Cynthia Cooper scribbled in her notebook, weakened, and lit up a cigarette herself.
The ambulance crew waited at a distance. Kenny Wheeler, Jr., who had found the body, stayed with the sheriff and his deputy.
"Kenny, I know you've told me this before but tell me again because I need to have the sequence right," Rick softly asked the tall, deep-voiced young man.
"I was checking a fence line. Kinda in a hurry because I was losing light and running behind, you know." He stared down at his boots. "This old road is really on my neighbor's property, but I have use of it, so I thought I'd swing through to get to the back acres. Save a minute or two. Anyway, I saw this truck. Didn't recognize it. And as I drew closer I saw him"—he pointed to the body—"in the bed. I thought maybe the guy fell asleep or something—I mean, until I got closer. Well, I stopped my truck, got out, kinda peeped over the sides. I mean, I knew the man was dead, deader than the Red Sox, but I don't know why I called out, 'Hey.' I stood there for a minute and then I got on the mobile, called you first off, then called Mom and Dad. I described the truck. They didn't know it. Dad wanted to come right out, but I told him to stay put. It's better that I'm the only one involved.
"Well, Dad didn't like that. He's a hands-on guy, as you know, but I said, 'Dad, if you come on out here, then you'll get caught in the red tape, and you have enough to do. I found him, so I'll take care of it.' So he said okay finally, and here I am."
Cynthia closed her notebook. "Rick, do you need Kenny anymore?"
"Yeah, wait one minute." Rick, gloves on, pulled out the registration. "The truck is registered to Coty Lamont. That name mean anything to you?" Rick leaned against the open door of the truck.
"Coty Lamont." Kenny frowned. "A jockey. I'm pretty sure I've heard that name before. We don't race, but . . . that name is familiar."
"Thanks, Kenny. You've been a tremendous help. Go on home. I'll call you if I need you. Give your Mom and Dad my regards. Wife, too." Rick clapped him on the back.
As Kenny turned his truck around and drove out, Rick looked back into the bed of the truck. "Notice anything?"
"Yeah, he was shot in the back for good measure. Probably struggled." Cynthia answered.
"Uh-huh. Anything else?"
"Same M.O. as the last one, pretty much."
"The card, Cynthia, check out the card."
"The Queen of Spades." She whistled. "Lot of blood on this one."
"Spades, Coop—the other card was clubs."
Cynthia rubbed her hands on her upper arms. The sunset over the Southwest Range and the night air chilled to the bone. "Clubs, spades—are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Diamonds and hearts to go."
The glow from the tip of his cigarette shone through Rick Shaw's hand in the starless night. He cupped it to keep out the wind as he leaned over the railing at Montpelier's flat track.
Barry McMullen, who rented the flat track stable, hunched his shoulders against the biting wind, pulling up his collar.
"There's nothing to this thousand-dollar rumor." Barry pushed his chin out assertively. "I've known Coty Lamont ever since he started out as Mickey Townsend's groom. Then he got his first ride on one of Arthur Tetrick's horses back when Arthur kept twenty horses in training. I just don't think Coty would be suckered into a gambling ring, and I know he would never throw a race."
"Not even for a couple hundred thousand dollars?"
Barry considered that. "No jockey that threw a race—and it's damned easy to do in 'chasing—would get that much money. The stakes are considerably lower than flat racing, considerably lower."
"How much?"
"Maybe five thousand. Tops."
"So we're talking about sums, not character."
Barry growled, "Don't put words into my mouth. Coty Lamont possessed an ego three times his size. He was the best, had to be the best, had to stay the best. He wouldn't throw a race. I think this gambling hunch is off the mark—for him. I don't know Jack Shit about the other guy who was killed. That Nigel fella."
"Neither do we." Rick felt hot ashes drop into his hand. He tilted his palm halfway to drop them on the cold ground, stamping them out with his foot.
"Pleasant enough. Asked to ride here. He was a decent hand with a horse, but I didn't have any room for him." He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. "Is there a reason we're standing out here in the cold, Rick?"
"Yes. I don't trust anyone in any barn right now."
Barry's light brown eyes widened. "My barn?"
"Any barn. If you repeat my questions there isn't much I can do about it. After all, I'm a public servant and my inquiry must be aboveboard, but it doesn't have to be broadcast. I don't want anyone eavesdropping while mucking a stall or throwing down hay." He shook his head. "I've got a bad feeling about this business."
Barry's jaw hardened. "Jesus, what do you think is going on?"
"What about a ring that sells horses for high prices, then substitutes cheap look-alikes, keeping the high-priced horses for themselves to win races or to be resold again? Possible?"
"In the old days, yes. Today, no. Every Thoroughbred is tattooed on the lip—"
Rick interrupted. "You could duplicate the tattoo."
Slowly Barry replied, "Hard to do but possible. However, why bother? These days we have DNA testing. The Jockey Club demands a small vial of blood before it will register a foal, and it demands one from the mare, too. The system is ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent foolproof."
"Not if someone on the inside substitutes vials of blood."
This floored Barry. "How do you think of things like that?"
"I deal with miscreants, traffic violators, domestic dragons, thieves, and hard-core criminals day in and day out. If I don't think as they do I'll never nail them." The deep creases around Rick's mouth lent authority to his rugged appearance. "It would have to be an inside job. Meaning the seller, the vet, possibly a jockey or a groom, and maybe even someone at the Jockey Club would have to be in on it."
"Not the Jockey Club." Barry vigorously shook his head. "Never. We're talking about Mecca. Sheriff, I would bet my life no one at the Jockey Club would ever desecrate the institution even for a large sum of money, and hey, I don't always agree with them. I think they're turned around backward sometimes, but I trust them, I mean, I trust their commitment to Thoroughbreds."
"Well, I hope you're right. If my bait-and-switch hunch isn't right, I'm lost. Two jockeys have been killed within seven days. Unless we're talking about some kind of bizarre sex club here, or irate husbands, then I'm sticking close to gambling or selling horses."
"You'd better put out that weed, Sheriff Rick." Barry smiled, pointing at Rick's hand.
At just that moment the cigarette burned his palm and Rick flapped his hands, dropping the stub. Its fiery nub burned in the dying grass. Rick quickly stepped on it. "Thanks. Got so preoccupied I forgot I was holding the damn thing."
"They'll kill you, you know."
Rick sardonically smiled. "Better this than a stiletto. Anyway, I've got to die of something." What he kept to himself was the fact that he'd tried to quit three times, the pressure of work always pulling him back to that soothing nicotine. "You know what Nigel was doing in this stable?" He nodded in the direction of the imposing flat track stable lying parallel to the track.
"Picking up gear. I think that's what he was doing. Some jockeys stowed their gear here, away from the crowds."
"Where were you immediately after the races?"
"Enjoying Cindy Chandler's tailgate party."
"And after that?"
He put his hands in his pockets. "Ran into Arthur Tetrick and walked with him on his way to the big house. We chatted about Arthur buying a four-year-old I saw in Upperville. Arthur wants back in the game. We walked toward the gate to the house. I left him there and went to check on one last van pulling out from the back stables, not mine.'' He pointed northeast of his stable in the direction of the smaller stables, well out of sight. "That's when one of Frank Yancey's deputies called me. Pretty dark by then."