Racing From Death: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery

by Sasscer Hill

  Jim stood nearby, a smile transforming his face, his eyes glowing with pleasure.

  "You worked hard for that."

  Ramon removed Daffodil's tongue tie, patted her neck, then glanced over as I loosened the girth.

  "That Carmanos, he piece of shit, no?"

  "I'd like to kill him."

  Jim's smile got even bigger. "You just did."

  A good moment, but my eyes searched for Lorna, wanting to see the excitement on her face, hear her rude and rowdy comments about Carmanos. Of course, she wasn't there. My high sagged.

  What had I done? I pulled my saddle from Daffodil and headed for the scales to weigh out. Amarilla, with the baron in tow, pounced on me as soon as I stepped from the scale’s metal plate.

  "Nikki, you give my Daffodil such a wonderful ride!"

  The baron pulled his pipe from his mouth to speak. Now I'd hit the big time, I must be worth his attention.

  "That fellow, Carmanos, gave you a run for your money. Handled him brilliantly, my dear.” He shoved his pipe back in, puffing emphatic clouds of smoke.

  "Thank you." I panned the area, hoping to see Cormack, Will, or even Bobby.

  "I am so excited!" Amarilla clapped her hands in that childlike way she had. "You come to the suite. We have champagne!"

  "I'm sorry, Amarilla. I have to be somewhere else." Like looking for Lorna.

  "I insist, my dear," the baron said.

  "Yes," Amarilla's voice grew petulant. "You must."

  "I can't." Yet I didn't want to alienate these people. Hadn't I burned enough bridges? "Maybe I could come by later?"

  "Of course." Her eyes narrowed as she spat the words. She took the baron's arm, and they moved away.

  Grabbing my purse and dress clothes, I headed for my Toyota. Where should I look for Lorna?

  I rushed through the parked cars heading for the landmark of the Dumpster. The shiny Mercedes had left, and my car appeared lopsided. I stared. Both tires on the Toyota's right side were flat as pancakes.

  "Shit!" I felt like throwing myself down, pounding my heels into the ground in a temper tantrum. "God damn it!"

  I marched back into the jock's room and ran straight into Will.

  "Nikki, you got steam coming out of your ears. Carmanos really pissed you off, huh?"

  "It's not that." I explained about the flat tires.

  He appeared to be fighting a smile.

  "If you laugh, I'll kill you."

  "Just call track maintenance. They'll have an air pump."

  They did, but said it would be about an hour before they could get to my car. I stomped into the ladies area with my dress clothes and changed. A familiar guilt stabbed me as I pulled on Lorna's boots.

  #

  A uniformed security guard opened the black metal gate leading to the concrete apron crowded with racing fans. I moved past the mob pressed against the paddock's rail where they watched the horses behind me being saddled for the next race. The Virginia's King Stake was the race after next and the hum of anticipation grew along with the pile of discarded beer cups overflowing nearby trash cans and filling the air with the yeasty scent of brew.

  Lines of handicappers snaked from the betting windows beneath the large portico sheltering the side entrance to the grandstand. Ahead of me, a group of men stood in a circle, holding Racing Forms, trading war stories, and halting my forward momentum.

  "You could always bet that son-of-a-gun if he drew the one hole," one of them was saying.

  I started to skirt around them, when a soft voice said, "Nikki? Is that you?"

  I turned, surprised to see Bunny. In her shapeless ankle-length beige dress and lumpy brown wool sweater she resembled a sack of Idaho potatoes. She held some kind of notebook in both hands, her grip strong enough to whiten her knuckles. A strong emotion flared in her eyes. Anger?

  "Can we talk over there?" She nodded her head toward the black wrought iron fence separating the apron from the parking lot beyond.

  "Sure." I'd never seen her so alert.

  "Have you seen Chuck?" Her eyes panned the area as she spoke.

  "No." Why look for the husband she always avoided?

  "I hate him! He should be dead."

  "Easy, Bunny." I glanced around, saw no one within earshot. "What happened?"

  "This," she hissed, jabbing the notebook at me. She squeezed her eyes shut and when they opened, her rage made me flinch.

  "Found it two days ago," she said, “where Timmy hid it in the attic."

  "Your son?" The younger one.

  "Yes, my baby. It’s been there all along. He had a fort up there when he was little. Always hid things. But I was in that damn fog, wasn't I? I never thought to look up there. Until I stopped those pills."

  She must mean those pills Chuck forced on her. It that why she looked so angry?

  "I pretended to swallow. He doesn't know I've been waking up." She paused, her eyes losing focus, as if caught in a memory. “You’ve been so kind to me. You can help me.”

  What was she talking about?

  "Tell them what he did. I . . . I can’t. But he has to pay for what he's done!" The last few words rose in an anguished cry. She began to rock back and forth from one foot to the other.

  "Bunny, who has to pay for what?" But I'd lost her. She'd closed up, weaving side to side. One hand pressed against her stomach, the other pushed the small, vinyl-covered book into my hands.

  “Tell them!” With a small cry, she turned, and moved quickly away through the crowd. I started after her, but curiosity stopped me.

  I opened the book. Hand written block letters marked the first page:

  Property of Tim Cheswick. PRIVATE!

  My fingers trembled as I turned the pages, searching for the last entry. I found it and started reading.

  Chapter 40

  Todd and I will deliver the preemo stuff to that operation near the airport today.

  This crank will make Richmond ROCK! But Todd's such a WUSS. All nervous and shit. Says these guys are tough, but I'm cool with it. Old man even provided firepower! GLOCKS! Those motherfuckers give us any trouble, they're DEAD!

  The ink on those last two words was so heavily marked, the pen had torn the paper. He’d been stupid enough to write this down? Then I remembered a Maryland detective telling me half the time he didn’t have to solve cases.

  “Crooks are so stupid,” he’d said. “They give it all away in notes, on FaceBook, emails to friends, when they've had too much to drink. Or just because they have to brag about it!”

  Apparently Tim was no different. I stared at the hand writing. The old man? Had Cheswick sent his sons to their death?

  I had to find Bunny. I spotted her going through the glass door into the grandstand. I ran after her, but the growing line of bettors blocked me. I dodged it, bolted inside, and stopped, my eyes searching for Bunny's lumpy figure. People jostled past me where I stood near the doors. The throng inside swirled as race-fans formed lines for fast food, to lay bets, or headed to and from the escalator and elevators. The cavernous cement-floored room smelled of salty popcorn, scorched cheese dogs, and greasy french fries.

  I didn't see Bunny anywhere, and she'd left me holding the damn book!

  Had to tell someone. I rang Cormack, reached his voice mail, again. The security office was upstairs. Maybe Cormack was there, or they could page him.

  I slid the diary into my shoulder bag, checked to make sure my cell was on, then rushed to the elevators. Worming my way to the front of the line, I ignored the dirty looks, and rode to the administrative offices on the second floor.

  I found security and hurried in. Behind a glass partition, a woman with big hair, purple lipstick and too much rose perfume, worked at a desk. She looked up from her computer.

  "I'm looking for Investigator Cormack." I stared at the teased and sprayed nest on her head. Maybe Lorna and Cormack had disappeared in there.

  "He's not here," she said. "What's this in reference to?"

  If I said, "an u
nsolved double homicide," she'd probably call for backup. The kind to subdue crazy people.

  "Uh, he's been searching for a missing exercise rider. I have new info for him."

  The woman studied her lilac-colored nails. "I can pass the information along for you. Or Assistant Investigator Dudley's here. Perhaps he can help you." Without waiting for a response, she reached for the big multiline phone on her desk.

  I'd never heard of Dudley and felt a bureaucratic bog sucking at my feet. "Isn't there some way to reach Cormack? Can't you page him?"

  She shot me a superior look, her penciled eyebrows rising in disdain. "We don't page the Chief Investigator for every person that walks in here. Who are you, anyway?"

  Deep breath, happy thoughts. When I knew I wouldn't jump the partition and strangle her, I said, "Nikki Latrelle. La . . . trelle. This is urgent. The missing girl could be in serious trouble!"

  Ms. Big-Hair rolled her eyes.

  "Page him!" I took another breath. "Cormack knows my cell number. Please, have him call me. "

  "I'll see what I can do," she said, but made no move to do anything.

  "I'll be on the fourth floor, in suite three." I glared at the woman, stomped from the office in the rhinestone boots, and caught an elevator.

  Might as well put in an appearance and make nice with Amarilla while I waited for Cormack and my car tires to be fixed.

  I found the usual social climbers lounging in the baron's suite. I recognized Katherine Crosby's handsome profile and dark glossy bob where she sat at a table with an older couple I'd seen at the castle. Katherine held a cigarette and smoke trailed from her hand.

  Amarilla stood farther inside, her back to me as she spoke with two women in wool dresses gleaming with gold buttons, epaulets and decorative zippers. The diminutive Pemberton chatted with them in his little black suit.

  At the bar just inside the doorway, I found the guy with the waxed moustache who'd served me George Dickel at the baron's bash. I could use a drink, but house wines, cheap brands of scotch, vodka and gin lined the counter. And, of course, the dreaded Gilded Baron.

  I felt my lip curl. "What else have you got?"

  He gave me a wink and glanced toward the far end of the room where the baron stood with some men, smoke rising from pipes and cigars. The beefy figure of John Duvayne, flattered by a well-cut gray suit, blocked a portion of light coming through the sliding-glass door to the balcony behind.

  "How about this?" the bartender said, ducking behind the bar and straightening with a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 in his hand.

  "You're the best." Remembering the last time, I said, "But make it a single with plenty of water, okay?"

  "Your loss." He poured my drink, wrapped a little napkin around it and handed it over.

  Tasted so good. Damn, a traitor and an incipient alcoholic. Virginia had done a lot for me.

  "Nikki." Katherine gestured me to join her. "A pleasure to see you outride that Carmanos scumbag."

  I pulled out a chair, sat, and set down my shoulder bag, oddly burdensome with the addition of Tim's notebook.

  "Nikki?" Katherine stared at me.

  "What?" I'd been lost in Tim's journal. "Sorry. Guess I'm still riding the race."

  She leaned toward me, making enthusiastic comments, providing clever little asides of what other people had said about my race. I only heard bits and pieces as my brain whirled with thoughts of Tim and Todd being gunned down in that parking lot. The newspaper stories had never mentioned the Glocks. No doubt they'd been snatched along with the drugs.

  I stared at the baron. He gestured with his pipe, Duvayne and the other men chuckling at some joke. Could the baron be the mastermind behind a meth ring? Did Amarilla know?

  The last time I'd been in this suite, Susan Stark's death had left Amarilla shell shocked, admitting she blamed herself for Paco's death. Then she'd clammed up.

  "Excuse me," I said to Katherine, leaving her table and heading for Amarilla, who still faced away from me. Pemberton spotted me, and rushed over, his hands fluttering.

  "Nikki, sweetheart! Such courage. I simply had to close my eyes. I was afraid you'd be killed!

  Amarilla spun around, her face lighting up like a child handed a birthday surprise.

  "Nikki!" She turned to her companions. “This is the jockey! She is wonderful, no?"

  The women enthused. One, with a flashy diamond choker, said, "And are you riding in the Virginia's King, as well?"

  I always ride in high-heeled boots with rhinestones. "No." I edged closer to Amarilla. "May I talk to you? In private?"

  Uncertainty crossed her face.

  "Ladies, shall we refresh our drinks?" Pemberton, ever my confederate, herded Amarilla's companions to the bar, reminding me of a Bantam rooster with large, gaudy hens.

  "Amarilla," I said, grasping her arm. "What did you mean when you said you felt responsible for Paco's death?”

  She tried to back away, but I held on. "Do you want someone else to die? How did you know Paco?"

  She sighed as resignation shadowed her face. Her excellent posture deflated to the stoop of an older woman.

  "Some of his family, they come to my country from Panama, as servants in house where I stay." Her words rushed out now, bubbling from some dark place inside. "I know him since little boy. He learn to ride on my horses, then become jockey in Panama." She faltered, glanced toward the baron.

  I needed to keep her going. "And he came here . . . ?" I had to lean in to hear her response.

  "He want to ride in America. I . . . arrange it. I bring him here, and he die."

  "Where did you bring him, I mean when he first came?"

  "He stay with me at baron's farm, then he go to Laurel."

  The baron? "Did he meet anyone else when he was here? Bobby Duvayne? Another man, maybe one that was at the party the baron had for you? Someone gave him diet drugs."

  "Maybe that Bobby. I don't know. If I did, I tell you. Someone should pay!" Bunny's words.

  I stared at the baron. "Is it him?"

  She shook here head. "I not know. But I no think so. He not that kind of man. I get drink."

  She pulled her arm from my grasp and moved toward the bar. I took a swig of Wild Turkey and headed for the baron.

  Chapter 41

  "Excuse me, Baron von Waechter?"

  His gaze flicked across me and back to his guests. I hoped he didn't plan to show me off.

  "May I speak to you, privately?" I asked.

  "Certainly, my dear." He ushered me away from the group of men. "What can I do for you?"

  "Amarilla told me Paco Martinez stayed at your home when he first came here."

  "Who?" But his flinch and involuntary back-step gave him away.

  "The young jockey from Panama who died from a methamphetamine cocktail?"

  "Is that what killed him?" His eyes widened.

  He was either a good liar, or he really hadn't known. "But you knew him? He stayed with you, right?"

  The baron glanced back at his guests as if making sure they couldn't hear. "I knew him. But I'd just as soon it didn't get around he spent time at Vindenberg Hall. And what's this about methamphetamine? Was he a drug addict?"

  His teeth clenched the pipe so hard, I expected something to snap. Nearby, Duvayne stared with open curiosity as the baron jerked a gold lighter from a pocket, flicked up a flame, and stoked his tobacco.

  "Amarilla should never have brought him to my home."

  My hand waved at the heavy smoke. "I'm trying to find out how he got the drugs. Did you see who he hung out with?"

  "My dear, I saw nothing. He was Amarilla's toy. Excuse me. The Virginia's King is about to go off. I have guests."

  Self-involved, phony prick.

  Where was Cormack? I dug out my cell to make sure it hadn’t spontaneously switched to vibrate, then glanced at my watch. The baron was right. The big race would run in minutes. I could watch from outside, then check with maintenance about my car.

  When I slid the cell b
ack into my shoulder bag, my fingers brushed against the journal. I wanted to read more about Tim, too.

  Near the window, away from the cluster of people, Duvayne had moved close to the baron, the body language of both men tense. The baron shot a glance at me then shook his head.

  "The horses are on the track!" someone cried.

  People drifted to the suite’s window, surrounding the baron and Duvayne. Someone slid the glass door open, and several people stepped onto the balcony, as the group watched the colts warm up for the big stake.

  I hurried toward the hall, but a man blocked my exit. Chuck Cheswick.

  I stared at Bunny's husband, my rage building. What better place to confront this man than a room crowded with people?

  "I know what you did."

  Cheswick’s mouth tensed. A red flush colored his cheeks. "What are you talking about?"

  "Bunny found Tim's diary. You sent your sons to sell those drugs."

  "You don't know shit!" Cheswick jabbed a finger against my collarbone.

  "Thought you had your wife under control, Chuck."

  I whirled. John Duvayne, big and heavy limbed, stood right behind me.

  I stared at him. "You knew about this?" Suddenly I didn't feel safe. I might be in a room full of people, but their attention was out on the track.

  “Von Waechter said she was asking a bunch of questions.” Duvayne shifted so his muscular body blocked me from the group at the window.

  “Shit, she didn’t tell him about the stupid diary ”

  “No,” Duvayne said.

  “This bitch is about to find out everything. We have to get her out of here!” Cheswick grabbed my arm.

  "I'm not going anywhere with you!"

  Cheswick’s grasp tightened. Duvayne closed in on my side, one hand grasping my shoulder, the other reaching for my neck.

  I grabbed a breath and screamed. In that instant the track announcer cried, "They're off!" The P.A. system and a great roar erupting in the grandstand drowned out my cry as the Virginia's King thundered toward the history books.

  Duvayne's big fingers pressed hard against the side of my neck. "We've got two minutes to get her out of here," he said, and the room went black.