by Sasscer Hill
Carla jumped in. “Farino. That sexy guy, looks like a gypsy?”
I started to add my two cents on Farino but Carla was on a roll. “Wait. Let me tell you. He has a new owner up at Laurel. You should see it. Old lady on a walker, has a big Mercedes with a driver.”
No doubt she was a widow. I exhaled some air. “He’s one of them.” A ring of thieves. The three of us shook our heads. Why did all the hot men have to be scum bags?
“There’s another guy. Lorna knows about this other creep called Vipe,” I said, nodding at her red head. I quickly rehashed the Vipe story for Carla. “But there’s this connection between all three of them and those Dark Mountain horses.”
“Like what?” Lorna’s eyes glowed wide and round.
“Remember the horse I called Whorly?” When Lorna nodded, I turned to Carla and brought her up to date on Hellish’s Dark Mountain rescue. “So this thin boy that worked for Vipe always rode Whorly. Still works in Vipe’s barn with some Latinos. I nosed around, asked who paid their salary. If they’d ever heard of Arthur Clements or Jack Farino. They clammed right up.”
“I don’t understand,” said Carla. “What do you think these people are doing?”
“Suppose,” I said, “they have Whorly and another bay horse with a cowlick? Suppose both sets of Jockey Club papers simply state, ‘single whorl on left side of neck, no white markings.’” I glanced at Carla. She appeared to be following.
“So,” I said, “the second horse might not even need to have an unusual cowlick, just one on the left side. Let’s say they run Whorly at Laurel, Delaware Park or Charles Town, and he has a bad case of the slows. He gets lousy speed and performance ratings.”
“Wait a minute,” said Carla. “Doesn’t somebody check these horses?”
“Totally,” said Lorna. “There’s this guy called the identifier. He’s got, like, this booklet, describes blazes and socks, whorls, any odd markings and the tattoo numbers — for all the horses running that day.” Lorna’s short-sleeved shirt revealed the Pegasus tattoo on her forearm. She tapped it with her right index finger, emphasizing her point. “You’ve been to the races, Carla. Didn’t you ever see that guy, stares at every horse, gets a hold of the upper lip, reads the tattoo number underneath?”
“Didn’t notice,” said Carla.
Lorna rolled her eyes.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s call the other horse Rocket. Suppose he’s a good horse, they fake his papers up, and can find a way to get around the tattoo ID? Rocket can impersonate Whorly for the day.”
Lorna’s eyes gleamed. “And the bad dudes bet big bucks and Whorly, who’s really Rocket, comes in, pays maybe 90-1.”
Carla frowned. “But Louis told me if you win a big pot, the IRS is waiting for you. They’re stationed right behind the betting windows. Everyone would know.”
“Right,” I said. “But there are so many gambling outlets now. You can bet on the phone, the Internet, overseas. They’d spread their bets. Hell, there’s even offshore betting accounts now.”
Carla, raised an eyebrow. “Seen any fast bay horses around here?”
My breath caught. “As a matter of fact . . .” I stared toward Vipe’s barn.
Told them how I’d seen another bay breezing around the Dimsboro track one morning like he was running on rocket fuel.
The thin boy had ridden him.
“I’m going over there later, take a look at what’s in that barn. Then I need to figure a way to look at those horses’ papers.”
Lorna all but squealed. “Vernal, my buddy in the secretary’s office. He could take a peek in Clements’ file. Check out the papers on any bays.”
Carla looked clueless, so I said, “The track identifier keeps a folder for each trainer. Any time a trainer runs a horse, the papers have to be in that folder, available to track ID. Most trainers leave ’em there. It’s more convenient, unless a horse is racing out of town.”
“Yeah, but that’s totally discouraged.” Lorna nodded knowingly. “They’re always threatening to take stall allocation away if you race out of town.”
Carla’s eyes started to glaze over. Too much information.
“Clements wouldn’t keep both sets of papers in that file,” I said. “He’d pull the old switcheroo. I need to get into his office. If I could just figure a way to get back inside Laurel.” I closed my eyes. God, how I longed to return to Laurel.
“Louis may be a two-timing piece of crap, but he bought me a Maryland owner’s license,” said Carla. She turned those brown eyes on me. “I can get you in. The rest is up to you.”
“Better be careful, Nikki.” Lorna looked worried. “These could be seriously dangerous people.”
Later, I’d remember her words. Wish I’d taken them to heart.
Chapter 33
I walked toward Vipe’s barn that afternoon, attempting to look casual — just out for a stroll. The building stood next to a sagging chain-link fence separating Dimsboro from the railroad behind. On the far side of the tracks a steep bank dropped into the unadorned backside of a Food Lion strip mall. A hole in the fence and a well-worn footpath provided access to a number of shops, the liquor store and Chinese takeout being the most popular.
Vipe’s barn upheld the Dimsboro standard. His shedrow wasn’t neat, his buckets didn’t match, his aisles weren’t raked, and, of course, his roof leaked. But his horses were well fed. If someone directed this scam from the shadows, they were sly enough to supply the speedy “Rocket” with the necessary fuel.
Past training hours, but too early for evening feed, the barn appeared free of humans. The Dimsboro shedrows lacked the customary concrete half-wall perimeter. Instead, wood posts and waist-high pine-rails confined the horses to the dirt paths running before the stalls. People said the state park stapled sheets of plastic over the wood frame in the winter, and I could just imagine the stuff tearing and flapping in the northwest wind.
I eased into the aisle facing the track, looking for the two plain bays. The horses I found had white markings. At the last stall on the aisle I turned left and moved around the barn’s end on to the side facing the strip mall.
I spotted Whorly’s unusual arrangement of twirling neck hairs in the first stall. Four doors down I found Rocket. The two horses were about the same size, with similar head shapes. Rocket’s muscle structure was more developed than Whorly’s, and his eyes held the proud determination that good racehorses so often have. He obliged me by thrusting his head over the stall door. I slid my hand onto the left side of his neck and scratched. His pleasure was evident, the way he pushed against my hand, nodded his head in time to my rubbing. I gazed at the neck fur, finding a single cowlick. Stepped sideways and inspected the right side. The fur ran smooth and even.
My heart kicked up. I looked around, didn’t see anyone. I slipped into Rocket’s stall, grasped his halter and led him away from the door. With my other hand I got a hold of his upper lip, tried to curl it up, read his tattoo number. He resisted. I needed two hands and glanced around the stall walls. In the back a tie chain hung from a screw eye. I led Rocket over and clipped the snap on the end of the tie chain to his halter ring.
This time I got his lip up and stared at the number: 0120661. That meant he’d foaled in ’01, and his specific Jockey Club number was 20661. Tattoo numbers become worn and harder to read as a horse gets older, but these were fairly clear, didn’t appear to have been tampered with. I released Rocket and headed for Whorly.
I heard a rattling sound and froze. Stood motionless a few moments, my ears straining. I heard nothing more and crept into Whorly’s stall. Being more of an old plug, he let me fold his lip up and read the number. My heart hammered harder in my chest as I stared. The exact same number, only the sixes were fuzzy. Did it look like the sixes were previously eights? Like the one was a seven with the top knocked off? I thought of Vipe’s prison teardrop, of the lasers that could remove tattoos. How hard would it be to change an eight to a six, a seven to a one?
Provi
ng my theory left my hands shaking. I’d thought maybe it couldn’t be true. Time to get out. I slid from the stall into the aisle, my eyes searching. Hurried down the shedrow, ducked under the rail and moved away, slowed as the sensation of watching eyes reached my back. Turning around, I saw someone staring from the track side of Vipe’s barn.
The thin boy. Damn. Where had he come from? I walked on as if unconcerned. Had he seen me come out the far side of the barn?
That evening, Lorna called, told me Vernal had found one set of papers in Clements’ file in the Laurel Park ID office. The document described a bay horse with one left-side-of-neck whorl. “Did you get the tattoo number?” I asked.
“My brain didn’t come from Wal-Mart. Of course I did.” I heard her rustling paper through my cell phone. “Here it is — 0120661.”
“And I bet the name on the papers is ‘Noble Treasure’?” Holding my breath.
“How’d you know that?”
I explained about the name I’d seen on Whorly’s halter after Dennis brought him into Laurel. Told her about my recent sleuthing in Vipe’s barn. I needed to talk to Carla and began winding up the conversation, but Lorna wasn’t finished.
“Nikki, didn’t you say something about an insurance scam going on, too?”
Mental head slap. “Yes. I didn’t think about it when the three of us were talking. Remember the Dark Mountain horse that turned up dead with Dennis O’Brien’s body? Belonged to Janet LeGrange. She probably had insurance, like old lady Garner.”
“You mean like Gildy?”
A spurt of fear hit me. Was there a connection I couldn’t see between the betting scam and the horse fatalities? “Yeah, like Gildy.” A heavy feeling washed over me. I paused a beat. “Lorna, what are the chances of two rich widows winding up with two dead horses?”
“Wouldn’t get my two bucks,” she said.
We disconnected with me thinking how I never got beyond Martha admitting to her insurance policy on Gildy. I felt she had more to tell me. Hell, she wouldn’t give me the time of day now.
I reached Carla. Told her I needed to pick her brain. We decided to meet the next day at Annapolis Mall, a halfway point between Dimsboro and her Baltimore wholesaler’s.
In the morning I realized Hellish was coming around. Before long I wouldn’t be afraid to drop the daily dose of Acepromazine. She’d been like a human with a nagging headache. Cranky. But since Farino worked on this filly, her anger was slowly dissolving. She realized galloping didn’t hurt anymore. The urge to run had been bred into her for centuries. Who could blame her for being frustrated when the thing she’d wanted to do the most caused pain?
Jim always said a happy horse will run to their potential, maybe beyond. I skipped the grinding routine of the racetrack for the day and rode Hellish down a dirt path beside Tavern Branch, letting her canter near the water’s edge. Mist hung over the creek in the morning chill, and a few Canada geese spooned their bills into the mud on the bank. As Hellish warmed up I could smell her sweat vaporizing into steam. She rolled along effortlessly, rocking me into a state of calm euphoria.
On the way back we slowed to a walk, stopping to watch some teenage goslings waddle behind their parents. The family slid down the bank and splashed into the branch, honking about it and waggling their tails. A fish flipped out of the water, then folded back into the stream, leaving only a ripple to mark its brief emergence.
I gathered the reins and my thoughts, and headed back to our barn.
* * *
Carla and I worked on vanilla lattes at one of the small round tables on the white tile floor near the coffee bar outside Nordstrom’s. Skylights lit the high ceiling overhead, and a fountain splashed and soothed in a stone basin nearby. We studied a lined pad where I’d drawn the tattoo numbers and a picture of the whorls. Below that was a notation on the single set of papers in Clements’ ID folder. Then the words “Dennis brings three Dark Mountain horses to Laurel.”
I swallowed some coffee and swiped at a trace of foam on my upper lip. “Whorly is one of the three. The horse I found dead with Dennis is number two. I don’t know where the third one is.”
“It’s not the one you call Rocket?” Carla’s elbows rested on the shiny table surface. She wore the soft leather jacket and a short black skirt.
“No way. He’s the real deal, wouldn’t have been sent to that auction. Bet his name really is Noble Treasure.”
Carla studied the page, frowning. “You said there’s more. Something about insurance.”
“We have two dead horses, Martha’s Gildy and Janet’s Dark Mountain horse. I have to find out that horse’s name, see if he was insured and for how much. Martha told me she had a policy on Gildy for $150,000.”
“Did she collect?”
“Finally.” Seeing her next question forming, I said, “No I don’t think Martha’s the bad guy, and I have no idea how someone else would benefit.”
I turned at the commotion made by a woman shouting after a small boy who pounded away from her, making a beeline for the fountain. The woman rushed with a baby stroller containing a plump infant who soaked up the sights and sounds of the mall like a sponge. Her face relaxed when she realized the water’s fascination had checked the boy’s flight. She caught up with him and gave him some pennies to toss in the fountain. The baby stared at the splashing water, mesmerized.
“You know,” said Carla, pulling my mind from the fountain. “Anyone can take out a life insurance policy on just about anybody. What about equine insurance?”
“I don’t know.” But I sure as hell needed to find out.
“I’ll go online, get the name of an equine insurance agent, call and pretend I’ve bought a horse. See if I can get an answer.” Carla studied me a moment. “I know how to get you into Laurel Park.”
A shadow darkened the skylights above, graying the white tile floor, removing the warmth of the sun. I remembered Carla saying earlier that she’d get me in, but the rest was up to me. She sat opposite me, supportive and loyal, while nearby the small boy gurgled with delight at the fountain. So why did I feel so alone?
Chapter 34
Carla met me at the Silver Diner in Laurel for a late breakfast the following Monday. A hostess walked me past a row of blue-padded counter stools into the dining area, and pointed out Carla, who sat in a booth upholstered in blue vinyl with retro silver flecks. She’d already ordered us pancakes, crispy bacon, orange juice, and coffee. A waitress with masses of mascara showed up right behind me with the food. Conversation waited while Carla dug in. Being nervous, I tended to pick more than dig.
Carla slid her plate aside and drained her juice glass. She heaved a shopping bag onto the Formica tabletop, pushed it across to me. Red print on the silver paper read “Baltimore Stage and Costume.”
I peeked inside, and pulled out a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap with a curly blond wig sewn into the lining. The hair appeared real. Folded in the bottom of the bag were a matching nylon jacket and running pants.
“The kind of stuff you’d never wear,” Carla said.
I’d kept on my fleece vest from the morning, a perfect match to the Oriole red. I pointed to my vest, held up the ball cap. Carla ignored me.
She waved a wand-type lipstick. “You need to let me put this on you.” I squinted at it, made out the name “PuckerUp” in purple letters.
“This is the greatest stuff. Permanent lipstick, has to wear off.” Carla shook the product, and I could hear a hard mixing ball rattling around in there. She unscrewed the top, pulled out the wand to show me the color on the sponge tip, then examined the label. “They call this Hearts-in-the-Snow. It’ll look great on you.”
This was so Carla. “You want me to look good to sneak into Laurel?”
“You should always look good.” She pulled me into the ladies’ room, had me clean my mouth with a wet paper towel. With precise strokes, she painted on the red, going just over the edge of my lips, making them appear fuller. She accentuated the cupid’s bow, then studied
her work. “Didn’t I tell you? Great lips. A man could die for those lips.”
“Let’s hope no one else has to.”
The words startled Carla. “Maybe I should have used a different expression. You’re going to be careful, right? Just waltz in, look at a file cabinet and get out. Right?”
“Let’s do the wig and the other stuff,” I said. “I want to get this over with.”
I left my car at the diner. While Carla drove the short distance to Laurel Park, I pulled down my visor and peered into the mirror glued on the back. A cute blonde with big lips stared back at me. Didn’t look like anybody I knew.
Gucci sunglasses covered my eyes, and my head was buried in a fashion magazine when Carla stopped at the stable gate to show her license to Fred Rockston. My body tightened as his gaze swept over me, but his eyes held no recognition. Carla and I slapped palms as we left the security guard behind. I still wondered about Rockston’s appearance at both crime scenes. Always found it hard to believe in coincidences like that.
Monday was a “dark” day at Laurel Park, which meant no racing. We’d picked the middle of the day because there wouldn’t be much going on, and hopefully no people in Clements’ barn.
Almost three weeks since I’d been escorted off the grounds by Offenbach. A wave of nostalgia swept through me as I looked at the horse paths leading to the track, the attractive barns with their tight, secure green roofs. I missed Jim Ravinsky, the fat tabby cat, and the stable pony, Mack. Missed the daily wisecracking and gossip, the Mexican grooms with their laughter, flashing smiles, and gold earrings.
“Nikki.” Carla pulling me into the present. “I’ll park by the track kitchen, wait there. You’ve got your cell phone?”
I felt in the pocket of the new jacket and found the phone, held it up. Slipping it back, I felt a small object push against my fingers from the pocket of the vest underneath. Something from Dimsboro, no doubt.
“The Phillips?” Carla asked.
I withdrew the screwdriver from the jacket’s other pocket. Lorna had talked to a guy from her pre-rehab days. Apparently a thief, he knew how to pick locks and get into places. He’d told her to check out Clements’ office door, and after her description of the hasp and Yale padlock, he’d said a Phillips would do it.