Secretariat Reborn (11 page)

Around two in the morning, Christian trudged into the shadowy boatyard and crashed out in the McGregor’s berth. The twenty-two-foot sailboat and its cramped quarters was okay for overnight or a weekend cruise, but he couldn’t launch her and live aboard. With no diesel motor to run a generator for electric and no water for a shower, he might as well pitch a tent on the beach.

In the morning, he called his mother and told her about the fire. She offered him his old bedroom, and he accepted the temporary living arrangement until he could find an apartment or purchase a larger sailboat. Disgusted and beat, he still opened up for work at the marina. In the afternoon, Detective Samuels, who had his case, showed up. Samuels, in his forties, clean cut, and wearing a tie, handled himself like a seasoned cop, but Christian caught his slight drawl, giving away that he was also a native. He questioned Christian about his whereabouts during the night and if he had insurance on the sailboat.

“When I first bought the Morgan,” Christian said, “I took out a minimal insurance policy in case she broke free of the mooring and damaged another boat, but I never got around to upgrading the policy. Since then, I’ve invested thousands into restoring her. Even put a new diesel in two years ago. The insurance isn’t going to cover what she was really worth.”

“That’s too bad,” said Samuels. “Most boat fires are caused by a knocked-over candle, overheated engine, or electrical, started from the battery.” Samuels flipped through the report. “But according to the fire inspector, the burn patterns and depth of char suggest the
fire started at the bow. This is also consistent with eyewitness statements that said the initial flames were orange with oily black smoke, indicating an accelerant like gasoline was doused on the deck. The inspector ruled out an accidental fire and labeled this case as arson.”

“I figured,” said Christian.

Samuels cocked one eyebrow. “Son, you got someone in mind who might wanna burn your boat?”

“I broke up with a girl a few weeks ago. She threatened me, said I’d be sorry, plus she’s pretty temperamental.”

“Give me her name. I’ll question her and check out her alibi and background, but I gotta be honest. Unless there’s an eyewitness, arson is the hardest crime to prove. All the evidence goes up in smoke, including fingerprints. Since no one was injured or killed, your case doesn’t have high priority.”

Christian gave Samuels Kate’s name, address, and phone number. Samuels wrapped things up, saying he would notify Christian if anything developed.

At City Island, Christian next met with the insurance investigator and answered similar questions while he watched a towboat take away the charred remains of
The Princess
. His cherished sloop would go to a marina, be hoisted out, and carted to the landfill. The adjuster informed him that an arson case must be investigated, and he wouldn’t receive the claim check right away.

A few days later, the calls from Kate began, but he let the voice mail pick up. Although he would have loved to cuss her out, he realized it might only make matters worse. He listened to her messages, the hysterical yelling and swearing, outraged he had given her name to the police and suspected her of burning his boat.

After a week, he got fed up and answered her call. “Kate, I don’t give a shit if you’re fucking upset. You threatened me, and then my boat was torched. If you’re not guilty, you shouldn’t be worried about cops. Now stop calling me.”

He met with Detective Samuels at the police station and asked if anything was new on his arson case.

“I saw Kate Winslow,” Samuels said. “That woman does have a temper. She wouldn’t let me in, said to talk to her lawyer, and slammed the door in my face.”

“Sounds like Kate,” said Christian.

“I did a background check. She’s never been arrested, but seven years ago, the upstate New York police questioned her about her parents’ deaths because of the large inheritance and substantial life insurance policy.”

“Yeah, her parents died in a car crash when Kate was seventeen. That’s how she got her money.”

Samuels frowned. “There was no car accident. Miss Winslow’s folks died in a house fire while sleeping.”

Christian’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me? Why would she lie to me, unless—” He rubbed his forehead.

“She’s hiding something,” Samuels said, finishing Christian’s sentence. “The New York fire was ruled accidental, a gas leak, and the case was closed. But, son, if she’s guilty of starting these fires, she’s not just an arsonist, but a murderer. You’d better watch your back.”

“Christ,” Christian said and chewed his thumbnail.

“Unfortunately, the New York case is out of my jurisdiction. And without proof that she burned your boat, my hands are tied.”

Christian settled in at his mother’s spacious Siesta Key home on Little Sarasota Bay. Although enjoying the luxuries of a soft bed and warm shower with meals waiting for him, he couldn’t wait to find his own private space.

He had left home at eighteen, living on his own for seven years. His mother and Frank seemed delighted to have him under their roof again. After work, he dived into their pool and swam a few laps while Frank fixed him a cocktail. They’d kick back and talk, man to man on the patio until his mother called them in for dinner.

Another week flew by without hearing from Kate. Perhaps she had gotten her revenge and would leave him alone. On Wednesday
evening, Price called him and said Glade Hunter was entered in the fourth race at Calder on Friday. Christian decided to drive to Miami Thursday night. He next called his father with the good news.

“What kind of race, dirt or grass?” Hank asked. “And what’s the distance and purse?” His voice was weak and raspy, like fall leaves rustling in a strong breeze.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I forgot to ask, but Price knows you want Hunter in a maiden special weight.”

“That’s good; that’s good. Price is a top trainer. I’m sure he put the colt in the right race.” His joy was ardent despite the pain.

“Will you get Juan to drive you over to the OBS track so you can watch it on their big screen?”

“Don’t think so, but order the disc of the race. I’ll see it later on my TV. Son, this is it, the first part of my dream come true.”

“After the race, I’ll drive straight to Ocala and bring champagne.”

Christian hung up the phone and felt weariness settle into his spine. To miss watching this race in real time, his father had to be much worse. Christian mentally kicked himself for not having visited the farm the previous week. Ending his relationship with Kate, losing his boat, and keeping his business afloat were all fixable problems, but death was final, and a father irreplaceable. Christian leaned over the kitchen counter and covered his mouth.

His mother walked in and massaged his shoulder. “He’s bad?”

Christian swallowed hard and nodded.

She patted his back. “I’ll leave for the farm in the morning. We’ve had our differences, but Hank doesn’t deserve be alone now.”

Early Friday morning, Christian was once again at Price’s barn. He felt a hundred years old until Hunter stuck his head out of the stall and greeted him. Christian stroked the colt’s neck. “Are you ready, boy? Ready to win today?”

“Hey, you ain’t supposed to touch the horses,” barked a strapping woman marching down the shed row.

“This is my horse.”

“Oh, well, you sure don’t look like an owner. Most of them are older.” The woman snapped a lead on Hunter’s halter and jerked his head out of the way. “Get back! Get back,” she snarled at the colt as she entered his stall. “Need to wrap his legs.”

Christian took an instant dislike to the female groom. “Where’s Jorge?”

“You mean that no-account Mexican? He got fired,” she said, tying the colt’s head up short. “I’m taking care of your horse now.”

“Why was he fired?” he asked.

“How the fuck should I know, mister?”

Christian watched her wrap the colt’s front leg, his aversion growing toward the new groom. He was about to give her a piece of his mind when a woman yelled on the other side of the courtyard and distracted him. At the opposite barn a small blonde stood on her toes while angrily venting into the face of Ed Price.

“Look, asshole, you and I both know you fucked me!” she said, loud enough for the whole barn to hear. “When you sold me the gelding, you knew he was a piece of shit.”

Price’s face reddened. “Get the hell out of my barn or I’ll call security.”

“You haven’t seen the last of me, motherfucker!” The woman stomped off toward the parking lot, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum. Christian recognized her. She was the attractive horse trainer who had bumped into him and his coffee ended up on his shirt.

Christian jogged to the parking lot and headed to a timeworn green pickup. The annoyed woman had climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Hey, remember me?” he asked through the window. “A few weeks ago, the cafeteria, we ran into each other, literally, and I got coffee on my shirt.”

She ignored him, glaring ahead at Price, her face flushed, and her knuckles white on the wheel. With each breath, she almost shuddered.

Christian rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting for her response.
Obviously, he had left her with a bad impression or no impression at all. He halfway turned to leave.

“Christian, right?” she said, still staring at Price.

“You remembered me.” He gave her one of his woman-killing smiles and pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head, exposing his deep blues, his best heart-melting feature.

But she barely gave him a sideward glance. “Don’t tell me that son of a bitch is your trainer.”

“Afraid so. Price has had my colt for a little over a month. I’m here because my horse is entered in the fourth race today.”

“Get a new trainer, Christian. Price is a snake. If I were a man, I’d knock the crap out of him.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I’m too pissed to discuss it, and this isn’t the best place. I’ll be in the employee kitchen in an hour.” She turned the ignition key and her old pickup truck fired up.

“Wait,” Christian said. “You never told me your name.”

“Allie,” she said and jammed the pickup into reverse, gunned it, and peeled out.

Christian found Price at his side. “You know her?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Christian. “I bumped into her last time I was here. She certainly isn’t happy with you.”

“Yeah, sorry you had to hear that. She’s pretty, but has one foul mouth. A good beating would straighten her out.”

Repulsion caused Christian’s neck and shoulders to tense up. He gave Price a penetrating stare of disgust. “A good beating? You believe in hitting women, Price?”

Price’s brown eyes grew big and he retreated one step. “Christian, I was only joking,” he said, wringing his hands.

Christian crossed his arms. “I don’t find it funny.”

Price nodded. “I’m just upset. Last week that woman talks me out of a nice gelding with decent times. Then she comes back here, cursing, and accusing me of cheating her in front of my barn staff,
claiming I sold her a plug, when she probably ran the gelding too hard and bled his lungs. These small-time trainers don’t belong here. Stay clear of her. She’s bad news.”

Christian remained quiet, still chastising the trainer with a hostile gaze while Price fidgeted and wiped the perspiration off his brow. “So—your first big race,” he said, finally. “You should be excited.”

“I am.” Christian said somberly. He took a breath and decided to let the beating comment slide. He hated violence against women. More than once, he had stepped in and pulverized a sorry excuse of a man. He began to realize that the backside of a track might be as rough as a redneck bar.

“The fourth race should go off around two,” said Price.

“What’s the distance and purse?”

“The racing daily is in my office,” said Price. “With so many horses, I can’t remember them all.”

They walked to his office in the middle of the barn, and Price opened the door to a small air-conditioned room with a cluttered desk, worn-out couch, and a few chairs.

Price sat down at the desk, picked up a paper, and studied it. “He’s running a mile on dirt and is the number three horse in the fourth race. The purse is twenty thousand, the winner taking sixty percent plus a few thousand in the Florida-Bred awards.” Price leaned back in the chair. “But don’t hold your breath. Horses get rattled first time out, but if he doesn’t run into any trouble, he should finish in the money.”

“Twenty thousand? What kind of race is this?”

Price glanced back at the sheet and mumbled, “Twenty-five thousand maiden claiming.”

“Claiming?” Christian scowled, knowing Hunter could be purchased for twenty-five grand after the race. “My father wants him in a special weight.”

“He’s not fast enough.” Price handed Christian the paper. “Here, look at his morning workouts below his name and compare them with the other horses in this race. They’re close to the same time.
He’s running in the right company, the right race. The majority of horses start as claimers, even some Derby winners. Without claiming races, a fast horse would keep cleaning up the cheap purses. This way, the owner risks losing his horse. Keeps the business honest.”

Christian scanned the race sheet. Some horses had even better times than Hunter. He gnawed his thumbnail, a nervous habit he couldn’t stop. “I don’t understand. How could Hunter have gotten slower? My father isn’t going to be happy.”

“Like I said, your dad must’ve had a fast watch. If your father is any kind of a trainer, he knows you never outclass a horse, don’t want him to run his heart out, only to finish dead last. A Thoroughbred runs because he wants to lead the herd. It’s ego. No training or jockey can instill that desire and make him go faster. But pit him against better horses enough times, and he’ll lose his confidence and stop trying.”

Price stroked his mustache. “That’s what happened to Seabiscuit back in the thirties. As a two-year-old, he was worked against other horses and not allowed to beat them, then he was over-raced and tired. He lost his motivation. A good trainer and a lot of patience fixed that little horse, and he went on to beat War Admiral, a Triple Crown winner.”