Jockeys and Jewels Read online

  “Maybe not so little,” he said, “but it wasn’t what you thought. Tiffany—”

  “You okay, Julie? Do we need the ambulance?” Cody sidled up, followed by an outrider.

  “I'm all right,” she said. “Just had the wind knocked out. Is your horse okay?”

  Kurt's arms tightened around her, and she sensed his frustration. He had no patience for incompetence, no doubt would complain about Cody's horse being too green for the track. True enough, the chestnut needed a lot more work. But Otto seemed to have disappeared, and she simply couldn't afford to lose another trainer.

  “What happened back there?” the grim-faced outrider asked.

  Julie shot Kurt a glance, pleading for his silence. “I pulled the bit through the colt’s mouth, and it scared him,” she said. “It won't happen again.”

  She stared at Kurt, holding his hooded gaze. She knew he was honest, brutally so. However, silence seemed to be his method to avoid lying, and this was just a little twist on the truth. Not even a lie. Cody had used a small ring snaffle with no chin strap. She probably had pulled the bit through with that first desperate yank.

  Kurt only stared, the center of his eyes so dark they seemed bottomless. Finally, almost reluctantly, he spoke. “I have a stronger bit that Cody can try. An extra breastplate too. Now let’s go to the hospital and get you checked out.”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.” She pushed his arms away, along with her despair. Jockeying was tough enough. It was impossible to cope with a relationship too, and Kurt was not an easy man.

  “You can lie down in my trailer,” Cody edged closer, “since I feel responsible.” He offered his hand and she took it, trying not to wince as he pulled her to her feet. “After all,” he added, “it was my horse.”

  She walked slowly, hiding her throbbing pain, as Cody escorted her off the track.

  “His horse, his trailer,” she heard Kurt say to the outrider. “Now isn’t that fucking warped reasoning?”

  The outrider only laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kurt switched lanes, inching his truck behind a pokey green mini van that reeked of exhaust. Traffic on the one-way street was slow and snarly, just like his mood. Cyclists breezed past, unhampered, but vehicles simmered in the late-morning sun.

  He cut toward the curb, ignoring indignant blaring from the white Explorer on his bumper. The driver crawled by, shaking his fist. Kurt stepped from his truck and made a rude gesture of his own.

  A pedestrian edged past, giving a wide berth, careful to avoid eye contact.

  Kurt didn't give a fuck. Right now Julie was with Cody, and he didn’t give a fuck about that either. He stalked down the alley behind ‘Pieces of Eight’ and scanned the back of the shop. A steel door led to a vacant parking space, empty except for a green garbage bin with two worn wheels and a cracked lid. Paw prints crammed the muddy path that edged around the building to the front of the store.

  Nothing remarkable. There was a window, although even that was barred. But as he turned to leave a chill fastened to his spine—a chill so cold and unexpected that goose bumps rose along his back. He checked over his shoulder, hit with the distinct sense someone was watching.

  Houses fronted the back of the alley, but they seemed deserted. No curtains fluttered, no noses pressed against glass. Nothing to account for his uneasiness.

  But he turned back, inexplicably drawn to the shop window, and at the edge of the thick mud he was hit with such an acute awareness of Connor, he stumbled.

  He let out a ragged breath and pressed his damp palms against his jeans. Lingered until he regained his composure then grimly retraced his steps, circling around to the front of Friedman’s store. The tinkling doorbell announced his arrival.

  Betty scurried forward with a reproachful frown. “I’m glad you came back. You didn’t leave your phone number, and Ted wanted to check about the chain.”

  “How's he making out?”

  “Almost done,” she said. “It’ll be finished tomorrow.”

  “Good. Then I’ll just duck back and see Ted.”

  “Oh, no.” She clutched nervously at her throat. “Mr. Friedman is back from Antwerp. You stay here. I’ll have Ted come out.”

  She disappeared with jerky steps, one hand still clutching her neck, but in seconds she reappeared. “Ted will be out with some samples once Mr. Friedman finishes with him.”

  “Mr. Friedman’s here? In the shop?”

  “Yes, he just walked in the back door. He’s tired from his trip but did bring some new orders.”

  “That’s good news,” Kurt said, thinking of Archer’s phone taps and what they might have picked up. He dragged a hand over his jaw, knowing he should remain anonymous but tempted by the chance to meet Friedman.

  Caution prevailed.

  “That’s my drive honking.” He gestured out the window. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Tell Ted that one.” He tapped a finger over the glass. “Second chain over. Looks strong. Pretty too.”

  “But we need you to sign an order form—”

  He gave a dismissive wave and walked out. Called Archer as soon as he was in his truck. “Check the report on Connor’s clothing,” he said. “Find out if his boots were covered with mud and dog shit. We might get a match from the alley behind Friedman’s shop. And have someone slip back tonight and check the garbage container. They’ll have to be careful. The place is run down, but the bars and doors are new. Could be sensors or cameras.”

  He paused, picturing the back of the shop. “Probably not sensors,” he added. “Too many paw prints. But have them dress up as street people, just in case.”

  “I'll look after it,” Archer said. “We placed an alert at the border and will have taps and twenty-four hour surveillance on Otto. Starting tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! Why so slow?”

  “Authorization takes time. You know how it works.”

  “And sometimes it doesn’t work at all.” Kurt couldn’t hide the bite in his voice. “Christ, Archer. Push it through. Friedman has another shipment lined up for Antwerp. He’ll need more stones. Otto could be crossing any time.”

  “Excellent. We need him with the goods, or a decent lawyer would get him off.”

  “There are no decent lawyers,” Kurt snapped.

  “Why are you so prickly with people,” Archer asked, “but a marshmallow with animals? Don’t your horses like the Alberta grass?”

  “They’re not here to eat. My two-year-old is running tomorrow. The other one runs on Friday. First lifetime start—”

  “Good, good. Got a meeting now but hope they do well.” Archer’s voice carried the gruff heartiness of someone who knew nothing about a subject and didn't want to learn. Paper shuffled in the background.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Kurt said dryly. “I’ll check in tomorrow. Send some race video. We can talk more about racing then.”

  He snapped his phone shut and leaned against the headrest, bored at the prospect of another monotonous night. Even Otto couldn't provide a diversion now that he had no horse at the track.

  A young lady bounced by with a Jack Russell terrier strutting at her ankles. It was a fresh May morning, and the dog’s lively expression marginally improved his day. The lady slowed to let her dog sniff at the lamppost.

  The terrier dipped his nose and darted forward. The owner threw Kurt a rueful smile before the determined dog yanked at the leash and rushed her off to another marking spot. Kurt idly admired the woman’s curves. From the back, she looked a bit like Julie. Same jaunty walk, same little hip wiggle.

  He shook his head and rammed the key in the ignition. A melancholy song filled the cab, reminding him of Julie—with Cody—and he snapped off the radio. Maybe it was time to firm up that date with Tiffany. Have a little dinner companionship along with the thick steak he really wanted. Lots of information floated around a race office; he might learn something useful.

  Besides, he'd already incurred Julie's wrath for seeing Tiffany. It was unlikely thin
gs could get any worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The numbers on the clock radio changed, chipping away another piece of dawn. Kurt pressed a heavy arm over his eyes, trying to postpone the inevitable. It had been a late night, and he wanted more sleep. But his mouth felt like cotton, he needed to use the bathroom and as usual, he craved coffee.

  With an irritable grunt he hauled himself from the bed. He showered, shaved and headed for the track.

  The sky was a gunmetal gray, the sun still hidden by the ridge, when he crunched into the parking lot. He lingered in his truck, sipping his coffee while he thought about last night’s dinner.

  The evening hadn't been a complete waste. Tiffany was charming with a keen understanding of track politics. The dinner had been delicious, and she certainly had displayed a considerable capacity for liquor. But she’d insisted she didn’t know Otto, Friedman or their connection, so he’d hit a dead end with any line of questioning.

  He hadn’t wanted to linger past dessert—especially not with a pair of wounded green eyes haunting him—and had returned to his motel alone and with a sense of relief.

  He drained the coffee and tossed the cup on the floor. One of these mornings he'd gather all the empties but not today. Shaking off his lethargy, he locked the truck and rounded the corner of the barn, wondering if Julie would be too bruised to ride.

  Oh, fuck! He jerked to a stop. The coffee he’d just enjoyed turned sour in his gut.

  An ambulance, three city police cars and a track security vehicle blocked the entrance to G barn. He broke into a run, scanning the spatter of faces. There—he spotted Julie and Martin, both on their feet, both unhurt. Relief spurted through him, and his nauseous stomach settled.

  “Sorry, sir.” A uniformed cop stepped forward and blocked his way. “No civilians allowed under the circumstances.”

  “What are the circumstances?” Kurt asked, pulling his gaze off Julie and staring down at the cop.

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  The officer’s eyes flickered sideways. “Yes, there’s been an accident,” he said.

  Shit, a bad one, Kurt decided. He glanced at Julie and Martin. They looked dazed but uninjured as they spoke with a stony-eyed officer who scribbled in a coiled notebook.

  “Get a blanket over those two,” Kurt said. He jammed his hands in his pockets, resigned to waiting by the perimeter of yellow tape. The interrogating officer finished with Julie and turned his attention to Martin. Kurt rushed toward her. The short cop made an officious attempt to stop him but lowered his arm when he saw Kurt’s expression.

  Kurt swept her in his arms, absorbing the trembles that wracked her body. Someone shoved a blanket in his hand, and he tucked it around her. She stared at him, wordless. The dark centers of her eyes drowned the green.

  The officer finished questioning Martin and flipped his notebook shut. A second blanket was pressed in Martin’s arms but he just stared, a white face on a shivering body.

  Kurt shifted Julie to his left arm, eased the blanket from Martin’s hand and wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders. Both Martin and Julie watched him with blank eyes, but neither said a word.

  Ambulance attendants huddled in a circle, not moving, not in a hurry.

  “Do you have a horse in the barn, sir?” the officer with the notebook asked. The radio clipped to his belt crackled, but he adjusted a dial and the noise subsided.

  Kurt nodded warily.

  “Would you step over here, please. Julie and—”

  “Martin,” Kurt said.

  “Julie and Martin can sit in the warm car. We’ll keep an eye on them.” A solemn officer nodded assurance.

  Kurt shepherded Julie and Martin to the police car. “Have an attendant treat them for shock,” he said before following the notebook officer toward the barn entrance.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a fatal accident,” the man said as they entered the shadowed aisle. “The victim is in a stall with a black horse. Julie and Martin were first on the scene. They think the horse belongs to a man called Otto Laing but said they’ve never seen the animal before.

  “We need to remove the body but no one wants to go in the stall,” the officer continued, his voice lowering. “If there were any chance the victim was alive, we’d have shot the horse but…” He shook his head. “Can you help?”

  Kurt turned away from the man’s regretful expression and walked down the aisle, automatically taking shorter breaths in an effort to block the unmistakable smell of blood, flesh and death. Horses churned in the stalls, wide-eyed and panicky. Even Cisco was affected, his nostrils pink and flaring as he stared across the aisle.

  Five policemen and a track security guard watched as Kurt approached. They silently stepped back. Their eyes swung to the door directly across the aisle from Cisco—Otto’s boarded-up stall.

  Sorrow, guilt and regret crashed like a wave in Kurt’s chest, and he struggled with his composure. Had to squeeze his eyes shut for a ragged moment before daring to peer through the knothole. He knew who was down before he saw the mangled body.

  Nick’s farrier tools were scattered in the aisle.

  A quivering gelding pressed against the back wall. Dark bay not black, Kurt noted clinically. From the fetlocks down the horse’s legs appeared crusted with mud. But it wasn't mud.

  Nick’s head was split. One hand, the hand with four fingers, extended toward Kurt as though in a last appeal. He sprawled face-down in the streaky straw, but Kurt imagined his eyes were reproachful. Bluebottle flies crawled over his matted hair, buzzing and lifting heavily in the air before landing again, bloated with insatiable greed.

  Kurt’s stomach pitched, and he squeezed his fists, hard, before turning toward the waiting officers.

  “We can run some rope to that empty stall across the aisle,” he muttered, “and chase the horse across.”

  Under his direction the men rigged up a rope chute. The stall door wasn't latched, and he avoided touching the bolt, pulling the door open from the top before stepping into the stall with the frightened horse.

  The animal’s ears flattened. He lashed out with both hind feet.

  Someone cursed. Kurt jumped back into the aisle but left the door open, hoping the horse would choose to flee the grim stall. But the terrified bay kept his rump aimed at the door, not budging from his dark corner.

  “Did anyone call the vet for a tranquilizer gun?” Kurt asked.

  “I have a gun on my hip,” someone muttered.

  Kurt shot the speaker a scowl. “That’s not necessary. Step back from the rope. Give him more room.”

  The men shuffled away from the makeshift chute.

  Kurt grabbed a whip and entered the adjoining stall, ignoring the occupant, a chestnut gelding who snorted with suspicion. He pulled himself up the side of the wall, thrust the whip past the clump of ceiling cobwebs and through the tiny gap between the ceiling and top board. Poked Otto’s horse on the rump. The animal flinched, dropped halfway to the ground, then whirled and leaped over Nick’s body before bolting across the aisle to the open stall.

  An alert officer slammed the door shut.

  By the time Kurt stepped back into the aisle, two ambulance attendants had rushed into the vacated stall and were crouched over Nick.

  “Okay. Now we can look after this situation. Your name, sir?” The officer with the coiled notebook planted himself in front of Kurt.

  Kurt propped the whip against the wall and answered the man in monosyllables, his mind churning with his own questions. Why had Nick been in that stall? He was an experienced horseman and would never corner a frightened animal. He didn't even shoe for Otto.

  Suspicions swept him, and a muscle ticked spasmodically in his jaw. Had Nick been curious about the shoes on Otto's horses? Too curious maybe? Maybe he’d encountered Otto.

  A shovel could have caused that type of head injury. Enclose a panicky horse with a prone body, and the rest was predictable. The border check. Su
rveillance. What the hell had gone wrong?

  “Mr. MacKinnon? Please answer the question.”

  The officer's irritated voice yanked Kurt back. He nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly, “the horse probably belongs to Otto. That’s his usual stall, the one with the boards.”

  “All right. Thanks for your help. We may want to talk to you again.” The man’s voice carried a silky threat, and he made Kurt repeat the name of his motel.

  “Aren’t you going to check the stall?” Kurt asked.

  “What for?”

  “For whatever killed Nick.”

  The officer slapped his notebook shut. “Look. Even an idiot can see the horse killed him.” His flat stare locked with Kurt’s. “And I don’t consider myself an idiot.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  The officer’s mouth tightened, and Kurt bit back the rest of his suggestion. It was always useless to get into a pissing contest with the local law. The RCMP and city police were working jointly on Connor's murder, although city police hadn’t been advised of Kurt’s presence.

  Still, Nick's battered body affected him, and he’d seen plenty of bodies before. His thoughts jumped to Julie and Martin. No wonder they’d been reeling.

  He rushed outside. A car edged from the parking lot—one driver, with Julie and Martin hunched in the rear seat.

  He jogged alongside the car, rapping his knuckles on the hood. The car stopped; the driver's window lowered.

  “Where are you taking them?” Kurt asked.

  “I’m driving Martin home. His mother is there. There’s no answer at Julie’s house, so we’re moving her to the hospital for observation.”

  “No need. I’ll look after her.”

  The officer's voice rose. “Now look here.”

  “I’ll look after her,” Kurt repeated.

  The man’s mouth thinned with displeasure, but he turned toward the back seat. “Where do you want to go, miss?”

  Julie’s gaze skittered over the attendants as they removed a white-mounded stretcher. “With Kurt, please.” Her voice was faint and reedy.