The Trojan Colt Page 8

  “Let me begin by asking you a pair of strange questions,” I said as they sat together on a couch and learned forward intently. “First, did Tony ever mention another Mill Creek groom, a young man named Billy Paulson?” I held up a hand before they could answer. “Now, this is going to sound strange, but he never met this Paulson fellow. They couldn’t possibly have been friends. I just want to know if you ever heard him mention Paulson’s name.”

  Sanders shook his head. “No, not to the best of my memory.”

  I turned to Mrs. Sanders. “And you, ma’am?”

  “No, Mr. Paxton.”

  “All right,” I said. “My other question: did Tony ever talk about Bigelow’s finances?”

  “He was just a kid working there,” said Sanders. “He wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “He never talked about people dunning Bigelow for money?” I persisted. “Or about the sorry condition of the property? Or about maybe some paychecks bouncing?”

  Sanders shook his head again. “He was only there a month, and he spent all his time with the horses. Well, with the one horse, anyway.”

  “He could have heard rumors or other people talking,” I continued.

  “If he did, he kept it to himself,” said Mrs. Sanders.

  “Okay,” I said. “I only have one more question. Did he or any of his associates—friends, trainers, jockeys, anyone in the industry—ever mention a man named Horatio Jimenez?”

  They looked at each other, each clearly hoping the name rang a bell with the other so they could give me something to go on, since all their other answers had been negative. But finally they both shook their heads. Neither had heard of him, which in my opinion was an exceptionally healthy state of affairs.

  “Okay, that’s all I needed to ask,” I said.

  “What does it mean?” replied Sanders. “You’ve clearly learned something about Tony.”

  “I’m hoping that I haven’t,” I said.

  He stared at me questioningly. “I don’t understand,” he said at last.

  “There are two possibilities,” I explained. “One is that, for whatever reason, he’s left town and could be anywhere in, or even out of, the country. The other is that he hasn’t left town. That’s the possibility I’m looking into first, since it saves you the expense of flying me all over the country.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “And if he’s in town, there are two possibilities,” I said. “Either he’s alive or he’s not.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Sanders, but she continued staring right at me.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, ma’am,” I continued. “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t explain what I was doing and why.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Please go on.”

  “No one’s seen him since the night before the sale. His girlfriend—”

  “He doesn’t have one, not anymore,” she interrupted.

  “He’s been seeing her regularly, ma’am,” I said. “Anyway, she hasn’t seen him since before the sale, hasn’t heard from him. He mentioned nothing about leaving or any future plans.” I paused while it sank in that Tony was still seeing Nanette. “If there was any foul play, or the promise of foul play such that Tony had to vanish without a word to anyone, it almost certainly originates in some way at Mill Creek Farm. He spent the last month living there, and from what I can understand Travis Bigelow is in serious financial trouble.”

  “Bigelow?” scoffed Sanders. “My god, he’s a millionaire!”

  “Well, a million doesn’t go as far as it used to,” I replied. “If there was a problem for Tony, it had to have originated at the farm. I haven’t turned anything up so far. I may never. So I thought I should come over, fill you in, and ask you: do you want me to keep working on the case? At this point, I couldn’t swear that he isn’t sunning himself in Malibu, I can’t swear that whatever was bothering him that last night was real or meaningful, and I can’t even swear that he’s alive. I’ll keep looking as long as you want, but I warn you that it can get very expensive.”

  “Let’s go at least a few more days,” said Sanders. “If in a week you’re no further along, maybe we’ll have to reconsider. But damn it, he’s our son, our only one!”

  “Are you in agreement, Mrs. Sanders?” I asked, turning to her. “I can step outside if you want to discuss it.”

  She seemed about to say something, then straightened her back and stared into my eyes.

  “Find my boy,” she said.

  I took another look around Mill Creek, but I couldn’t find anything that might have suggested what happened to either groom. Standish escorted me around; he seemed friendly enough, but I gathered visitors weren’t allowed to go wandering on their own. Hard times for Bigelow or not, there was still some valuable horseflesh on the property.

  “So, have you turned anything up yet?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. Did Billy Paulson ever give you the idea that he was in trouble?”

  “No. He seemed a happy, hardworking kid.” He frowned. “But I thought you were supposed to be looking for Tony Sanders.”

  “I am. But when two kids vanish a month apart from the same place, in fact from the very same job, it makes sense to see if there’s a connection. Did Paulson live here?”

  “Just about all the younger grooms do,” answered Standish. “But the cops took all his stuff. We’ve got someone else in his room now.

  Just then a van pulled up, and Frank turned to me. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I’ve got to welcome Big Mama back.”

  “Big Mama?” I repeated.

  He smiled. “The mother of the Trojan colt. She was barren last year, and her first couple of breedings this year didn’t take. If she missed this time, that’s it for another year.”

  “You can’t keep trying until she’s pregnant?”

  “We could,” he answered as we walked toward the van. “But all racehorses have an arbitrary birthday of January 1, and a late June or early July foal would be at too much of a disadvantage. By the time he caught up physically with his rivals, all the good ones would be retired.”

  “So is this going to be another Trojan colt?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Mr. Bigelow sold his share of Trojan close to two years ago. This time Tyrone’s mother went to Touchdown Pass.”

  “I never saw him,” I said, “not even on TV.”

  “Happens a lot with West Coast horses, especially if they don’t run in the Triple Crown or the Breeders’ Cup.”

  “She’s just flown back from California?” I asked.

  He smiled. “No, from about fifteen miles down the road. They may run in California and New York and elsewhere, but ninety percent of the good ones retire to Kentucky.”

  The van had stopped, and the driver came around the back, slid out a ramp for the mare to walk down, and opened the door at the back. He then led her out by a rope attached to her halter.

  “I’ll take her from here, George,” said Standish.

  “Hope we got something this time, Harry,” replied the driver. “Anyway, she looks happy.”

  “Probably happy just to be out of the van,” said Standish. He began leading her to a pasture, and I walked alongside him.

  “What would a foal be worth?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “A lot depends on Tyrone. He wins the Champagne or the Futurity or one of the other major stakes for two-year-olds, this one would go for a couple of million, especially if it’s a boy. He runs like a cheap claimer, and this one’s price plummets.”

  “Even though it’s not the same sire?”

  “A lot of investors and writers forget it, but Momma supplies half the genes.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I suppose when Poppa produces a hundred foals a year and Momma produces one, it’s easy to forget.”

  “Take a look at the percentages, if you want to see something interesting.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

 
“The most successful stallion in history, in terms of the percentage of stakes winners he sired, was Bold Ruler. You know what that percentage was?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied.

  “Twenty-five percent,” said Standish. “One-quarter of all his foals won stakes races. The average for the breed is something less than one percent. Are you impressed?”

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “You know how many mares have produced more than twenty-five percent stakes winners?” he asked with a smile.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I,” he answered. “But it’s well over two hundred.” He patted the mare on the neck. “People forget that it takes more than a sire, but we remember, don’t we, baby?”

  The mare nickered at him, and a moment later he turned her loose in an empty pasture. She trotted once around it, as if to make sure it was the one she remembered, and then settled down to do some serious grazing.

  “Anything else I can answer or help you with before I make my rounds?” asked Standish.

  “Just one thing,” I said. “You ever hear of a man named Horatio—” I stopped in mid-sentence as a thought hit me. “Oh, shit!”

  “Horatio Oh Shit?” he replied with a grin.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just thought of something. Have you got a phone in one of these barns?”

  “Yeah, but they’re just connected to my office. You can’t dial out.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll just drive down the road until I come to a pay phone.”

  “They’re getting rare as hen’s teeth,” said Standish. “Why don’t you just use your cell phone?”

  “Battery’s dead,” I said, which was easier—and quicker—than explaining why I don’t like or trust cell phones. It’s not just that they’re newfangled, it’s not just that there should be times when no one can bother you, it’s not even that being a phone seems to be the least of their functions these days. But if you’ve got your checking and savings account numbers and all your passwords and e-mail addresses and the like on your cell phone, any pickpocket can steal your entire life from you. Not that I had anything worth stealing except Marlowe, and anyone who wanted him was welcome to him, but I still objected to the damned things on principle.

  I walked quickly to my car, and when the first three gas stations I passed didn’t have pay phones, I just drove on to the police station, figuring that it was another few minutes in the car versus maybe two hours trying to find a phone.

  I pulled up, got out, blew a kiss to Bernice as I walked past, and let myself into MacDonald’s office. It was empty, of course; we’d had breakfast just a few hours ago, but while that was the start of my day, it was the end of his.

  I turned around, left the office, and went to Lou Berger’s office instead.

  “Hi, Eli,” he said. “You look . . . I don’t know—tense or excited, or perhaps you’ve been overcome with lust for Bernice. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to know something,” I said. “MacDonald probably has it at his fingertips, but he’s asleep.”

  “What is it?” he said. “If the answer’s in the office, I can find it without too much trouble.”

  “You guys told me that Horatio Jimenez was here the day Tyrone was sold. What time was he spotted?”

  “Give me a minute,” he said, getting to his feet. “I know where Drew files his current cases.”

  “Is it his case?”

  “Ever since you spoke to him,” confirmed Berger. “I don’t know who else’s it could be. I’ll be right back.”

  He walked down the hall to MacDonald’s office and returned about two minutes later.

  “Our first report of Jimenez being in town came at six in the evening, when he was spotted checking into the Hilton Suites. We kept an eye out for him at the pavilion, but he never showed.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I knew I was missing something.”

  “What?”

  “There can’t be a connection.”

  “What kind of connection?” said Berger. “I’m not following you.”

  “Since Jimenez is a hitter and he came to Lexington the day Tony vanished, it was easy to think he might have had something to do with it. But he couldn’t have.”

  “Just out of curiosity, why not?”

  “Because he didn’t have time to get to the barn before I got back from dinner, and by then Tony was already worried about . . . well, about whatever it was that had him so upset.”

  “Couldn’t he have stopped by on his way to the hotel?” asked Berger.

  I shook my head. “I was there all day. I didn’t go out for dinner ’til about six, and there’s no way he could have talked to Tony after I left and still checked in around six. And I was back by a quarter to seven.”

  “Okay,” said Berger. “I know it’s no help to you, but you just made the Lexington police force’s job a little easier. It’s comforting to know we don’t have to try to extradite a well-known shooter who might have friends in this town. I hope to hell the kid is having the time of his life on some beach.”

  “I just hope he checks in so we know he’s okay.”

  “If he does, you’re out of a job,” said Berger with a smile.

  “Beats the hell out of sitting next to his parents at the funeral,” I replied.

  “True enough,” he agreed. He checked his watch. “I hate to throw you out, Eli, but I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “Time for me to get back to work too. I just wanted to make sure about Jimenez. At least he’s out of the picture.”

  “Out of your picture,” Berger corrected me.

  “Oh?”

  He smiled wryly. “The fact that he didn’t see the Sanders kid while you were having dinner is all well and good, and I’m happy for you and the kid’s parents—but I still have to find out what a hired killer was doing in Lexington during the yearling sales.”

  Fishbein’s wasn’t doing much business when I pulled up. There was an old gent with a cane and an oxygen bottle arguing with the pharmacist about something, and a boy who wouldn’t be shaving for another four years trying to convince the cashier he really was old enough to buy a pack of Marlboros.

  Nan was restocking some shelves, but she stopped the second she saw me approaching.

  “Have you found him?” she asked eagerly.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m still looking.”

  “I told you everything I know the last time you were here,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you back?” she asked. “Why aren’t you out looking for him?”

  “Where do you think I should look?” I replied.

  “How do I know?” she said. “You’re the cop.”

  “The detective,” I corrected her.

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Anyway, I need to know more about Tony—what he liked, what he ate, where he went to relax, anything at all you can tell me.”

  “He liked hamburgers,” answered Nan. “Oh, and pizza. Always the same: it had to have sausage and mushrooms and nothing else, or he wouldn’t eat it.”

  “Did he drink?”

  “You mean, like alcohol?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Once in a while a beer, never anything more than that. Even before he got the Trojan colt he always had expensive horses in his care at his other jobs, and he never wanted to screw up—pardon my language—by forgetting to feed them or do whatever he was supposed to do because he was drunk.”

  “Sounds like the young man I met,” I said. “Is there anything else you can tell me—anything at all? Did he bowl? Go to the movies much? Anything you can remember?”

  She shook her head. “He was devoted to whatever horse that was in his care. I mean, hell, if the horse coughed once or took one bad step, he’d call to tell me he wouldn’t be picking me up after work and I’d have to take the bus home.”

  “Shit!” I muttered.

  “I beg
your pardon?”

  “I’m an idiot!” I said. “He drove you home?”

  “Yes. Or to dinner.”

  “In his own car?”

  “Who else’s?” she replied with a frown.

  “I mean that,” I persisted. “It was his car, not his parents’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what kind it was?”

  “A light-blue Plymouth, from 1997 or 1998, I think. Very old, anyway.”

  “Two doors or four?”

  “Two. And with lots of rust on it. Why?”

  “It’s another lead,” I said. “If I can find his car, maybe he’ll be with it.”

  “He bought it about a year ago, when his last one died,” she replied. “It was even older.”

  “You wouldn’t know the license number?”

  She shook her head. “He said if Tyrone set a sales record, he was going to get a vanity plate with Tyrone’s name on it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thank you, Nan.”

  “I hope whatever I said was useful.”

  “You and me both,” I told her.

  I went out to the car and drove back to the police station.

  “We’re going to start charging you rent,” said Bernice with a smile as I walked in.

  “If you’ll loan it to me,” I said, returning her smile. “Either of my boys in?”

  “Lou’s still here for another half hour or so,” she replied. “Drew’s not due in for another hour, but he’s usually fifteen or twenty minutes early.”

  “Thanks,” I said, walking to Berger’s office.

  He looked up from a pile of papers. “One of us looks happy,” he said. “What have you got?”

  “Nothing yet,” I said. “If I told you that Tony Sanders owned a beat-up octogenarian Plymouth, could you hunt up the license plate?”

  “Sure,” he said, turning to his computer and tapping in a sentence or two. Then he turned back to me. “The license bureau should have something back to me in a couple of minutes. Maybe a little longer, since I don’t know his legal address.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Nan—his girlfriend—thinks it’s a Plymouth, but she didn’t know the model and wasn’t sure about the year.”