.”

“And?” I asked.

“Never heard from him again. Had a couple of officers spend a day or two looking for him, checking with friends, family, the farm. They finally concluded he just ran off for whatever reason, and there didn't seem to be anyone chasing him.”

“And this was about a month ago?”

He checked his notes. “Thirty-seven days.”

“And he's the kid that Tony replaced.”

“Right,” said Berger. “Sounded a little like Tony. Everything's fine and then one day he's all upset, he won't talk about it, and then he's gone.” He looked across the desk at me. “Does that mean anything to you, hint at anything at all?”

“They both worked for Bigelow,” I said. “Beyond that . . .”

“Word has it that he's fallen on hard times.”

“The place is falling apart,” I agreed. “But selling a three-million-dollar yearling that's never set foot on a track has to help.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Maybe?” I repeated.

“You know these multi-millionaires,” he said. “They can spend more in a day than you or I make in a decade.”

“Actually,” I said, “I don't know these multi-millionaires, at least not as well as I'd like to—but I'll take your word for it.

“Anyway,” said Berger, “if I find that either kid has been harmed—or perhaps both of them—I figure maybe there's a connection.”

“Let's hope they're both having fun in the sun, but, yeah,” I agreed. “Is the guy who took the call around today?”

He looked at the notes again. “Drew MacDonald,” he said. “Yeah, I think he's just starting the night shift, and I'm pretty sure he's on desk duty this week. Let me see.” He picked up his phone, punched in three numbers, and waited a minute. “Drew? Lou Berger here. Can you stop by my office for a minute? Thanks.”

He turned to me. “He's on his way.”

A moment later the door opened, and a tall, slender man, graying at the sides and wearing thick glasses, entered the office.

“Drew, say hello to Eli Paxton. He's a detective from Cincinnati, here on a case.”

“Public?” asked MacDonald, extending his hand.

“Private,” I replied, taking and shaking it.

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Paxton?”

“Call me Eli,” I said. “I'm looking for a young man who's disappeared, and the circumstances are very similar, at least on the surface, to one you dealt with last month.”

“I don't know,” he said dubiously. “Runaway kids are a dime a dozen these days.”

“You'll remember this one, Drew,” said Berger.

“Okay,” answered MacDonald. “Who was it?”

“Billy Paulson.”

MacDonald shook his head. “Unless your kid worked for Travis Bigelow and thought someone might kill him, you're barking up the wrong tree, Eli.”

“My kid worked for Bigelow,” I said.

Suddenly MacDonald looked interested. “And he thought his life was in danger?”

“I don't know,” I answered. “But he was worried as all hell about something.”

“About what?”

“Again, I don't know,” I said. “But he told me one night that he was worried, he had to figure out what to do, and he might want my advice in the morning.”

“And did he ask for it?”

I shook my head. “I never saw him again.”

“Interesting,” said MacDonald. “And they both worked for Bigelow?”

“Yes.”

“Were they friends?”

“I don't think they knew each other. My kid was hired when yours vanished. They both wound up caring for the same horse.”

“Grooms care for more than one horse,” noted MacDonald.

“Not at sales time, and not when he's worth over three million dollars,” put in Berger.

“They both handled that Trojan colt?” asked MacDonald.

“So I'm told. I know Tony—
my
kid—did.”

“Tell you what,” said MacDonald. “It's late for you and early for me. I have a few hours of paperwork to do, but when I finish I'll hunt up everything we have on Billy Paulson and our search for him. Let's meet for breakfast—well, your breakfast, my dinner—at eight tomorrow morning, and I'll turn it over to you, and we'll see if there's any unifying thread.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Tilly's,” he said. “It's a hash house just half a mile south of here. You can't miss it.”

“I feel like a fifth wheel,” said Berger. “Tell you what. I'll come in a bit early tomorrow, before you fill your faces—and Eli, stand clear of this man when he starts pouring ketchup—and I'll see if we have any other reports of missing persons, or anything else, connected with Bigelow or Mill Creek.”

We all shook hands, MacDonald went back to his office, and I drove to the motel in a heavy rainstorm, where I spent an evening watching TV shows where the private eye and the cops hated each other and spent half of every episode trying to undermine each other's work.

I put in a wake-up call for seven o'clock, shaved without cutting myself too many times (I never could stand electric razors), showered without letting too much water spill onto the floor, found I didn't have any clean shirts or socks left—I was supposed to be back in Cincinnati two days ago—and had the desk clerk point me to a laundry, where I dropped off some shirts, underwear, and socks on my way to meet MacDonald for breakfast.

Tilly's looked like a garage that had fallen on hard times. It had a couple of windows, and a couple of booths, and a bunch of stools at the breakfast counter, and it had Tilly herself, who was about fifty pounds overweight, all of it muscle. I looked around, didn't see MacDonald, though the place wasn't hurting for business, and sat down at a booth. There was a jukebox selection on the wall, and as I read through the selections I began to feel more and more at home. There was Sinatra, and Rosy Clooney, and Crosby, and Sarah Vaughan, and the Andrews Sisters, and no bands with idiotic names and electric instruments whose notion of music was screaming at the top of their lungs. I blew a quarter on Helen O'Connell and Bob Eberle singing “Tangerine” and ordered a cup of coffee, and just as the song ended, Drew MacDonald entered the place, peered through his thick glasses, spotted me, and walked over to sit opposite me.

“Good morning, Eli,” he said. “I assume you had no trouble finding this place?”

“None,” I said. “If Tilly's food is as good as her music, I may try to coax her into moving to Cincinnati.”

“Not unless you want an even bigger war than the one over who owns the Ohio River where it runs between Kentucky and Ohio.” He smiled. “Took 'em more than a century to resolve that one in court.”

“Morning, Drew,” yelled Tilly from behind the counter.

“The usual,” he replied, then turned to me. “How about you?”

“I'll have the same.”

“But you don't even know what it is.”

“I know it hasn't killed you yet,” I said.

“What the hell,” he said with a shrug. “Hey, Tilly, make it two—one for me, one for my friend.”

“So,” I said, “what have you got for me?”

He sighed heavily. “Bits and pieces. I don't know if they fit or not, but you're welcome to them.”