Swift Horses Racing

by Victoria Kazarian

  In the distance, in the high grass, he found the group’s location by the beacon of Mandy’s red hair in the sun. He followed the tire ruts of pressed down grass into the field.

  The SUV sat, intact near a clump of bushes, a blackened wreck. The plates were still on, but the front two seats, hood, and most of the exterior were charred. He smelled the gasoline as he approached. The passenger and driver side doors were open, and two gloved crime scene analysts were gingerly poking around the dashboard and upholstery.

  “Anything that was in the front seat is gone.” Mandy took one look at him and pulled a bottle of water from her bag and handed it to him. He accepted it silently, mouthing thanks.

  He flipped the top and began gulping. She shook her head as they watched

  “Whoever set this did a thorough job.”

  Flores squinted in the sun, as his head started pounding. “Any neighbors who might have seen this at 2:30 in the morning?”

  The sheriff’s deputy standing on the other side of the SUV spoke up. “Nearest neighbor is by the picket fence, a half a mile up the road. They didn’t hear any vehicles, but then they said they went to bed at midnight on New Year’s. They didn’t see the fire either. This is far enough off the road, so we didn’t know about it till this morning. A cycling team riding through the area stopped on the shoulder and happened to spot it.”

  Flores walked around the SUV, examining the wreck. Could have been due to the damp weather and limited spread of the accelerant, but nothing much was burned but the SUV itself.

  “Find anything?” He called to the crime scene pair going through the vehicle.

  “It’s pretty clean.” A woman pulled her face-shielded head out of the SUV. “So far, a receipt, most of it black from the heat. And part of what looks like a boarding pass. We’re still checking for any unburnt surface that might hold a print. I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Flores walked around the SUV and followed the tracks through the brush back to the street. Mandy followed him, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. Flores wished he’d remembered to stash his sunglasses in the Prius.

  “Whoever drove the SUV here had to have some way to leave,” he said, turning around to face Mandy. “Where would that vehicle be stashed, to avoid being spotted?”

  They waded through the high grass, following the turn of the road to their right. They had walked about two hundred yards, when Mandy called out.

  “There’s a dirt road back here. Overgrown, but still a road.”

  A narrow, muddy path cut through the grass, winding back till it ended at a shabby grey fence. They walked down the path, stepping carefully to avoid clumps of weeds.

  Flores crouched down to look at the mud. “It’s rained in the past week. But you can still see the traces of it.”

  As they neared the fence, they saw tracks that looked like a vehicle had driven in, turned and driven out.

  “We can still get molds of these,” Mandy called, with a sudden burst of optimism, as she made a wide circle around the tracks.

  Flores looked down the road back to the street, wishing he could summon her enthusiasm.

  “Whatever we can do at this point. We’ve got three days.”

  26

  Randall Mulvaney opened the door with the sullen face of a kid on a time out. He was a lanky man, maybe twenty-eight years old. He had pale blue eyes, a fussy, neatly trimmed long beard and a mustache that looked like it belonged on a pugilist from the 1890s. He would have fit nicely in one of those old-fashioned, all-body striped bathing suits.

  “What do you want, officer?” He stood in the doorway of his apartment in downtown San Jose, leaning against the doorframe as if he hoped that would get the door-to-door salesman to leave.

  “Karl Schuler is your grandfather, Mr. Mulvaney. I’m investigating his murder.”

  “He is. Why do you ask?” Randall challenged, his eyes widening. This was the kind of guy who would fight over technicalities in the answers in a bar trivia contest.

  That attitude that would not do him any favors with law enforcement.

  “Based on the evidence at the scene and witness accounts, somebody targeted your grandfather,” Flores said calmly, settling back into his ready stance, legs apart, leaning toward the door slightly. “I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Mulvaney.”

  Randall Mulvaney opened the door and stood back, his hand held out in an overly dramatic manner, gesturing him inside. The room was lit by low light from a purple-shaded lamp. The walls were decorated with fabric wall hangings. Once inside, he realized the room was steeped in the smell of pot, probably not from a recent smoke but ongoing use. Flores could look forward to being teased by his team when he got back to the station. He wouldn’t be able to avoid picking up the smell.

  Flores took a seat on a velvet overstuffed chair, facing Mulvaney, who sat down on his couch and continued with the sullen looks. Flores looked around at the room, admiring the brightly colored pieces of fabric art.

  “Nice wall hangings.”

  “Shayante makes them,” Mulvaney said, as if he should know this person. Of course. Everyone knows Shayante.

  “Are you a student, Mr. Mulvaney?” Flores tried to establish a rapport. He didn’t think it would work, but he’d try.

  “I left San Jose State last year. I’m taking a break. I work part time at a thrift shop. Part time at a convalescent home.”

  “Did you spend much time with your grandfather?”

  “Yeah, I lived with him for a few months. I took care of him after he had a hernia operation. I did some work around his house. I trimmed the trees in the backyard, helped him harvest the fruit. My mom and grandma wanted me to spend time with him.”

  “Did you get along with your grandfather?”

  “I was told I should spend time with him. I did what I was told.”

  What an exemplary grandson. The love and compassion are overwhelming. Flores couldn’t tell if he was feeling sick because of Mulvaney’s entitlement, the pot smell or his own hangover.

  “Randall, where were you on New Year’s Eve? Did you go out that night?”

  Mulvaney huffed with indignance. “You think I killed him?”

  “Were you at home or did you go out? Please answer the question, Mr. Mulvaney.”

  “Shayante and I were at the gallery. There was a party. We were there till about 1, maybe 1:30 a.m.”

  “People can verify you were there at that time?”

  Mulvaney rolled his eyes. “Of course. Ask anyone at the gallery. Fortuna Gallery on First, downtown. Jen Corey is the manager. Call her. She’ll tell you.”

  Flores took a note down on his tablet.

  “Did you have any issues or disagreements with your grandfather, Mr. Mulvaney?”

  “Did I disagree with his judgmental attitudes? Yes. Did I feel like he loved me just as I am? No.” Mulvaney looked as prim and self-righteous as a Puritan, his voice clipped, his posture rigid. “When I was a teenager he was always pushing me to do things. Come volunteer with him. Help him take some kids to the park. It wasn’t about whether I wanted to do it or not.”

  Flores figured Randall was a year or two younger than he was. He tried a “you and me both” strategy.

  “When I was a teenager, my mom tried some of the same things. To get me off the video game console.”

  “Well, it wasn’t my thing. He didn’t care what I wanted.”

  Flores remembered what Duke Sorenson had told him about Randall being arrested in high school. Flores’s own juvenile run-in with the law had changed his life. He of all people knew that you don’t have to stay the person you were in high school. He doubted this was true of Randall Mulvaney.

  “When you were in high school, you were arrested. Can you tell me about that, Mr. Mulvaney?”

  Randall Mulvaney’s prim face came unraveled. He looked panicked. “My records as a juvenile were sealed. Nobody has any business telling you.”

  “Mr. Mulvaney, why don’t you tell me what happened? It
’s likely to be mentioned by anyone who knew you growing up. Save some time and tell me what happened yourself.”

  Mulvaney glowered and his leg began to shake. After a long pause, he looked up.

  “Fine. I was arrested for stealing a car.” Mulvaney crossed his legs and looked down at his lap. “A teacher’s at school. I hit another car when I was pulling out of the parking lot. There were some minor injuries.”

  “Any reason why you did it?”

  “I was angry at the teacher. She treated me like shit. Yeah, I was wrong to do it. I was just so mad.”

  A kid who couldn’t control his impulses. Did he know now—eight or nine years later?

  “Mr. Mulvaney, can you give me the name of your employer? The convalescent home?”

  “Oak View Residential Center.”

  “And who is your supervisor, Mr. Mulvaney?”

  “Barb Danson.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  Flores looked down at the information. He would do all he could to find out about the circumstances of the car theft. He’d talk to the man’s employer at the convalescent home. Then he’d call the gallery to verify Mulvaney’s alibi for New Year’s.

  He stood up and nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mulvaney.”

  As soon as he sat down in the Investigations car, he smelled it on his clothes. Wonderful.

  The scent would follow him for the rest of the day.

  The team was going to love it.

  27

  It took Duke till well into the morning to go back to the journal. The entry about Karl’s parents had affected him, and he’d had a restless night. He needed to finish it, and then he needed to figure out how to get it back to Rose’s bookshelf. This was her father’s journal, after all. This in some way was the story of her family, and Duke was beginning to feel guilty for taking it.

  He opened the book and picked up where he left off.

  Karl Schuler’s Journal

  It was October of 1942. Something exciting was going on at the facility in Peenemunde.

  Even as a lowly messenger, I felt it buzzing in the air. Hermann wouldn’t tell me. He just walked around with a mysterious smile.

  Dignitaries were flying in. A few of the scientists teased me with hints. I had come to the conclusion that there would be a test. I had my suspicions based on sketches I’d seen. Werner Von Braun had the status of Herr Hitler around the Army special weapons division. It would be a rocket. At that point, I had trouble sleeping at night. I had to know the details.

  Hermann and I and his research assistants hiked out to a site in the woods, early on that chilly October morning. We sat on a log and waited, drinking cups of tea that an assistant had brought in a thermos flask. We could see the rocket, the A4 on a mound in a clearing, standing ready in the still morning. Finally, there was a shout, men yelling and talking excitedly. The rumble shook my chest. It seemed to last forever, then the fire spurted out, and the rocket soared upward, far into the atmosphere.

  It is hard to describe the feeling we all had. Wonder, awe, fear at this unstoppable power unleashed. This was something human beings created. Human beings who had the knowledge to defeat gravity itself. The Aggregat 4, or A4, was the first manmade object to enter space.

  This was the pinnacle of all that was good about our country, that we could do this. At the time of the launch, I did not know the depths to which the human beings of our country were plunging to. I did not know about the costs for this great thing that had just happened. I did not stop to think that this rocket and the ones that would follow would be aimed at other human beings with the intent to kill. If I gave that any thought, I would have brushed it away by saying that these rockets would be heading toward the towns and cities of our enemies—leering, comic book caricatures of human beings.

  They deserved it.

  That fall something else happened to me. For the first time, I fell in love.

  As I delivered documents throughout the facility, I got to know the scientists. I got to know the secretaries and clerks, who were the front line of defense for scientists too busy to respond to mundane matters like the receipt of documents and files.

  She was new that fall. She said her brother had been killed on the front line in Poland. Her mother was left without support, so she quit school to take a job as a typist and earn money. She’d grown up not far from Peenemunde, but across the border.

  Agnieszka was Polish.

  She was small and thin, with brown eyes. And very shy. For the first two months, we did not talk. We passed each other in the corridor. At first, she kept her eyes down when she passed me. As time went on, she began looking at me with brazen curiosity. I looked back at her and smiled. When I would deliver a file, she would nod, curtly. She was quite serious and that intimidated me. I also took it as a challenge. Somehow, some way, I would get her to talk.

  My biggest challenge of all? To get her to laugh.

  I wondered if she was trying very hard not to be noticed. She was not German, and she was looked upon as a labor resource, nothing else. She was very good at her job, I knew that. As I got to know her, I would understand her difficult position even more.

  One day, I was ready to leave for the day and return to my uncle’s home on my bicycle. I saw her walking past the gate, her arms clutched close to herself against the cold. I asked if I could accompany her. She nodded.

  I walked my bike next to her in silence as we made our way down the path. I decided to be bold. I asked her name.

  “Agnieszka. Agnieszka Kaminski.”

  Almost in monosyllables, she told me where she lived with her mother. I walked her to the stop for the bus. I asked, like a crazy person, if we could walk together again. Most of our times together were spent after work, walking to the bus. I sometimes lingered at her desk, exchanging a few words, until Frau Kohler gave Agnieszka a severe look, and I knew it was time to leave.

  In those months together, one look or a few words meant so much. We rarely touched hands. One evening on our way back, under cover of dusk, I kissed her cheek.

  It’s something I could never explain to my children and grandchildren—the intensity of that kiss.

  It was the happiest day of my life, and it would sustain me for years.

  28

  Oakview Meadows was a faded wooden one-story off of Blossom Hill in South San Jose.

  It didn’t look like the kind of place Flores would ever want his parents to live in their declining years. Small sliding windows ran along the side of the building facing the street, and as he pulled closer he saw grubby shades pulled down on each one. In the brochure on assisted living, Oakview looked like the economy option.

  The smell hit him as he walked into the lobby. Vegetable soup, disinfectant and urine. He wondered why Randall Mulvaney would have wanted to work here, especially given his feelings for his grandfather.

  “May I help you, sir?” The young woman at the desk was a petite blonde with Cindy Lou Hoo eyes and hair piled up in a sort of fountain, in a white scrub top in a Mickey Mouse print. Her name tag read KAYLEY. She smiled as she looked him over.

  “Detective Mario Flores, San Jose Police Department.” He pulled out his badge and showed her. “I’m looking for Barbara Danson.”

  “Certainly. Let me give her a buzz.” She smiled and picked up the phone. “She was meeting with a patient’s family. I think she’s done.”

  Flores nodded his thanks and checked his phone for any updates from his team at the station. His heart sped up a bit when he remembered that Reyna Ruiz had his phone number. Maybe she’d text him. Then he felt a layer of sweat form on his skin as he was filled with terror that she’d do exactly that. He put his phone back in his pocket.

  “I’ll take you right back, Officer.” She led him down the hall, carpeted in a stained olive green, with a few worn spots. They turned the corner and Kayley gestured toward the first door, a small office that smelled like coffee and tuna fish.

  “Barb, this is of
ficer Flores.”

  “Thank you, Kayley.” The middle-aged woman in the small office wearing a navy blue blazer smiled as if she’d been expecting him. He hadn’t called in advance. The woman struck him as a person who had gotten used to fighting fires in her job, and she’d gotten quick on her feet.

  “Barb Danson,” she extended her hand and he reached out to shake it. “Now how can I help you, Officer Flores?”

  “I’m investigating a possible person of interest in the murder of a man on New Year’s. You have an employee named Randall Mulvaney?”

  The woman subtly sucked in her breath. “Randall. Yes, he’s one of our orderlies. He’s worked here for the past year.”

  “How would you describe him as an employee?” Flores watched the woman, whose face seemed to assume a mask of impassivity. “Is he dependable?”

  Barb Danson eased into a smile. “Randall shows up on time and performs the duties he’s asked to do. We did have an issue a few months back. He got into an argument with a nurse over the timing of a patient’s medication. The shouting disturbed some patients. I sent him home for the day to cool off.”

  “You didn’t notice a pattern of anger with him?” Flores asked. “Did he have any problems with patients?”

  Barb shook her head. “I didn’t hear of any. I’ve kept my eye on him to make sure. His attitude doesn’t make him any friends here. The well-being of our patients is my utmost concern, but it’s hard to keep people in these entry level positions in this valley. We’re understaffed as it is. Randall performs his duties adequately. I’m looking at the incident as a one-time thing.”

  Mulvaney’s track record of impulsive anger bothered Flores. What else would he do in anger, especially toward a grandfather he resented?