“Please keep zooming in. On the turf.”
The soil grew into a vague brown smudge with large silver freckles, and the dark line was clearly visible now, though slightly out of focus. I pointed to it. “At first I thought it was a shadow. But we all know there was no sun this morning.”
Harrold wiped his forehead again.
Mr. Yuck pressed the remote button. The shadowed line changed to a series of bursting blurs, each shaped like a funnel and each erupting from the ground. Pyroclastic blasts. They lasted two frames, then disappeared. I glanced at Mr. Yuck. The corners of his mouth were coming down, like some overfed trout caught in an ever-tightening lure. He reversed the film again, zooming in and out. We saw SunTzu balk. Loosey Goosey buck, causing the jockey to jump. And Cuppa Joe, who waited, then leaped like a coiled spring.
“How incredibly well timed,” said Mr. Yuck. “Makes one wonder if the horse knew to expect something.”
“Gimme a break,” said Jimmy Bello. But his voice had lost its confident bluster.
Mr. Yuck turned to the guard named Lou, who had remained silent behind us. So silent I almost forgot about him.
“Lieutenant, get the vehicles ready,” Mr. Yuck said. “We’re all going to take a ride.”
Chapter Twelve
The afternoon rain fell like graphite shavings, dull and gray. I gazed out the windshield of the track’s official Suburban, which was carrying us to the turf. All of us except Eleanor and Sal Gag. They both had declined to see the starting gate for themselves. Mr. Yuck didn’t argue with them, since he had a representative from each barn. I sat on the second-row seat with Jimmy Bellow, separated by Claire Manchester, who chatted on her cell phone.
“No comment,” she said.
A Seattle Times reporter was calling each barn, putting together a piece about the morning’s bad start. He tried Eleanor first. She gave him Big Daddy’s extended soliloquy about mendacity from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I figured Sal Gag and Jimmy Bello wouldn’t talk to the media. But Claire Manchester took the call inside the car. As I listened to her answers, my stomach growled. My only food today was dry toast, skim milk, and a bite of one BnE in the Quarterchute. But I almost lost my appetite listening to Claire’s answers. Whatever the question, she always came back to herself—how she felt, how things were when she was a jockey, how frightening it was for her to see Loosey Goosey bucking in the gate.
“And they’re doing some investigation,” she added. “I’m going to look at the gate right now.”
I turned in my seat. Harrold sat behind us on the third-row seat, by himself. The expression in his eyes reminded me of so many suspects. So scared that a guilty conscience was going into overdrive.
“No comment,” Claire said. “But I think they suspect somebody messed around with the starting gate. Not my barn. Another barn.”
There was a pause. I assumed the reporter was asking, Which barn?
“No comment. But it’s not my barn. And it’s not Hot Tin.”
“Hey, Norma Rae,” said Jimmy Bello. “All you’re doing is feeding blood to the sharks.”
Our driver slowed down. The starting gate was thirty yards ahead. Claire suddenly snapped her phone shut, without saying good-bye.
Standing in the rain, Mr. Yuck waited for us. He was wearing a green fedora now and the color clashed with his pasty skin. Raising his cheerless voice to the rain, he said, “I don’t want any complaints later. Or any rumors. You’re all witnesses to whatever we find.”
He wasn’t being nice; he was being smart. A breeding ground for paranoia, Emerald Meadows’ owners didn’t trust management, and the management suspected the barns of illegal activity that could get the track’s license revoked by the state. All that distrust made undercover work difficult, but now I felt a sudden gratefulness. Without that chronic ill will, Raleigh David would never get this close to the crime scene. And once again, something like hope floated around my heart. Hard evidence. It would help me push back against OPR.
“Lieutenant Campbell.” Mr. Yuck nodded at the security officer Eleanor called “Lou.” “I am considering you another witness. Does anyone object?”
“Yo.” Jimmy Bello held out both hands, palms open to the rain. “Notice something? It’s raining. Crank up the show.”
Mr. Yuck turned and walked to the starting gate. He had a churning stride, the short steps digging deep into the soil. The starting gate had been rolled back to its position for the first race, at the three-quarter mile mark. The small tires had carved channels into the turf, filling with rainwater, and hoof marks pocked the surface. Staring at the soil, I felt a desperate desire to collect samples. It was a mixture of sandy quartz and fine clay. Under a microscope I was certain a portion of the sand grains would have angular shapes. It was called sharp sand, or builder’s sand, used in concrete and gardening projects to aerate the soil. Somewhere out there, an expert waited to explain the exact proportions necessary for running horses, and where these soils came from. But as Raleigh David, I could only stare at the hoof-shaped puddles and feel grateful that the track was so well groomed before the first race. Otherwise I might’ve missed the shadow. It was the most elementary lead in forensic geology: always check the topography for unnatural changes in a soil’s profile.
“Well, well, well.” Mr. Yuck bent down, digging his paddle hands into the soil. “What do we have here?”
I wanted to scream, Stop! Put on gloves—you’re contaminating evidence!
He pulled at the object buried in the soil. A black tube came up, running like a buried cable. I bit my cheek so hard I tasted blood. Please! Call the state lab!
He yanked again. The black tube ran across the turf to the infield’s white rail.
Bello said, “The horses tripped over that?”
“You moron,” Claire said. “None of the horses tripped.”
Harrold was dancing again. “I never saw it. I swear, I was in the cage. How would I see that?”
Suddenly they turned to me. It was apparently my turn to say something.
“Doesn’t security watch over the turf?” I asked.
Mr. Yuck glanced at the lieutenant, who looked at the track official who had driven the Suburban. He was management, I guessed. A pink and stocky man, he drew himself up, sending the accumulated rainwater sluicing off his emerald-green hat.
“Of course we watch the track,” he said.
Claire crossed her arms. “Twenty-four seven?” She still wore the sleeveless shirt, oblivious to the weather, and the drops of rain beaded on her tanned, oiled skin like it was hide. “You can account for every single minute, what goes on out here?”
“Well . . .”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Who’s out here at night?”
“Night?”
Bello said, “Yeah, night. You know, when the sun don’t shine?”
The official looked indignant. “We can’t see the track at night. It’s pitch black out here.”
“Is that some kinda joke?” Bello said.
Mr. Yuck stepped forward. “Lights cost money.”
“So what are we paying fees for?” Claire Manchester pointed her cell phone at him. “A couple thousand every month—for what? Stressed-out horses and some kind of virus that’s ruining my barn. Now somebody’s burying lines that—”
“Hey.” Bello turned to me. “You saw it first.”
I tried to look dumb. “Pardon?”
“On the video.” He scowled. “You were looking for it.”
In the humid air, I smelled fresh scapegoat. And Bello looked ravenous for someone to blame.
“And,” he said, “you were in the barn when it caught fire.”
Claire picked up the scent. “She was also in the clinic when SunTzu died. Two dead horses in one week, and she happens to be connected to both. I don’t like coincidences.”
I didn’t either. Standing there, reeking of scapegoat, I felt my brain trying to slap into hard reality, into something void of emotions. What came back was physics. The
situation was some horrible example of the first law of thermodynamics, where energy changes from one form to another but can’t be destroyed. Right now, my only hope was to go with the current. I sighed.
“You caught me,” I said. “I’m a coward. I couldn’t watch that jockey get crushed again, so I was looking at the turf. When I saw that dark line, it looked weird.”
Bello looked over at Claire.
She shook her head. “Still too convenient. I heard she asked to stay in the stall with Solo. And she rode out here with the vet this morning.”
“You’re forgetting something,” I said. “Both of those horses belonged to my aunt.”
“I didn’t forget that,” she said. “I was just wondering what other disaster you have planned for the last week of the season.”
When I looked at Mr. Yuck, he wore a sour yet pleased expression that said his favorite dish was being served up. And it wasn’t fresh scapegoat. It was the perfect target.
“Y’all are way off base.” I sounded baffled, and it was genuine. Here I was, finally telling the truth—that I looked away out of cowardice—and I was being accused of lying. By these people. These secretive people. The irony made my head hurt. “Here are the facts. I stayed with Solo because she was sick. I was in the clinic because Doc Madison wanted women in there with SunTzu, and because Aunt Eleanor ordered me to go.”
The summer rain felt cloying, suffocating. I waited for somebody to reply and counted the drops as they hit my head—four, five, six. And my brain said my next best shot was to try the second law of thermodynamics. Entropy. Chaos. Diversion.
“This is ridiculous.” I reached into my bag, pulling out my cell phone. “I’m calling Aunt Eleanor.”
“Please do.” Mr. Yuck’s ill smile was growing. “And I’ll call the police. Nobody leaves until they give their statement. Especially you, Miss David.”
Chapter Thirteen
At 4:00 p.m., after a day that felt seventy-two hours long, I followed Eleanor’s car south on Interstate 5. She was woozy from the day’s drama and her two shots of whiskey with Cooper, and wanted to make sure the battleship returned to port. I didn’t mind being her escort. The Ghost made every trip feel like a vacation, especially after my two Bureau-assigned heaps, one of which was a K-car with vinyl bench seats. The other car was purple and stunk of perp vomit. With Italian butter-leather caressing my back, I gazed out the smooth wash of windshield. The temperamental summer rain was taking another break and the spent clouds splintered sunlight. Mount Rainier’s peaks looked as gilded as crowns of ice. I could’ve stared at that view forever, but my rearview mirror held an even more interesting picture.
A black Cadillac left Emerald Meadows when we did. Its darker-than-normal tinted windows led me to assume it was a private limo. But it should have passed us by now because Eleanor was motoring down the freeway at forty miles an hour, peering through her steering wheel and singing along with the golden oldies on her tape deck. Irate motorists kept giving her colorful hand signals, conveying their sentiments about her speed, or lack of. But the black Caddy hung back six or seven cars. When she took the exit for Tacoma’s North Slope neighborhood, it did the same, then dropped back a little farther at J Street, when Eleanor swung the Lincoln into the curving driveway of her old Victorian. One bejeweled hand came out the window, waving good-bye to her escort. I waited at the curb until she was inside the house. When I pulled back into the street, the Cadillac was a block behind me.
“All right,” I told the growling engine. “Let’s roll.”
Stepping on the gas, I shifted into second almost immediately. Just before Division Street, the car begged for third. We made a sharp cut left and flew back uphill to the North Slope. Obeying my commands with the walnut steering wheel, the tires stuck to the pavement like unrequited love. When we plunged down the hill again, I opened up the engine and zipped down Dock Street to the 1700 block and into the parking lot for Thea’s Landing.
The Caddy was nowhere in sight.
“Well done.” I patted the burled wood dashboard and gathered my belongings. For the first time in days, weeks, I was smiling, feeling so good I started to plan my next meal. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything to eat in the condo, and as I was crossing the parking lot to my building, I was debating whether to go shopping or eat out. But something caught my eye. I turned, looking at the street.
The Cadillac passed slowly. The late-afternoon sun made the black paint sparkle like crushed anthracite. And the driver was hidden behind the dark glass.
I felt a sudden temptation. Fire up the Ghost, chase him down.
But the thought was doused by the image of OPR, and my boss in Richmond, warming their hands over my incinerating career.
Let it go. I keyed open the lobby door. For now.
Thea’s Landing was a sleek and modern complex, named for the matriarch who founded the largest fleet of tugboats in the Northwest, Thea Foss, a Tacoma pioneer who passed away in 1927. The brand-new building sat on the waterfront, and the lobby still smelled of gypsum board and the volatile compounds leaking from the walls’ inoffensive beige paint. I keyed open the brushed nickel mailbox labeled #202, Raleigh David and walked up two flights. The biggest envelope in the pile of mostly junk mail had the return address of Three Springs, Vesuvius, Virginia. The David family’s estate. Supposed estate. I was coming down the hall to my door, turning over the envelope to check the tamper-proof seal, when I saw two brown bags sitting outside my door. I walked up to them carefully, looking over my shoulder.
They were full of groceries.
Eleanor, I decided. Probably a delivery of rye bread and lettuce.
Carrying the bags inside, I set them on the polished granite countertops that gleamed from lack of use. My two-bedroom corner unit had a balcony that overlooked a small harbor. The place was so far beyond my budget it was laughable. But Eleanor hadn’t batted one false eyelash. Like the Ghibli sports car, she insisted her niece would have only the best. She and Harry never had children, and I sometimes wondered if she was making up for that by spoiling me.
Picking up the envelope again, I inspected the back flap. If there had been any tampering, the nearly invisible tape would have come off in annoyingly small pieces. But the seal was intact, and inside I found two smaller envelopes, both addressed to me.
The real me. Raleigh Harmon.
The first note was from Aunt Charlotte, telling me that my mom was “okay.” My eyes burned reading her big exuberant handwriting. Such sweet deceived words. Deceived by me. She had sent the note to the Seattle field office, believing my assignment took me far away. Yet I was less than an hour from her house on Capitol Hill. I hated lying. Especially to the people I loved.
The second note was sent “care of Charlotte Harmon.” The ecru stationery was embossed with a silver scalloped edging and had the fine calligraphy used for important occasions. When I flipped it over, the envelope showed its own tamper-resistant seal: melted red wax stamped with the letter W. It stood for Weyanoke. My fiancé’s estate in Virginia. A real honest-to-goodness estate. Three thousand acres along the James River, Weyanoke had been in the Fielding family since the 1700s and DeMott planned to live every day on that land. I was supposed to join him there right after we married on the cliff above the river. We would build a home on five acres, not far from his family’s three-story Georgian mansion that was almost four hundred years old. The place was storybook beautiful, secure on the National Register of Historic Places, and no way could I see myself living there.
I stared at the calligraphy. It looked like an announcement.
He wouldn’t . . . No. He wouldn’t set a wedding date without asking me. Would he?
I tore open the envelope. And let out a sigh. The invitation was for a baby shower. His sister MacKenna was expecting a baby. MacKenna Fielding Morgan. The sister who hated me. I glanced at the details and found a small handwritten note inside.
Raleigh,
DeMott says I shouldn’t bother sending you this
invitation. He says you’re working on something top secret and can’t come. But I thought you would like to know what’s going on here at Weyanoke. The family is very excited for the impending arrival of another generation!
And DeMott misses you, terribly. Please come home soon.
With love, Jillian
Jillian. His older sister. Who actually liked me.
I shredded the notes for security reasons, then unpacked the groceries while listening to the messages on Raleigh David’s answering machine. The first came from a campaign worker, begging me to vote for some congressman who promised to “clean up Washington, DC” The campaign worker, I decided, was probably also dumb enough to believe in luck.
I pulled the first item from the bag. Hamburger buns. The second message began as I removed a jar of Kraft mayonnaise and a golden brick of Tillamook cheese. In the background, an earnest environmentalist tried to scare me about global warming, carbon emissions, and how coal plants would bring an end to the human race. Just for that, I left the refrigerator door wide open. Then I opened the freezer and left that open too. The second grocery bag contained frozen French fries. And one box of hamburger patties. And a note.
Bake at 425 degrees. Dip in mayo.
P.S. Shrink at 8:00 p.m.
Jack
The environmentalist signed off, and in the ensuing silence every spotless surface glared back at me. I slammed both doors and checked my watch.
It was three hours later on the East Coast. And at Weyanoke they dressed for dinner. Summer guests were constant, parading through the grand dining room. Richmond’s corporate lawyers and investment bankers. All those First Families of Virginia. Maybe DeMott would want to come to the phone. I stared at my landline. The FBI had a wire tap on it, to monitor taps from other sources. But hey, Raleigh David was engaged. She could call her fiancé. Right?
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