It was as if he was trying to provoke me into some sort of reaction. Perhaps he thought I would hit him in the same way he had me, and then he could go whining to George Raworth to get me fired.
But I wasn’t going to play that game.
I would put up with his puerile tactics of disrupting my work and messing about with my kit. Instead I would wait my chance. Revenge for me would be a dish eaten cold, when he was least expecting it.
Finding a secluded spot to call Tony was more difficult at Pimlico than at Belmont Park.
While the other grooms went in search of takeout joints and liquor stores outside the main gate on Park Heights Avenue, I walked across the lawn in front of the Preakness Barn, through the bushes, and into one of the deserted car parks beyond.
‘How did you communicate with the journalist Jason Connor?’ I asked.
‘Initially he contacted NYRA, and they called in FACSA.’
‘Did you speak to Connor yourself?’
‘Not at that point. I became involved after the raid on the barn had found nothing but spotless stalls and no horses. Only when I suspected we had a mole in our midst.’
‘So you spoke to Connor then?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’ I asked. ‘On the phone or in person?’
There was a pause on the line as Tony tried to remember.
‘On the phone, I think,’ he said. ‘But only the once. After that we used email.’
‘Did you know he was going to see the groom at Laurel Park on the day he died?’
‘Definitely,’ Tony said. ‘He informed me by email the previous day.’
‘Using the FACSA office email system?’
‘No. My private email address. I thought it would be safer.’
I said nothing.
‘Are you implying that my private email has been compromised?’ Tony asked finally.
‘Yes. That’s if you’re right about Jason Connor’s death not being an accident.’
‘But how?’ Tony asked.
‘All email is compromised to some extent,’ I said. ‘They are checked by the security services for a start. They have automatic scanners that look for certain keywords such as “bomb” or “explosive” or “jihad”. I assume your private emails aren’t encrypted.’
‘No.’
‘All it needs is for someone to have your email address and password.’
‘But how would they get my password?’ he asked.
‘How often do you change it?’
‘Never.’
‘So someone at work may have seen you enter it. Or maybe it’s easy to guess. Please don’t tell me it’s your mother’s maiden name, or your wife’s.’
There was a long pause from the other end of the line.
‘I’ll change it right away,’ he said rather sheepishly.
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Two reasons,’ I said. ‘One, whoever has accessed your private emails would then know that we know, and, two, we might be able to use it to set our mole a trap.’
‘How?’
‘I’m working on it,’ I said. ‘In the meantime, do nothing.’
‘But someone else is reading my personal emails. I don’t like that.’
‘Then don’t write suggestive emails to your mistress,’ I said flippantly. ‘At least, not until after we’ve caught the mole.’
‘I don’t have a mistress,’ he said nervously.
I wasn’t at all certain I believed him.
But flippancy aside, it was a serious breach of security.
‘Tony,’ I said with concern, ‘did you tell Paul Maldini that I wasn’t coming back yet?’
‘I sure did,’ Tony replied.
‘How?’
‘What do you mean, how?’
‘Did you use your email?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I called him on this phone, like you said to. Spoke to him myself.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘What did he say?’
‘He didn’t seem that concerned. He said that you could stay for as long as you need, provided you come back eventually.’
‘Did he say those exact words?’ I asked.
‘He sure did.’
Paul clearly did know me better than I realised.
‘Any further word on the semen tests?’ I asked, changing the subject.
‘What further word are you expecting?’
‘Is it equine semen, for a start?’
‘My biochemistry professor is still doing the DNA tests. Apparently he’s had to do a procedure called poly-something chain reaction.’
‘Polymerase chain reaction,’ I said. ‘To amplify the amount of DNA.’
‘That’s the one. It seems it takes all day.’
‘They can do it instantaneously on CSI Miami,’ I said.
Tony laughed. ‘Yeah, and they always catch the bad guys, too. Don’t believe everything you see on TV.’
Or in the newspapers.
‘Can you ask your pet professor if he can tell what breed the semen is from, assuming it is equine? In particular, if it is Thoroughbred semen? I could then take hairs from all the horses in Raworth’s barn for comparison.’
‘Right,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll ask him. Call me again tomorrow. Same time.’
My first night at Pimlico could hardly be described as restful.
The bed was lumpy and uncomfortable and that, together with an apparent who-can-be-the-loudest-snorer contest between Keith and Diego, had me longing for nights only with the farting Mexican.
Hence I’d been wide awake and up for some considerable time prior to four o’clock, when I was expected to be at work.
With only two horses to deal with, the workload was only half what I had faced at Belmont, so it was easy. Ladybird went out first for her morning exercise, ridden by Victor Gomez, while I cleaned her stall and prepared Debenture.
When Ladybird returned from the track, I walked her round for half an hour until she had cooled, gave her a washdown, and then returned her to her stall for a feed. I repeated the routine for Debenture, thankfully without any interruptions from Diego, who was busy with his two. Meanwhile, Keith and Maria fussed around Fire Point, who was ridden out to the track by Jerry Fernando, his race jockey, under the watchful gaze of trainer George Raworth.
I was through by eight o’clock and went in search of some breakfast.
The white Jeep Cherokee was parked up against the back wall of the Pimlico track kitchen.
I had a quick look to make sure that George was still out by the track watching Fire Point and no one else was about, then I peeped inside the vehicle.
The cryogenic flask was still there behind the passenger seat exactly as before. But did it still contain the frozen semen?
I tried the Jeep’s doors. They were locked.
How I wished my trusty lock picks could open them but there was no hope. It was not even worth trying. For a start, the doors had no visible keyholes for the picks to go into. I spent a moment wondering if my ex-army corporal could open cars that were locked by remote control. Probably. But for me, short of breaking one of the windows, I had no chance of getting in.
Just as in Wagner’s Pharmacy at Louisville before the Derby, talk in the Pimlico track kitchen over breakfast was all about who was going to win the big race.
‘Fire Point will surely trot up,’ said one man sitting near me, ‘especially with those other three not running.’
The three he meant were the horses diagnosed with EVA. Two had since returned to California to recover, and the third was still in isolation at Churchill Downs.