Jockeys and Jewels

by Bev Pettersen

Satisfied, he closed the laptop and jammed it back in his metal briefcase, next to his gun and holster. No need to carry the Sig. He hadn’t provoked anyone, not yet. He spun the combination lock and placed the case in his room safe.

  A few flexes didn’t help the kinks in his shoulders, so he tossed the truck keys back on the desk. The barns were close, and a brisk walk might loosen some tension.

  The motel was a dive but conveniently located. He reached the track’s public entrance in seven minutes flat; however, the doors were locked, the clubhouse deserted. He was forced to circle to the side where a squat guardhouse blocked his way.

  He paused by the grilled window and flipped open his trainer’s license. The narrow-eyed guard wore a crisp khaki uniform and was so polite Kurt guessed he was new. He scrutinized Kurt's training credentials, carefully matching photo to face before gesturing him through the horsemen’s gate.

  Kurt followed the row of dimly lit buildings to G barn and paused outside the door. It was library quiet, devoid of humans, so he walked down the aisle to Cisco’s stall. The horse blinked and charged the door, ever hopeful for food.

  “Not breakfast time yet,” Kurt murmured as he scratched the base of Cisco’s shaggy ears. He’d known a lot of horses, but Cisco was his all-time favorite.

  Crack!

  The abrupt noise made them both jump. Across the aisle a horse kicked with such force the wall boards quivered. Curious, Kurt approached the stall, but mismatched planks had been nailed over the wire mesh, blocking any view of the stall’s unruly occupant.

  Something moved above his head—a dark muzzle snuffling between the top board and ceiling. Nostrils flared, revealing a healthy pink lining.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Kurt said, reassured the agitated horse was okay.

  The muzzle disappeared and hooves cracked the planks again, so Kurt eased away. Obviously his presence didn’t improve that animal's disposition.

  He continued his sweep of the barn, noting the absence of security cams, then slipped out the end door and onto the graveled lot.

  Exterior barn lights cast only a feeble glow, and trailers of assorted shapes and sizes loomed in a murky row. He counted as he walked, five rigs over, one row back. And there it was—the slant load with Montana plates that Connor had described in his last call to dispatch.

  Otto Laing’s trailer.

  He gave the side door a shake but it was warped and welded shut. He circled to the back, eased two bolts out and lowered the ramp. Creak. The grating metal made him cringe and he paused, but the area remained still, silent except for peeping frogs and the rumble of traffic beyond the river.

  He edged up the ramp, groping in his pocket for gloves, bag and flashlight.

  The beam of his light revealed worn and jagged interior walls. Something fluttered. He jerked back, his heart racing until he saw it was merely a clump of tail hair caught on a wooden sliver. He tugged the hair loose and dropped it in his bag.

  The floor mat was heavy and awkward, but he pulled the rubber aside, breathing through his mouth, ignoring the acrid smell of urine. Ants scurried to escape and, within seconds, vanished into a crevice. He propped the flashlight between his knees and scraped at the exposed crack. Insect eggs gleamed as rotten wood crumbled in his hand. Not much of a hiding place, only a home for ants.

  He replaced the mat, careful to press it down in the corners before stepping outside.

  There wasn’t much clearance under the trailer, but he dropped to the gravel and squeezed beneath the floorboards. Gravel pricked his back, along with a growing sense of urgency. Still, he checked every inch.

  Found nothing.

  He sprawled on the cold ground, heavy with frustration, stymied by the unremarkable floor. He’d assumed drugs were involved. That was Connor's specialty, his motive for joining the RCMP, but Kurt simply couldn't see what had prompted him to follow this particular trailer.

  Gravel crunched, and the smell of chewing tobacco wafted on the breeze. Damn. He pocketed the bag and gloves, rolling to his feet just as a hulking figure charged from the shadows.

  “What the fuck you doing with my trailer?” the man snarled.

  “You must be Adam West.” Kurt grabbed a name Sandra had mentioned, keeping his voice relaxed. “Heard you rent your trailer. My horse is tall, and I need to make sure he'll fit.”

  “I ain’t West. His trailer’s over there somewhere.” The man had close-cropped hair, a thick neck and a head like a Rottweiler. He jerked his arm to the left but kept his suspicious gaze locked on Kurt. “Kind of dark to be looking at a trailer, ain't it?”

  “Only time I had.” Kurt extended his hand. “I’m Kurt MacKinnon. Sorry for the mix-up, Mr.?”

  “Otto.” The man ignored Kurt’s hand. “Now get away from there.”

  Something throbbed behind Kurt’s right eye, but he forced his voice to remain mild as he trailed Otto back toward the lights of the barn. “Guess I’ll have to check Adam’s trailer tomorrow. Can you recommend an exercise rider?”

  Otto was silent for so long it seemed he wasn’t going to answer. Finally. “I use Adam West’s girl. Nice tits.”

  Kurt rubbed hard at his forehead. “Well, I guess that’s important. But can she ride?”

  “She don’t fall off.”

  “But can she ride?” And now Kurt didn’t try quite so hard to keep his voice mild.

  “Do I look like a fucking information center?”

  “Not a bit.” Kurt’s hands fisted. He forced them open then deliberately let them fist again. He’d never had much patience with assholes. “Real sorry if the question's too tough for you,” he added.

  Otto took one menacing step then twisted his mouth and spat a stream of tobacco, just missing the toe of Kurt’s boot. “Fuck off,” he said, before stomping into the barn.

  A hunter’s awareness swept Kurt, an exhilaration he hadn’t felt since turning in his badge. Otto was the type of suspect he liked working with, the type of man he didn’t mind lying to. Obviously though, his people skills had eroded. Archer had asked that he ingratiate himself with the locals, yet somehow he’d managed to rile both Otto and Julie on the very first meet.

  Smiling, he stepped over the gob of tobacco and headed toward his motel. The wind had pushed holes in the cloud cover, and stars glinted through the gaps. It was a relaxing walk, quiet and serene. Serene until the kick of a horse echoed from the barn Otto had just entered. The sound jarred the night with its protest and made him wonder why even the animals didn’t like Otto.

  Chapter Five

  The sun nudged over the eastern ridge with a promise to ease the morning chill. Kurt parked his truck beside the barn. He yawned as he entered, then gathered feed from his tack room and dumped it into his animals’ stalls.

  Happy horses gobbling grain always left him content, and he strolled down the aisle, enjoying the sounds. Bleary-eyed grooms carried buckets and pushed wheelbarrows, but there was no sign of Otto or Julie—only grooms immersed in their chores.

  A stable hand would be useful, would free up more time for investigative work, and no doubt Sandra could recommend someone. But at this hour his priority was coffee.

  The distinct smell of frying bacon drew him to a weather-beaten building close to the oval. A bulletin board by the entrance was crammed with faded race notices, sale announcements and a sign-up sheet for a ping pong tournament.

  He pushed open the door and entered a room pulsing with energy, conversation, and kitchen smells. A harried cook wearing a stained apron sold him a coffee, and he snagged a chair at the last vacant table.

  The mug warmed his hand, and he took a moment to inhale the steam. Hot and strong. The smell alone prodded him awake. He settled back, content. Undercover work was largely a matter of patience: watching, asking questions and, if needed, prodding. He stretched his legs and observed.

  The track community churned around him—exercise riders grabbing breakfast, anxious-eyed trainers planning their horses' schedules and owners chatting in their
impractical Italian loafers. It was easy to spot the most successful trainers. They were the ones swarmed with deferential nods, phone calls and clients.

  “Okay if we sit here?”

  Kurt looked up, nodding at the two middle-aged men standing beside him. The shorter man pulled off his Stetson, exposing a tanned forehead rimmed with white. He dropped into the chair beside Kurt, shoved aside a sticky container of pancake syrup and laid his hat, crown down, on the vinyl table. There was hardly a break in their conversation, a vigorous discussion that centered on Friday's race card.

  “So damn wet this spring, that inside post is the kiss of death. I'm betting Bixton’s horse will bounce. Going with Julie.” Stetson Man slammed his mug on the table, emphasizing his opinion.

  “Nah, best to go with Bixton,” the second man said. “Jock’s hot. If the horse has four legs and a heart beat, the post won’t matter.”

  Kurt focused on Stetson Man. Faded jeans, denim shirt, oversized belt buckle. Probably a rancher. “I met a Julie yesterday,” Kurt said, leaning forward. “Julie West. She’s galloping for me today. Good rider, is she?”

  “The best.” Stetson Man spoke emphatically but chuckled when his companion elbowed him in the ribs. “Actually, Julie's my daughter,” he added, “so some folks might think I'm biased. Which I’m not.” His smile faded but his eyes twinkled. “You new here?”

  “Yeah. Kurt MacKinnon.”

  “Adam West.”

  Kurt shook Adam’s hand. Clearly Julie’s mother was the looker. All Julie seemed to have inherited from her father were the man’s astute green eyes, although Adam’s were much shrewder, even cynical.

  Best to be careful around this man.

  Adam seemed sincere when he spoke. “Julie can ride anything. She has a good feel for horses, especially young ones. Learned a lot on the bush. Lots of Quarter Horses, lots of speed.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Kurt's arms, still tanned from racing in Florida. “You don’t live around here?”

  “Not yet, but I plan to buy a place in the foothills,” Kurt lied easily. “I want to take a ride up there and get a feel for the land, but my trailer needs work. Sandra mentioned you might rent yours?”

  “Maybe,” Adam said, his penetrating eyes searching Kurt’s face.

  But Kurt had perfected the silent stare and held his gaze.

  Twenty seconds later Adam nodded, and the image of an affable rancher returned. “Yeah, I suppose you can rent my trailer,” he said. “Julie might help if you need a guide. She knows the area from tagging along on all our hunting trips.”

  Perfect. Kurt picked up his coffee, hiding his satisfaction as he drained the mug. Adam and Otto might not be friends—the men seemed polar opposites—but at least if they talked, Kurt’s excuse for poking around Otto's trailer would hold.

  “What’s the track like?” He slid his empty mug to the center of the table.

  “A bit hard, except for the rail. Supposed to be nice for the next half hour. If you don't like the weather, just wait ten minutes.”

  Kurt smiled and glanced out the window, checking the blue patch of sky. The weather was fickle, affected by the nearby mountains. It had been hailing when he woke but now it was sunny and warm, a perfect spring day.

  Adam turned to his companion, and their conversation bottomed to a tractor and the astronomical price of hay. Nothing more to be gained here. Kurt scraped back his chair and left.

  The walkway skirted the rail, and he relished the surrounding sounds—the primal thud of hooves, the friendly shouts of riders—activities so familiar, so benign, he had to remind himself he was here on police business. Nasty business.

  Kurt slowed before entering the barn, letting his vision adjust to the interior lights. He grabbed Lazer’s grooming kit and tied the horse to a ring in his stall. The horse seemed relaxed, standing quietly to be brushed. Hopefully he’d behave for Julie. Lazer had earned a reputation as tricky to ride. Not mean, just energetic and easily distracted.

  It would be safer if he escorted her with Cisco, at least for her first attempt. Sandra considered Julie a competent rider. So did Adam. But only yesterday, Kurt had seen her sprawled on the ground, and he didn’t want her hurt. He didn’t like to stick his horse with a poor rider, but the case took precedence and unfortunately Lazer was the sacrifice.

  He finished grooming Lazer and stepped into Cisco’s stall. The Appaloosa flattened his ears, aware brushes meant work, and Kurt gave him an affectionate slap. Cisco was a confirmed asshole, but Kurt empathized with his cranky personality. He’d never owned a more useful horse.

  The grooming ritual was a rare chance to spend time with his horses and he enjoyed it. His vigorous strokes left a shine on Cisco’s coat. Back east, his network of runners was stabled at three different tracks and staff looked after the daily chores, overseen by his racing assistants. Here it was just him and three horses. A nice break, almost a vacation…

  Otto's gravelly voice shattered the serenity. “My horse ain’t lame, and I want you to ride her.”

  Kurt edged behind Cisco, trying to remain unseen. Footsteps thumped closer.

  “She might need time off, Otto. She doesn't feel right. The vet could scratch her.”

  Julie’s voice. Kurt remained hidden in the stall, shamelessly eavesdropping as he plucked white tail hairs from his brush.

  “Doc’s an idiot. That man don't know nothing.”

  “Maybe she hurt herself when she kicked the wall,” Julie said. “No horse likes to be locked up. Perhaps if you took the boards down. Let her see out.”

  Kurt’s hand stilled over the brush. So it was Otto’s horse in the boarded-up stall. Archer had arranged for Kurt to be in the same barn as Otto, but it was sheer luck the man’s stall was directly across the aisle. Strange the horse in solitary was a mare. He’d assumed it was a stallion, a bad actor that needed isolation.

  “Whip the bitch and you'll see how hurt she is. Listen, girl. We both know you ain’t got many offers. If you want to race my horse Friday, you best climb on her today.” Otto’s voice thickened. “You’d get more business if you weren’t so stuck up. You oughta try being nicer to men. Nicer to me.”

  Kurt's disgust flared, along with his relief. Julie and Otto didn’t sound like happy partners. He shoved open Cisco's door and stepped into the aisle.

  Otto loomed over Julie, standing much too close, using his size to intimidate. But Julie’s hands were balled, her shoulders squared and clearly she was too stubborn to step back.

  Kurt forced a benign smile. “Good morning, Julie,” he said. “Good morning, Otto.”

  She turned and walked toward him, not rushing but not dawdling either. The relief on her face was so apparent he instinctively moved closer. Otto watched her go, making no effort to hide his blatant appraisal.

  A pulse ticked on the side of Kurt’s jaw. The man was not only rude but a bully. Kurt had known people like that, had even worked with some of them. Never had liked it. Yet Otto was key to the investigation, and he had to make some attempt to get along.

  “Your horse did kick this morning,” he said mildly, resisting his urge to step forward and block Otto’s view.

  “So what?” Otto’s gaze swung from Julie to Kurt. “Ain’t no one’s business but mine.”

  “Sure,” Kurt said, “but at some point she'll hurt herself. Must be hard to keep shoes on her too.”

  Otto's eyes slitted. “You better worry about your own horses.” He stared at Kurt for a moment before stomping from the barn.

  Kurt glanced at Julie. “Touchy fellow. Know him well?”

  “No.” She clasped her arms, rubbing them as though chilled. “But he’s probably not someone you want as an enemy.”

  “Is that a warning?”

  “Yes, I guess it is.” She raised her head, her eyes troubled. “Most people avoid him. I was surprised to see him so early. Usually I ride for him in the last set, nine-thirty, when more people are around.”

  “You don’t like him, yet you gallop for him?
”

  “It’s the horse I'm with, not Otto. And I’m helping his animals, even if it’s only in a small way. Besides, I don’t just gallop for him. I ride races too.” She crossed her arms, her voice turning wistful. “Unfortunately I can't afford to turn down rides. Someday maybe, but not yet.”

  “Racing is a cut-throat business,” Kurt said. “We’d all like to pick and choose who we work for…who we get involved with.”

  She nodded but determination blazed in her face, emphasizing those killer cheekbones, and it was clear she was thinking of nothing but riding. Probably she had no involvement in Connor's murder. She seemed exactly who she appeared, an apprentice jockey desperate to earn mounts.

  It’d be damn tough. She’d picked a hard and bruising career yet was utterly feminine. Her weight appeared perfect in spite of her generous curves…

  Jesus. He needed a kick, wasn’t usually this distracted. He corralled his thoughts, turning away from her as he pointed at Otto’s horse. “What’s her story? I’ve never seen a horse locked up so tight.”

  “Otto likes his privacy,” Julie said. “That mare arrived last week and is entered for Friday. I've galloped her four times, but she feels sore. Otto doesn't want to hear about it though.”

  Kurt made an encouraging sound designed to keep her talking and walked to Otto’s stall. There was a knothole near the bottom of the middle board. He crouched, pressing his eye to the opening, as he strained to see the horse behind the wall. Julie scuffed her leather boot on the concrete, and he could feel her edginess, radiating like a wave.

  Maybe she was linked with this after all? “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Otto,” she said simply. “He'll be really pissed if he sees you checking his horse. And sometimes his reactions are extreme.”

  Kurt relaxed, pressing his eye back against the hole. “I just wonder why the mare kicks so much. She might hurt herself, although she seems quiet now.”

  The horse had definitely settled, had even edged toward his voice. Her neck stretched as she sniffed at the hole, and the long hairs on her muzzle tickled his eyebrow. She looked normal but thin. Her front legs were nice and straight. Good bone. No obvious injury.