Steve Cline Mysteries - 01 - At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  The uniformed cop stood beside me as I unlocked the door. "You'll need to make a preliminary list of the items that were stolen and their estimated value."

  "It'll be a rough estimate," I said. "Very rough, like not even in the ballpark kind of rough."

  He grinned. "That'll do for now. You can submit a more accurate inventory later."

  As I opened the door and stepped back, a dark green Crown Victoria pulled alongside the patrol car. Detective Ralston climbed out and clicked the door shut. His wrinkled suit hung loosely off his shoulders. He looked as if he hadn't made it to bed the night before, or if he had, he'd slept in his clothes.

  He introduced himself to his Howard County counterparts, mentioned Detective Linquist, then looked at me. "What've we got, Steve?"

  For an answer, I pushed the door open with my boot. Detective Ralston walked inside, looked around, and came back out.

  He yawned. "Did you touch anything?"

  I rubbed my thumb across my fingertips. "The light switch." I pointed across the room. "Over there." He looked at me as if I should have known better. "I didn't in the other tack rooms, though," I said and thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

  "How many people have access to this room?"

  "Fifty-plus."

  Ralston grunted, and the plainclothes cop, who was standing behind him, scowled. His expression said loud and clear that he thought he was wasting his time.

  "If the burglars had any sense," Ralston continued, "they wore gloves."

  "Even if they didn't," the plainclothes cop said, "with all that traffic, it won't matter."

  Ralston looked at the man, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "When's Gary gonna show?" he said.

  The cop shrugged.

  After the Howard County team stepped into the tack room and dumped their equipment on the floor, Ralston went back to his car. I separated out four flakes of hay, fed the last two horses at the far end of the aisle, and squinted at Ralston's car. He was on the phone, and I would have bet half my paycheck that he was bending Detective Sgt. Gary Linquist's ear.

  Five minutes later, Ralston strolled back into the barn and stood looking into the tack room. He folded his arms across his chest and watched the uniformed officer take pictures. The glare of the flash bounced off the walls and the ceiling . . . and Boris. I checked my watch. Seven-ten. It would be a miracle if the crew didn't end up standing around with their mouths open, gawking at the cat, then telling everyone they could think of about it, and the story would become unnecessarily sensationalized and blown out of proportion.

  I stuck my head in the doorway. "Would you let me know when you're done in there? I want to clean up as soon as possible."

  The uniformed cop looked up and nodded. "No problem."

  Ralston started in on the questions. I hadn't seen anyone. The sodium vapors were still on. The place had been dead. He rubbed his face. "You're the first person here every morning?"

  "Usually."

  "How common's that knowledge?"

  "I have no idea."

  "What did you think when you saw the blood?"

  "That there was a person around the corner." I looked him in the eye. "A dead person."

  He grunted. "What did you think when you saw the cat?"

  I blinked. "Think?"

  He waited.

  "That someone was playing a game," I said and felt that Ralston could read my every thought. Was sure he could imagine every damn feeling I'd had the pleasure of exploring earlier that morning. "A mind game."

  "You think it was directed at you personally?"

  I shrugged.

  "If it's the same crew, they probably had you in mind." When I didn't respond, he said, "When, exactly, did you discover the burglary?"

  "Around five-thirty."

  He frowned. "Was the blood dry?"

  "It was damp. Kind of tacky."

  "They hadn't been gone long."

  I looked at the floor and kicked at a few wisps of hay with the toe of my boot. Someone hadn't done a very good job sweeping up the night before.

  "You might want to change your routine."

  Change my routine. Easy for him to say.

  "So," Ralston said. "You think the events are related because of the excessive brutality."

  I nodded. "They didn't need to do that."

  Ralston shifted his weight and leaned on the doorjamb. "Burglars normally don't waste time leaving such an elaborate message, not unless there's a reason for it. Especially since they must have known they were running out of time." Ralston poked his head into the tack room. "Did Gary tell you this case might be related to an open homicide?"

  The uniformed cop looked up from where he'd been trying to enhance a print, a small brush poised in his hand. "Yes, sir. He did."

  "Also," I said to Ralston. "It looks like they knew the layout of the farm. They didn't touch the school horses' tack room. The saddles in there are cheap."

  I glanced over Ralston's shoulder. Marty was strolling into the barn, a questioning look on his face. I hurried to cut him off.

  "Steve, what the fuck's goin' on?"

  "Someone made off with a truck load of saddles and--"

  "No shit."

  "No shit. The police are collecting evidence now, so please stay away from all three tack rooms. If you see the guys before I do, let them know. Oh, and the school horses' tack room wasn't touched, so you can do whatever you have to in there."

  "Wow. I don't believe it. First the horses, now this." He calmly looked at my face. "Someone doesn't like us very much, do they?"

  "Apparently not. By the way, has this happened before? A tack theft I mean?"

  "Not that I know of. Not since I've been here."

  I sighed. The morning seemed to be going on forever. "Let's get to work. Most of the haying's done over here. Go help out in barn B, then we'll start turnouts."

  "Okay, boss."

  I watched him saunter off without a care in the world, and I envied him.

  A half hour later, the uniformed cop told me they were finished in the tack room.

  "How'd it go?" I asked.

  "Everywhere they would've touched, we got nothin' but smudges."

  "They were wearing gloves," I said.

  "Looks that way. We do have some good tool marks to work with, which reminds me. I need your signature." He handed me the clipboard and showed me where to sign.

  "What good are tool marks?"

  "Aren't good for nothin', not until Detective Ralston figures out who did it. Then we can compare their tools with the impressions."

  "Oh," I said, and he could probably see I wasn't impressed.

  I watched him head to the other barn. Out in the lane, Ralston and Detective Linquist were talking to Brian, and I wondered when I'd hear about that.

  * * *

  I was leaning against a locker, working halfheartedly on the inventory, when Mrs. Hill marched into the room. I pushed myself off the locker and straightened my spine. She circled the room with her hands on her hips.

  I closed one locker, squatted down, and was checking the locker on the bottom row when I became aware of a stillness in the room. I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Hill was standing in the middle of the room with her hands in her pockets and her head bowed. I stopped what I was doing and stood up.

  "Oh, Stephen," she said. "What a mess. I hate to think what Mr. Ambrose is going to say when he hears about this. He's going to have a fit."

  I doubted Mr. Ambrose would care one little bit. Although he was Foxdale's owner, his wife had been behind Foxdale's inception. A talented rider who had represented the United States in numerous Olympic and World Cup competitions, she had died of cancer a month after the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

  "He doesn't care about the place," I said.

  "Oh, that's not true, dear. He likes anything that makes a profit, which we do. And I must say, you've helped tremendously in that department. I tell him all the time what innovations and improvements you've come up w
ith. He's quite pleased." She frowned. "He won't be now."

  "No." I slid my pencil under the clasp on the clipboard and thought about money and insurance . . . and tax write-offs. Contrary to what he tells her, what if Ambrose wanted Foxdale to lose money? Even if he was rolling in the stuff, I found his avoidance of the place a little strange. "Who do you send the payroll information to?" I said.

  She frowned. "Farpoint Industries in Baltimore. Why?"

  "Just curious."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Working on a list for the police." I looked at my scribbled notes. "But without the boarders' help, it won't be complete. I don't know the saddles' values. All I can do is write down the names of everyone who's had their saddles stolen. And if by chance they've taken them home to clean, I've got that wrong, too."

  "You're right. I'll start making calls. We'll need an accurate itemization from each boarder."

  I looked at her face and saw by her expression that she'd already shifted into high gear. Making plans, working out procedures, focusing on the days ahead. She turned and left with a characteristic "Carry on, dear," floating over her shoulder.

  I carried on but with little enthusiasm.

  The resultant uproar was predictable and worsened by the fact that Foxdale was holding a schooling show the following morning. Two boarders gave notice that they were taking their horses and belongings elsewhere. I overheard more than one boarder asking Mrs. Hill about a night watchman and privately wondered how she would fare with the frugal Mr. Ambrose.

  Three boarders asked if I knew where Boris was. I didn't. No one seemed to notice that he had disappeared along with the saddles. Dave spent all of the afternoon and most of the evening restoring the tack rooms to their former perfection, and life went on except, of course, for Boris.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon, "the schooling show that wasn't" was thankfully half over. Some of the boarders had borrowed saddles, but most had stayed home. Sitting around, watching competitors from other farms win all the ribbons, was no one's idea of fun. I walked into the southwest field that served as a parking area during show days and scanned the rows of trailers.

  Checking had become a habit. Checking locks, checking horses. Checking trailers, looking for the elusive dualie and old trailer, my personal introduction to hell.

  There were far too many trucks and trailers in the pasture to check them from a distance, so I walked up and down the rows. Quite a few saddles had been left sitting on their stands. On the off chance I might recognize one of the more distinctive saddles that had been stolen from the tack room, I took note of them, too. More checking.

  There were few people in the parking area--most had gone to lunch--so I was surprised to hear heavy, quick footsteps behind me. Before I could react, someone grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.

  He tightened his grip on my jacket. "What in the hell do you think you're doing, snooping 'round out here?"

  I looked up at him. Had to. He had a good four inches on me. Maybe thirty-five, and overweight, I had never seen him before. He didn't look like a rider or a trainer.

  "You looking to steal somebody's stuff?" He shook my shoulder with each inflection of his voice. "Is that it? What're you doing? Speak up."

  He hadn't given me a chance. I resisted an urge to kick him in the shins and said with irritation, spitting my words out slowly, "Actually, I was looking for stolen tack . . . not trying to steal any." I exhaled and made an effort to relax. "I'm Foxdale's barn manager. Somebody cleaned out our tack rooms Friday morning, and I was hoping to find a lead of some kind."

  "Oh." He let go. "Sorry, then. I heard about that."

  I smoothed out my shirt. "Have you had any tack stolen?"

  "What do you think? I run a show barn in Pennsylvania, and right before Christmas, our tack room was broken into." He ran a hand through his hair and stared off into the middle distance as if reliving the event. "We couldn't believe it 'cause our house sits across the road from the barn, and somebody had the balls to go in there with a truck and empty the place out. We never thought it would happen to us."

  "No." I sighed. "Have you had any horses stolen?"

  "Hell, no."

  "Do you know anyone who has?"

  "Yeah. Come to think of it, I do. A buddy of mine had four of his horses stolen right from under his nose."

  "When?"

  "Two years ago. Maybe longer. Don't rightly recall."

  "Where does he live?" I asked without much hope.

  "He runs a dressage barn in northern Carroll County, just south of the Maryland-PA line. Four of his best horses, gone without a trace, and he didn't have any damn insurance on them, either."

  Carroll County. James Peters lived in Carroll County. We weren't far from Carroll County. The world wasn't that small a place.

  "What's your friend's name."

  "George Irons. Why?"

  "I'd like to talk to him. Do you know anyone who owns a white dualie and an old, dark-colored six-horse?"

  "No."

  He'd answered quickly, without thinking. "Are you sure?" I said. "It's important."

  He smoothed a hand over his hair and down the back of his neck. "No, can't think of anyone. Why?"

  "In February, someone stole seven horses from Foxdale with a rig like that. And last June, seven horses were stolen from James Peters' farm in Carroll County. Ever heard of him?"

  "No."

  "Apparently the same truck and trailer were used. If you see a rig like that, could you let me know? Just call Foxdale. Ask for Steve."

  "Sure, but you aren't ever gonna get your horses back."

  "I know. But whoever did it, whoever stole the horses . . . murdered James Peters."

  His mouth fell open, and he gaped at me like a fool.

  I knew intimately how he felt.

  He gave me an idea, though. A risky idea, nonetheless. From that day on, I would tell everyone I met the same thing. Many of the exhibitors traveled a circuit. Who's to say the thief slash murderer wasn't doing the same thing elsewhere. With luck, I might learn something useful. Consequently, I spent the rest of the day, not watching the show, not working, but talking. By the end of the day, there wasn't a soul on the grounds who hadn't heard of James Peters, the stolen horses, and the white dualie and old six-horse.

  Chapter 7

  Late Monday afternoon, I pointed the truck northward and soon found myself negotiating a narrow, winding road in northern Carroll County. I slowed to a crawl when I saw a three-story brick home set close to the road. One-hundred feet beyond, I braked to a halt next to the wide doors of a bank barn. I got out and stretched, then lifted my notebook off the dash and looked around. The pasture's tidy four-board fence dipped and rose with the hilly terrain, and the trees that were clumped on hillsides too steep to be mown were in full bud, their colors an echo of autumn.

  I heard a scuffing noise behind me and turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man, going fat round the middle, walking toward me down the steep, gravel drive across the road. The driveway led to a red pole-building that served as in indoor riding arena. A girl on a heavily-muscled gray with a naturally high head carriage trotted past the open doorway.

  He held out his hand. "George Irons. You're Foxdale's manager?" His eyebrows rose, and I saw in his brown eyes a rapid assessment of my age and a hint of surprise.

  I shook his hand. "Barn manager, yes."

  Although it had been warm enough at Foxdale, it was chilly here, where the steep wooded hills channeled cooler air along the valley floor. My T-shirt felt inadequate, and I noticed wryly that my host wore a long-sleeved, flannel shirt.

  "Lemme show you the layout." He continued past me, down the sloped lane alongside the barn, and entered the lower level. "They just led the horses out of these stalls, pretty as you please. Took 'em on up the path we come down on and loaded the lot into a trailer. Right across the road from the house like that, took some balls, I'll tell you. The wife and I slept right through it. Didn't know
the horses were gone 'til I came out in the morning to feed."

  "What time was that?"

  "Five-thirty."

  "Do you always come out that early."

  He nodded. "Yeah. I work off the farm. First shift. Always feed 'em before I leave, then all Nancy's gotta do is turn 'em out when she gets up."

  The lower level of the barn was three-sided, open to the wind on the south, and decidedly dank. Deeper within the bowels of the old barn, ten stalls surrounded a common area. With its low ceiling, the barn was more suited for cows than horses.

  "Had a full barn one second," Irons said, "then I'm down five horses the next."

  "I thought they took four," I said.

  "Four were mine. The biggest ones which, as it turned out, happened to be the best." His voice was bitter with the memory. He ran his fingers through his thick, windblown hair and sighed. "Other one was a boarder's. The thieves must of tried for seven, though."

  "Why?"

  "When I came out that morning, I found two of 'em on the lawn behind the house, and they had their halters on."

  "They don't normally?"

  He shook his head. "Those two are the devil to load, so I'm not surprised they gave up on 'em and just let 'em go. They ran back into the barn and got into the bags of grain I keep on the pallet over there," he gestured to a far corner, "before they tore up the garden and went strollin' round the back yard. I was damn lucky they didn't colic."

  "When did you last check on them?"

  "I come out before I go to bed. Make sure everybody's okay. Must of been

  around ten 'cause I had to work the next day."

  "Six-and-a-half hours," I mumbled. "Which night? Do you remember?"

  "Lemme think." He tugged upward on his jeans. It didn't do him any good, because his belly was in the way. "Oh, yeah. It was a Sunday. I lost a bunch of overtime 'cause I didn't go in that morning like I'd planned."

  The weekend. Why wasn't I surprised?

  He slid two fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulled out a sheet of loose leaf, and unfolded it. "Here's the information you said you wanted. Grain supplier, vet, farrier. Anybody I could think of who comes here regular and would know what's what." He handed me the list.