HORSES AND HEROIN (Romantic Mystery) Page 5

  “What were they doing?”

  “Hauling horses. The owner sponsors all our Mexican students and wants to rejuvenate Baja racing. He has plenty of money and is doing things right.”

  Garrett was doing things right too. Scott glanced around at the luxurious villa complete with pool, Jacuzzi and an inner and outer bar. Christ, this place was like a five star vacation condo. “Sure swanky digs for a school,” he said.

  Garrett looked mildly embarrassed. “The staff bungalows aren’t like this. Or the dorms. But the Baja Tinda people expect luxury and this is the villa they prefer. Since your secretary insisted you have a place of your own, we put you here. She made it a deal breaker.”

  Scott grinned. Garrett still had a faintly dazed look when he spoke of Belinda who, unlike Scott, had proved impervious to Garrett’s powers of persuasion. But it was Scott’s habit to help, ever since the day they’d met when Allan Hunt’s bull had cornered Garrett in the back pasture.

  “She also insisted you have a good horse to ride,” Garrett went on, “so tomorrow I’ll show you my roping horse. He’s stabled in the cowshed but you can ride on the private grounds or join Ramon and the students on the track. Maybe help some of the beginners. Whatever you want.

  “There’s not much else to do.” Garrett shrugged. “The closest town is thirty minutes away, and the campus shuts down early. It’s not like our Friday frat nights.”

  “Thank God for that,” Scott said, but he dragged a restless hand over his jaw. A couple hours in the classroom and some riding time still left endless hours to fill. He’d already left Snake four messages. It was surprising Garrett had chosen this kind of life. His friend had always been a high roller. So had his wives.

  “What about Shelley?” Scott asked. “How does she like living here?”

  “Apparently not much, since we’ve separated.” Garrett smiled with complete unconcern. His third failed marriage, yet the man seemed as carefree ever.

  “I’m sorry,” Scott said.

  “Don’t be. It’s fine. You should try this marriage thing someday.” Garrett cleared his throat. “Or should I say, consider it again.”

  Scott stretched his left arm across the back of the sofa and faked a yawn. It had been nine years and he still didn’t like to talk about Amanda. Even with Garrett. Besides his head was beginning to throb.

  “All right, Professor. I get the hint.” Garrett rose with an amiable grin. “Your class is at eight. Put the fear of God into them.” He paused, no longer smiling. “And I owe you. Again.”

  He shook Scott’s hand, looking uncharacteristically solemn, then turned and walked across the marble floor. The door closed, leaving Scott alone.

  Alone with nothing to do but admire his accommodations. No wonder Belinda had been grinning. A made-to-order vacation with only four classes a week—he’d either learn to relax or go crazy trying. He grabbed his phone and called Snake again. The man still didn’t answer. Scott left another message, much more forceful than his polite one an hour earlier.

  Bored, he scrolled down his short list of names. Couldn’t call Belinda who was taking some well-deserved time off. It was too late in England to call his dad. Snake wasn’t responding. His finger lingered over the latest addition.

  Megan, his beautiful and intriguing savior who made jewelry, boldly crawled under cars and liked horse racing. Maybe he should text her that the local police might call for a statement. Yeah, that was definitely appropriate.

  Thanks again. He pressed the keys quickly, before he could change his mind. Police might call.

  Five minutes later, his phone chirped and Megan Spence’s name appeared on the display. They already did. How’s car?

  He quickly texted back with fingers clumsier than usual. He hoped she’d wait. Works fine. How’s jewelry biz?

  Good. You do massages?

  He paused. Odd question but promising, very promising. Anticipation swept him at the memory of those elegant legs, encased in tight jeans, the cotton shirt that couldn’t quite hide her curves. He’d always loved a ranch girl. If she wanted a massage, Christ, yes, he did massages.

  Sure. See you Apr 30, SA paddock, race one?

  Ok, she texted. Apr 30.

  He checked his calendar. Nine weeks. It couldn’t come fast enough. He was looking forward to getting to know Megan. And strangely enough, his headache had disappeared.

  He stacked his course notes, no longer cursing the idiots who’d forced him off the road. Instead he pictured Megan’s elegant profile, that smile with the hint of reserve, the endearing piece of hay stuck in her gleaming braid of chestnut hair. A woman who wore jeans like she was born in them. Someone who preferred to go to the track instead of a tedious restaurant. Hell, she was his dream girl.

  Buzz. He grabbed his phone, hoping it was her, but the display showed Snake. Finally. He’d left five messages.

  He answered, slightly aggrieved. “What’s happening with the Dexter surveillance?”

  “Nothing yet, boss. It’s only been six hours.” Snake’s voice rumbled with amusement. “You lonely? Maybe finding people slow to answer your calls?”

  Scott stalked into the kitchen, his good mood vanishing. He was already bored. “I need to know what’s going on,” he snapped. “Why don’t you answer your damn phone?”

  “Oh, I will…now.” Snake laughed. “Didn’t expect a massage expert to be calling me, that’s all.”

  Scott groaned in sudden comprehension. Belinda had fixed him up with one of the office phones and the company had many public facades, depending on their investigation. He should have been alerted by her smile when she handed him the new phone. “What’s my display name?” He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting.

  “Scottie’s Massage Services.”

  “Oh, God.” He groaned, remembering Megan’s massage question. To compensate, he bit off a list of rapid-fire instructions. However, they didn’t subdue Snake in the least, and the man was still chuckling when Scott cut the connection.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Megan filled her bucket with a spray of bubbling water, surprised there wasn’t a lineup by the hose. The barn aisle was almost empty. Feeding started at six, followed by breakfast and muck out. First class at eight. Students usually trailed back from the cafeteria, still yawning, not keen to cram into a stuffy classroom.

  Today though, even Tami whipped through her chores, monopolizing the two best wheelbarrows, while the gray-haired lady three stalls down had been in such a rush she’d almost poked Megan’s eye with her pitchfork.

  “What’s the hurry today, Tami?” Megan called, pausing to give Jake, one of the two horses she’d been assigned, an affectionate pat. He tilted his head and she obligingly scratched his jaw. She liked both geldings under her care, but Jake was everyone’s favorite. She’d never ridden him—only top students earned that honor—but she always saved a few extra minutes for the friendly horse.

  “Sheesh, Megan. Weren’t you listening to announcements?” Tami rubbed a piece of straw off her boot than jammed the overloaded wheelbarrow against the wall. “The alcohol and addictions class starts today. Everyone wants a good seat. Sometimes I wonder what you’re even doing here.”

  I wonder too. Megan flushed and turned away, stung by the feeling of failure. She was a lousy investigator. The students who knew her brother were galloping on the track while she was stuck trotting baby circles in a field. She’d accused the police of incompetence, yet she’d been here an entire week and had uncovered nothing new. It was time to stop playing around and do some real digging.

  She didn’t care about lectures and diplomas, and certainly wasn’t interested in this new class. She’d already experienced Joey’s desperate struggle against drug addiction. No need to relive the experience.

  “I might skip that class,” she said. “Spend some extra time on the Equicizer.”

  “Are you crazy?” Tami’s eyes widened. “It’s a full credit course. We’re lucky Garrett gave us a spot. Most of the grooms are on the wait
list.”

  “But I’m not going for a degree. I just want to ride on the track...that is, qualify as an exercise rider so I can ride at other tracks.”

  Tami was no longer listening. She turned away, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and fluffing it around her face. “Then will you empty my wheelbarrows for me? I want to get a good seat. The class is mandatory for all the jockeys so Miguel will be there.”

  “Really? All the jockeys are going?” Megan glanced thoughtfully out the door at the adjacent barn with the Spanish tiled roof. The jock barn had restricted access. However, if everyone was busy with the new class, she’d finally have a chance to poke around Joey’s room. If the jock dorms were like hers, no one ever locked their door.

  Joey had been in room thirteen, something he’d joked about as being bad luck. He’d even paid extra for a single, preferring privacy. The police assumed he’d wanted to hide his drug activities.

  “No problem. I’ll dump your wheelbarrows,” Megan added, careful to keep the excitement from her voice.

  She brushed off Tami’s exuberant thanks and waved good-bye, eager to be alone. No doubt, Joey’s room was still empty as new jockeys were usually accepted in September. The school had shipped back a riding helmet and some clothes, but his phone and iPod had never surfaced.

  She pushed Tami’s wheelbarrow loads to the manure pile and rushed back, in a hurry now to finish her chores. Jake stuck his head over the stall door, watching intently, as though suspicious she might sneak a rival horse a peppermint. All the students looked after two horses, not necessarily the ones they rode. Jake was always in huge demand but her second horse, Rambo, also needed to be turned out in his paddock. He was an incorrigible bucker and never ridden.

  Several students had broken bones when they tried to gallop him. A crude ‘Do Not Ride’ sign was nailed to his door. Luckily, Rambo was quite manageable on the ground. After three days, she no longer needed a chain over his nose.

  “Let’s hurry today, fellow,” she said, grabbing his halter and lead line. The quicker she finished here, the quicker she could check out the jock dorm.

  Rambo flattened his ears. He had the nicest accommodations in the barn, an end stall with two windows, but it didn’t help his disposition. The haughty gelding had a darn good deal—daily turnout and no work. Most of the school horses had only one day off a week and the fact that Rambo was such a badass made his care easier. She only had to clean out one stall during the day and had already scrubbed and filled his outdoor tub.

  She buckled the halter and led him to his paddock.

  Rambo’s pen was bare, stripped of grass, the dirt packed from countless hoofs. However, it was close to the jock barn so she lingered by the rail, keeping a watchful eye on the building.

  Movement flashed in the aisle. A bucket rattled and a stall door slammed.

  Obviously not all the jockeys were attending the new class, despite what Tami had said. Disappointed, Megan sagged against the rail. Rambo flattened his ears as though annoyed by her presence. Seemed she couldn’t even befriend a horse.

  Green grass grew eight inches from the bottom rail, well out of his reach. She plucked a handful, tossing it over the fence as a peace offering. He blinked in surprise then stepped forward and gobbled it up.

  Shading her eyes against the rising sun, she checked the time. Almost eight and the jock barn still wasn’t empty. However, Rambo no longer pinned his ears. In fact he looked rather hopeful. She picked more grass, enjoying his attention.

  Finally a dark-haired student swaggered from the aisle, leaving the jock barn silent. She tossed one last handful of grass to Rambo, squared her shoulders and strode toward the empty barn.

  The aisle was wide and cool. She paused a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the interior light. The horses contentedly munched hay, clearly accustomed to their morning routine: breakfast at six, another flake of hay at eight, groomed and saddled by ten fifteen, then on the track for an hour. Most of the exercise riders had advanced to riding with the jockeys, but she still didn’t know any of the students in this barn.

  Her mouth tightened in frustration. Joey would have chuckled if he’d known she’d been assigned to the lowest riding group. Heck, she’d taught him to ride, hauled him to his first show, even coached him to a second in the State barrel racing. But he wasn’t here to laugh at the irony. Her stomach clenched with despair, the same gut-wrenching ache she’d experienced when her father had left.

  What the hell happened to you, bro?

  She edged down the aisle and climbed the steps to the jock dorms. Pushed open the door and scanned the upstairs corridor. It was wide and well lit, with a similar layout to her dorm. However, she passed a large kitchen near the steps, complete with a fridge and coffee maker. There was no kitchen in her residence. If grooms or exercise riders missed meals, they were out of luck.

  No wonder the jocks strutted as though superior. They were.

  She stopped outside room thirteen and knocked softly, praying no one would poke their head out from an adjoining room. Silence. The room was probably empty. Holding her breath, she tried the knob.

  Unlocked. Her breath escaped in a relieved woosh. She pushed the door open and slipped inside.

  Joey’s room.

  She stood unmoving, trying to feel his presence. But no matter how hard she tried, it looked and felt deserted. The bed had been stripped. The tiled floor gleamed. It was hard to imagine he’d ever slept here.

  She crossed the room and pulled open the desk drawers. Empty but not wiped. The wood was stained, and several cracker crumbs were visible along with two paper clips. Good. The cleaning staff had rushed this job. Maybe she’d find something.

  Dropping to her knees, she peered under the bed. The ridged end of a magazine, dusty and dog-eared, was shoved between the corner bed leg and the wall. She pulled it out, staring in triumph. Racing in California, last month’s edition. Strung-out druggies didn’t buy horse magazines. The last time Joey was using, he’d lost interest in everything.

  She flipped through the pages, scanning the articles, eager to find any type of connection. He had read this, and now she would too. Every page.

  She shoved the magazine in her back pocket and renewed her search. The police had been here but it was doubtful they’d looked very hard. After interviewing Ramon and Garrett, the official conclusion was that Joey had chosen to remain in Mexico, the nirvana of drugs.

  A groan escaped from deep in her throat, a helpless sound that surprised her. She wasn’t usually a pessimist, but Joey’s phone and bank accounts hadn’t been touched. He’d simply vanished. Even scarier was her terrible sense of loss, a feeling she couldn’t shake.

  She hoped he had stayed in Mexico, wished he were using drugs. It would be much better than this wrenching fear that she’d never see him again.

  She stepped into the tiny bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Empty. Not spotless but certainly there was no sign of drugs, prescription or otherwise. And now there wasn’t anywhere else to look. On impulse, she raised the cracked top off the back of the toilet tank but found nothing, only murky water and green mineral stains.

  She wandered back to his bed and stared out the window. He hadn’t had a great view. No track, merely a small hayfield, recently cut. If she really craned, she could see the back of Rambo’s paddock. The rooms on the other side of the hall would look over the training track.

  Booted feet thudded up the steps. She tiptoed across the room and pushed the center on the knob. It was only a cheap lock, but now someone would need a key to open the door.

  She stared at the thin door, her mouth dry. It wasn’t such a big deal that she was here. No reason to be scared. If discovered, she could claim she needed a single room and heard this one was empty, or that Tami snored—which she did—or that Megan was meeting a jock here.

  Heck, any number of excuses should work. But her heart hammered and swallowing didn’t help her dry throat. The steps drummed closer. Someone spoke, a man, tal
king much too fast for her rudimentary Spanish. Sounded like he was by the kitchen, likely just wanted a drink.

  Her heart steadied. Ridiculous to be so jumpy. Probably no one had entered room thirteen since they’d packed up Joey’s things. She merely had to leave before the new class ended. Jocks would hurry to their rooms, drop off their notes, maybe change their clothes before going downstairs to saddle. Whatever. She needed to get out.

  Her ride time was ten-thirty, and her horse wasn’t even groomed. She wished there was a peek hole in the door so she could see this jockey with the loud boots. He obviously was cutting class too. Rather surprising since all the jockeys seemed so keen.

  She pressed her ear against the flimsy door, straining to understand the odd word of rapid-fire Spanish. The guy walked down the hall, still talking. She caught the word caballo, not surprising since they were surrounded by horses.

  She tiptoed back to the window, craning for a glimpse of the barn entrance, but all she could see was the hayfield. Couldn’t tell where this guy was going—back to class or had he remained below with the horses? If so, there was no way she could walk out unseen. If he asked what she was doing, she’d need a plausible excuse.

  One thing for sure, she wasn’t leaving Joey’s magazine. She pulled it from her back pocket and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans, glad she’d worn her baggiest shirt. The stiff cover scratched her skin, but didn’t stick out too much. If she folded an arm over her stomach, no one should notice.

  She cracked open the door. Nobody to the right and no sound from the steps. Flattening her palm over the magazine, she stepped into the aisle. It was impossible to walk silently on the wooden floor, not with boots, but she definitely was quieter than the thumping student.

  She ducked into the kitchen and filled a Styrofoam cup with black coffee, wryly noting the washer and dryer squatted in an alcove. Exercise riders and grooms were restricted to the single coin-operated unit by the cafeteria. These jock students were clearly pampered.

  She stepped from the kitchen, cradling the warm cup as she descended the stairs. The aisle was empty. The entire barn was deserted. Relieved, she stepped through the doorway into the bright sunlight. She didn’t even need coffee as an excuse.