Jockeys and Jewels Page 27
“No,” Kurt said. “I don’t suppose it is.”
“Now I’m not one to poke my nose where it shouldn't be,” Adam’s voice hardened, “but I don’t want my daughter hurt. She’s had a tough time getting over her mother’s death. She’s honest with her feelings and expects the same of her…associates. Dishonesty is something we won’t tolerate.”
“I don’t think you need to worry.”
“Good.” Adam set his mug down, but his green eyes were wary. “I have to go. You relax and finish that coffee before driving back. Good luck tonight.”
Kurt waited until the screen door slammed then moved to the kitchen window and watched the dust follow Adam’s truck down the road. He definitely had received his walking orders—it would be much easier if Julie didn't live at home.
He rinsed his cup, placed it in the sink and glanced under the table. “Okay, Blue, can you find Julie for me?”
The dog scrambled to his feet, and his nails clacked an eager trail down the hall. He shoved his nose against the second door on the right, whining softly. Kurt turned the knob, and Blue barged past and ran to the bed.
His pink tongue slopped over Julie’s cheek, but she only muttered and burrowed under the blanket.
Kurt stepped over the sweatshirt and jeans scattered on the floor. The mattress squeaked as he sat down and tugged back the covers. He lifted her hair and pressed a light kiss against the back of her neck. She grumbled. He tugged the sheet further down and tickled the graceful curve of her bare back.
“Quit it, Blue,” she said.
Kurt stilled, had actually forgotten about the dog. He glanced over his shoulder but Blue wasn't protesting—not yet—only watched expectantly as though confident she’d rise soon.
“Blue?” She rolled over. Stared at Kurt in dismay then abruptly yanked the sheet over her head. “I thought it was a nightmare.” Her voice was muffled by the pink sheet.
“I'll see you later.” He pried the covers from her face. “Just make sure you get lots of rest.”
Her eyes widened. “Is Dad out there?” she whispered.
“He left about five minutes ago. Do you have a drive in tonight?”
She nodded.
“Are you angry I dragged you out of the bar?” he asked. “Is that the nightmare part?”
She frowned at him through a tangle of hair. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind.” She was obviously exhausted. He patted her head, rumpling her hair even more. “I’ll lock the door on the way out. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.” She made no argument, only settled on the pillow, closed her eyes, and did exactly what he asked. Amazing.
Blue cocked his head and whined, looking just as surprised as Kurt.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Good morning, Kurt,” Sandra said. “Did Julie get home okay?” She lingered outside the stall, watching as he unwrapped Ace’s bandages.
“She did,” he said. “Do you have time to pony this fellow? Easy walk around the track?”
“Sure.” But Sandra wasn’t easily distracted. She edged closer, her voice bubbling with mischief. “Cody dropped by a while ago. He wasn’t very happy when you and Julie disappeared. Did you two go right home?”
Kurt simmered at the mention of Cody but only hunkered down to examine Ace’s legs.
“Guess I’ll have to ask Julie,” Sandra said. “But she’ll just clam up. Even Gary can’t get much out of her, even when they lie awake talking all night.” She winked. “You should know my spare room has double beds.”
Kurt fumbled with the bandage, knowing he’d been too quick to judge, too quick to grab what he wanted. Julie had said she didn’t date but he’d brushed that aside, had considered her fair game because he thought she was sleeping with Bixton.
He walked past Sandra and over to Otto’s new stall, gripping the rolled bandage as he tried to settle the churning in his gut. He was just as big a prick as Cody.
Otto’s gelding had been chewing on the wood but rushed to the door with a hopeful nicker.
“Is this fellow getting fed?” Kurt asked quietly.
“No,” Sandra said. “I think you’re the only one not afraid of him. Honestly, who would want to go in his stall?”
The horse stared over the door, his eyes calm and accepting.
“Damn. Otto should be shot.” Kurt crossed the aisle, grabbed a water bucket and three flakes of hay. “Has he ever packed up and abandoned a horse like this?”
“Nope, but I heard there were so many complaints this week the race office finally suspended him. Doubt he’ll be back. He’s not the type to worry about a horse.” She shrugged. “I’m going to grab a coffee. Be back in about fifteen minutes for Ace.”
Kurt nodded and opened the stall door. The horse stuck his nose in the water bucket, drank deeply then lifted his dripping muzzle and grabbed at the hay. Kurt ran his hand along the gelding’s warm back but felt only a single welt. This fellow wasn't as scraped up as Otto’s mare—except for the pitchfork injury, Kurt amended, as his fingers touched the scabbed holes.
It might be possible to check his feet. The horse munched happily, unaware he was considered a killer and unfairly blamed for a popular man’s death. Kurt slid his hand around the horse’s fetlock, and the gelding obediently lifted his leg.
When Kurt pressed on his boggy sole, he flinched. Kurt sighed and lowered the leg. Same reaction as the mare. Two horses, both tender-soled, both with an unusual number of nail holes. The smugglers had to be using horseshoes to move the diamonds, yet according to Julie, the shoes had been normal.
He rubbed his forehead and left the stall, jarred by a sense of inadequacy. Connor had always been more stubborn, more observant. Obviously he’d spotted something—but Kurt couldn’t even figure out what had drawn him to Otto’s trailer.
A grim figure burst into the barn. “You fucker. Where’s Julie?” Cody rushed down the aisle and planted himself in front of Kurt, fists clenched in white-knuckled balls. “Where’s Julie? Answer me, asshole!”
“You can't be talking to me,” Kurt said, turning away.
“Where is she?”
“Let’s just say she’s not having breakfast with either of us and leave it at that.”
Cody shadowed Kurt down the aisle, his voice quivering with rage. “Is that the only way you can get laid? By hijacking someone else’s date. I paid a lot of money for those shooters—”
“So you were trying to get her drunk?” Kurt’s mouth tightened.
“We were just having fun until you came along.”
“She’s not used to drinking like that,” Kurt snapped. “Stay away from her.”
“Is that a threat?”
Kurt stopped. “Yes,” he said.
“You prick!” Cody’s face contorted. He abruptly rammed his booted heel at Kurt’s thigh.
Kurt tried to dodge, but the kick was too quick, the pain agonizing. He reeled back, struggling to keep his feet. Straightened and let his anger override the pain. “Cheap shot, Cody. But all right. Let’s do this.”
Cody didn’t hesitate. He darted forward, feinting high, then jabbed his fist at Kurt’s stomach. Kurt blocked the punch, shooting out with a left hook that snapped the man’s sneering head back. His satisfaction flared, but Cody recovered quickly and slipped under his fists, knocking his legs out with some sneaky footwork.
Kurt hit the concrete. Saw Cody’s boot aimed at his head, rolled and grabbed him by the ankle. Twisted and sent the man sprawling.
Kurt scrambled up, adrenaline surging now, watching as Cody rose with lithe grace. The man must have some kind of martial arts training. He was quick and strong, able to use both fists and feet. It would be a fun fight, Kurt decided, with a rush of eagerness. He’d have to watch the man’s left foot though. Cody had already landed it twice. Best to take him down quickly.
They eyed each other, both wary, both silent. The air was punctuated with their breathing, and the sound of rattled horses circling in the straw.
He tracked Cody across the aisle and kicked his left knee. When he stumbled, Kurt launched forward. He straddled his back, using his weight to pin the man to the floor.
“Finished?” Kurt growled.
Silence.
He jerked Cody’s arms higher.
“Fuck,” Cody said.
Kurt ruthlessly raised his arms another notch.
“Fuck, yes.”
Kurt stood up and stepped back.
“Guess I ate the most dirt today, you fucker,” Cody muttered as he brushed the straw off his shirt. “You should drop by the gym some time. Have a little rematch. I want another shot.”
Kurt inclined his head in grudging respect. “You got enough shots in today.”
“Yeah. Entertaining fight,” Sandra called from the doorway. “Bet you weren’t arguing about who had the fastest horse.”
“No horse is worth that.” Cody grimaced, studying his knuckles. “No girl either.”
Kurt said nothing. His leg throbbed, but he felt much better; he’d always loved a good fight.
Sandra tossed her cup in the garbage bin. “Is Ace ready now that you burned off some of that frustration?”
Kurt shot her a scowl. Sandra was too uppity, too mouthy, too perceptive.
Cody saw Kurt’s expression and shook his head. “Dude, you need to lighten up. Glad I’m not stuck in this barn.” He walked by Sandra, shaking his head and inspecting his knuckles.
Kurt hurt too, but waited until Cody was gone before rubbing the top of his thigh. Damn. The guy kicked like a mule. His leg felt like it had been stabbed with a hot poker.
He bridled Ace and led him outside to where Sandra waited on an ever-patient Okie.
“Just jog Ace around and loosen him up,” Kurt said. “I want to see how he moves. His shins might be a bit sore.”
“Yes, boss.” Sandra winked and led Ace to the track.
Kurt headed to the rail at a more sedate pace, trying to hide his aching leg, watching as Ace moved into an even trot. The gelding obviously suffered no ill effects from yesterday’s race. He gestured at Sandra to continue then pulled out his phone and walked slowly toward the privacy of his truck.
Archer sounded relieved. “Been trying to reach you,” he said. “My private line rang last night. Showed your number.”
“I must have sat on my phone,” Kurt said.
“Keep it turned on. Now here’s what we got. Nothing was found in Friedman’s garbage. But we have the lab analysis, and the material on Connor’s shoes matches the fecal samples we picked up behind his store.”
So Connor had been in that alley. Kurt rubbed his neck, recalling the eerie feeling when he walked behind the shop.
“Kurt?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Kurt said, his voice so low he had to force himself to speak up. “Otto hasn’t been around the track today. What’s he doing?”
“Packing up his apartment,” Archer said. “He had a few phone calls. One from Friedman, two about some gambling debts, and the last from a horse buyer. He made a deal to sell an eleven-hundred pound Thoroughbred to the local meat man.”
“That horse doesn’t weigh eleven,” Kurt said. “And he’ll weigh a lot less if they don’t pick him up soon. Maybe we should buy him. We might need him, you know, for evidence. He’s not a bad fellow. Be a shame if he went for meat.”
“Absolutely not. The last animal we bought wasn’t any use.”
“But maybe—”
“Forget the horse. Our phone tap confirms a payoff tomorrow afternoon, so we'll pick up both men then. We’ll have full search warrants. If Friedman has diamonds in his possession, we'll be okay. Maybe we’ll find the murder weapon or something that shows how they smuggled the rocks.”
“They had to come up in the shoes.” Kurt rubbed his jaw. “The second horse had his hind shoes pulled the moment he arrived at the track, same as the mare. Had to be a reason, but damn, it’s a puzzle. Julie saw the first set of shoes, said they were normal.”
“Julie, that jockey? Can you trust her?”
“With my life,” Kurt said.
Silence. Uncomfortable silence and it was clear they both remembered the time he’d trusted Anne Marie. But she’d been working him too; her loyalties were with the gang and when he’d confided he was undercover, an informant had been hurt. However that was years ago, before he’d learned to play it cool. Before he’d learned to stop feeling.
“Well, your instincts are good,” Archer finally said. “I know you don’t need the money, but I hope you’ll consider coming back to work for us.”
“This kind of work isn’t good for me,” Kurt said, rubbing his thigh.
Archer laughed but not unkindly. “It’s good for us though. You’ve one of our highest success rates.”
“Just let me know when Otto’s on the move,” Kurt said.
“Don’t spook him. And what’s this Friedman like? Will he give us any trouble?”
“Don’t know,” Kurt said. “But his employees are scared. And he keeps Otto in line.”
“Can you check him out? Get a read. His file is thin—I don’t want any surprises tomorrow.”
“All right. I’m picking up something from his store. I’ll try to talk to him then.”
Kurt parked four blocks south of ‘Pieces of Eight’ hoping the walk might help, but his thigh still throbbed from Cody’s boot. He approached from the back of the store and scanned the alley. The fender of a silver Mercedes protruded from the lone parking space. Marcus Friedman was in.
“Good morning,” Betty said, putting away her rag and spray bottle when Kurt walked into the shop. “Ted finished your piece. I have it right here.” Beaming, she centered a silver pendant on a blue velvet tray.
“Nice,” he said. “I like the way the mountain is feathered. And that stone at the bottom looks real.” He watched her face when he mentioned the stone, but her expression didn’t change.
“Even jewelers have mistaken zircons for diamonds,” she said.
“What’s the difference?”
“I think it’s the hardness.” Her shrug was quick and apologetic. “I don’t know much about them, but zircons are more sensitive to knocks. And the price, of course. This necklace is six hundred and eighty-five dollars. A real diamond would be much more expensive.”
He waved his credit card for effect then paused, holding it slightly out of reach. “I really would like to know more about this stone. May I talk to Mr. Friedman?”
Her eyes widened; she shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. He wants to finish his own work. In fact, Teddy and I have the weekend off. Monday as well.” She shook her head again, her expression imploring. “We really shouldn't bother him. He doesn’t like interruptions and now…well, he’s very busy.”
“I'm very busy myself. And I expect he'd want to help a customer.” Kurt palmed his card, feeling like a bully as he leveled her with his relentless stare.
“Yes, well…maybe.” She pursed her lips, slowly backed away, turned and retreated into the back room.
Ten minutes later Marcus Friedman emerged, carrying the subtle smell of expensive cologne and a more obvious air of displeasure. He straightened the collar of his silk shirt, swept Kurt’s casual clothes with a look of disdain and sniffed. “You require some assistance?”
Bingo. A satisfied smile curved Kurt’s face. It was the voice. The voice from the barn—Otto’s late-night visitor.
“Yeah.” Kurt smoothed his expression, struggling to look like a confused shopper. “I’m buying this zircon pendant for my girlfriend. I need to know if she’ll believe it’s a real diamond,” he gave Friedman a man-to-man wink, “and what the difference is.”
“Of course, she’ll think it's a diamond.” Friedma
n’s lip curled. “I’ve spent twenty years working with these stones. The absorption spectra is the difference, but you wouldn't understand that.”
“Try me,” Kurt said.
Friedman’s lips thinned as he stared over the showcase.
“You’re probably right,” Kurt added, struggling for a little more humility. “I probably won't understand, but I’d like to know. My girlfriend’s pretty smart.”
“The diamond measures ten on the hardness scale,” Friedman snapped, “the zircon only seven and a half. The zircon has double refraction so, of course, has inferior hardness. Typically the crystal system is tetragonal with indistinct cleavage. Specific gravity is four point six to four point seven.” He stared at Kurt, his voice slightly malicious as he recited. “Crystals are transparent to translucent.”
“I thought most zircons were colored.” Kurt’s humble smile hurt his face.
“This zircon has been heat treated to obtain its lack of color.” Friedman made a disparaging gesture at the necklace. “The stones occur in igneous rocks as browns and greens. In the Middle Ages, zircons were thought to bring wisdom, honor and riches. That they would drive away evil spirits.”
“Price seems pretty high for a fake rock,” Kurt said.
“You’re not listening.” Friedman’s voice rose, and his pronunciation became more clipped. “It is not a fake. Don’t confuse it with cubic zirconia, a cheap, artificial material.”
“All right, I won't. Gotta admit, the silver design is nice.” Kurt gave a meek nod. “Thank you for your time.”
Friedman didn't bother to reply. “No more interruptions,” he snapped at Betty before returning to the workshop. The door slammed behind him.
Betty’s cheeks flagged with pink, and she stared down at her thick-soled shoes.
“Thank you, Betty.” Kurt passed over his credit card, trying to hide his sympathy. “I imagine he’s tired, from his trip and all.”
Betty’s head bobbed. “Yes, he always likes to be alone after his travel. Usually he closes the shop for a few days. The break is nice except Ted works on commissions, and we need more sales.”
“Maybe Ted should take his best pieces home,” Kurt said. “Sell the stuff somewhere else, a place where there's more traffic.” He scrawled his name on the credit card slip and pocketed the blue box. “He could always put aside Mr. Friedman’s share of the money.”