The Trojan Colt (13 page)

“They didn't report Tony,” I said, and then realized there was a difference. “Of course, he knew where he was going, or at least I have to assume he did.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for your help, Drew.”

“Get something definite and we'll do more than help,” he promised.

“I'll count on that,” I said. “I'm just a detective. Being a hero is another union.”

We shook hands, and I began walking to the exit.

“Don't you ever sleep?” asked Bernice with a smile.

“Don't you?” I replied, returning the smile.

“I'm getting time and a half until they hire more help,” she said. “How about you?”

“I'm not getting shot at. I consider that even better than time and a half.”

She laughed, and then I was out the door and into the Ford. I started it, turned the Reds-Pirates game on the radio, pulled a Lexington street map out of my glove compartment, and studied it for a minute. I knew that Bill Striker insisted that his entire staff have GPSs in their cars, but the few times I'd been in a car with one, I found it intrusive as all hell, like your mother-in-law looking over your shoulder and telling you to turn here and stop there.

I began driving, accidently ran a red light when the Pirates' center fielder made a circus catch and robbed Joey Votto of a bases-clearing double, but in a few minutes I was at the Leestown Road Kroger. I pulled into the lot, got out of the car, looked around (though I had no idea what I was looking for), and finally entered the store.

It looked like any other Kroger—huge and efficient. I saw an Hispanic stock boy—well, his hair was gray, but I've never been able to think of the guy who puts Cheerios and Special K on the shelves as a stock man—and I walked over to him.

“I'm looking for something,” I said.

“I'll be happy to help you, sir,” he replied.

“Good,” I said. “Where's the nearest horse farm?”

He looked puzzled for a minute. “This is a joke, right, sir?” he said at last.

“No,” I answered. “Let me word it differently. Is there a horse farm within half a mile of here?”

He just shook his head and stared at me as if I might start taking off my clothes any second.

“You're sure?” I said.

“I'm sure.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, walking to the exit before he could sound some hidden alarm.

I walked directly to my car, found out that Brandon Phillips had tied the score with a shot into the left field bleachers, and started driving.

It was a nice neighborhood, not as upscale as some, but nicer than anything I'd ever lived in. I began crisscrossing it for half a mile in each direction, first north-south, then east-west. Then I drove in a square around it.

“Damn it!” I muttered. “You were scared. You probably knew your life was in danger. You don't have any friends on any of the streets I just drove down. You couldn't talk to me. You couldn't talk to Nan. You couldn't talk to your parents. You felt you had to leave a three-million-dollar yearling behind, just to drive here, and . . . and what? Who did you see when you knew you were in trouble, and why don't we have any record of him?”

I drove around another half hour, looking at every house, every store, every outbuilding, and when I finally turned the car around and headed back to the Motel 6, I still didn't know.

I dragged myself out of bed, drove by the laundry to pick up my shirts, socks, and underwear, went back to the motel long enough to shave, shower, and change, and then stopped by the police station, where MacDonald was just putting his desk in order prior to going home.

“You should have been here four or five hours ago, Eli,” he said. “Lots of excitement.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Two drunks we pulled in tried to kill each other.” He smiled. “They were so far gone that we just let 'em swing. I don't think either of them came within eighteen inches of connecting with the other, but it wore them out enough that they became tractable enough to lock 'em away in separate cells so they can sleep it off.”

“You want to see some real action,” I replied, “come to a tailgate party at Paul Brown Stadium when the Bengals are playing.”

“Certainly more action there than on the field, from what I read,” he replied. Then: “So are you just stopping by to invite me to breakfast, or is there something I can do for you?”

“I went over to Leestown Road last night,” I said.

“And didn't turn up a thing?” he asked.

“Right.”

“I hate to say I told you so.”

“There's a connection there somewhere,” I said. “He had to have a reason to go there.” I sighed. “I just haven't been able to find it.”

“And you think you'll find it here?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Then what do you think we can do for you?”

“I'm just looking for connections,” I said. “Any connection.”

He frowned. “I don't follow you, Eli.”

“I want to see your file on Billy Paulson.”

“The groom Tony Sanders replaced?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any reason to think something happened to Paulson?”

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“But you're hoping you might find a reason?”

I sighed. “I'm just hoping to find any kind of connection at all, besides the fact that they worked for Mill Creek and were in charge of the same horse.”

“What the hell,” he said. “I'll have my computer give you a printout on everything we've got on him, and while it's doing that I'll walk you over to the Evidence Room.”

I frowned. “Evidence Room?” I repeated. “Then you think there was a crime.”

“No. But nobody's stepped forward to claim the stuff we pulled out of his room at Mill Creek, and we had to stash it somewhere. Besides, this isn't Chicago or Manhattan,” he added with a smile. “We don't have that many crimes, so we don't have that much evidence lying around.”

“Lead the way,” I said.

“Okay,” he replied, getting to his feet and leading me down a corridor. “But if I help you find the kid, I want ten percent of your fee.”

“No one's paying me a cent to find Billy Paulson,” I replied. “That being the case, I will happily give you fifteen percent of nothing.”

“And a breakfast.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “The best breakfast Tilly makes, as long as it's under five dollars.”

He chuckled. “Welcome to 1972,” he said. “They tell me there's a really good-looking two-year-old out there called Secretariat.”

He stopped at a door, pulled a card out of his pocket, inserted it, and the door slid open silently, revealing a room that seemed composed almost entirely of metal shelves. It took MacDonald a couple of minutes to find what he was looking for, but finally he uttered a grunt of satisfaction, pulled down a cardboard box with “Billy Paulson” written on it with a Magic Marker, and handed it to me.

“The light's pretty poor here,” I said. “You mind if I look at it in your office?”

“Tell you what,” he said. “Jack Greenwald is on vacation. Give me a minute to clear it, and you can have his office for the next eight days, if you give me your word you won't open any drawers or file cabinets. They're all locked anyway.”

“You got it.”

“I'll have his computer activated too. You don't know his password, so you won't be able to access his files.”

I shook my head. “Don't bother.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Give me a couple of minutes.”

He left the Evidence Room and was back in about five minutes.

“No problem,” he announced. “We called Jim Simmons again, and he hasn't decided to hate you since we spoke to him two days ago. Also, my boss had heard about that thing you pulled off a while back, the one that started with a show dog and ended somewhere in Mexico.”

Actually, it had ended in Cincinnati, but I wasn't allowed to say so, so I just smiled, thanked him, and followed him to Jack Greenwald's office, which was a carbon copy of Berger's and MacDonald's offices.

“The door will lock behind you, so you can just leave the box on the desk when you're done. Any time you want to access it again, just ask Bernice for a key card; I'll make sure she's got one for you.”

“Will do,” I said. “And thanks again, Drew.”

“Television and the movies to the contrary, we're on the same side,” he replied as he left the office and closed the door behind him.

I put the box on the desk, then sat down on Greenwald's swivel chair and removed the box's top. There wasn't much there, but I began going through it piece by piece, not knowing what I was looking for, just hoping something might trigger an idea.

Right on top of the little pile were a couple of paperback porn books, which at least meant he was healthy and he could read. There was a copy of
Sports Illustrated
, which meant that unlike Tony he at least had a passing interest in sports other than horse racing. There was a birthday card from what I assumed were his parents, or maybe an aunt and uncle: Robert and Wilma Paulson. Whoever they were, they lived in Connecticut. Another card—unsigned—from Mill Creek Farm and a third one from someone named Hal Chessman. It seemed bigger than the others, so I pulled it all the way out of the envelope and looked at it. It was a picture of a pudgy, balding guy holding a horse by the halter, and inscribed on it was “Take good care of my Derby winner” along with Chessman's signature. I made a mental note to find out who this Chessman was.

There were a couple of paid receipts, one for a pair of boots, one for some T-shirts. I assumed he was keeping them for tax purposes. There was a jockey's whip, pretty beat up. I'd always heard that they were called “popper” whips because they made a loud popping noise that startled a horse but didn't hurt him or leave any welts. Just for the hell of it I picked it up and slapped it down on my leg. It made a noise, all right—but it hurt like hell, and when I pulled up my trouser leg to look at my calf, I could see the welt already forming. So much for that particular myth. I probably outweigh the average jockey by seventy or eighty pounds, but every last one of them's got to be in better shape than me, so size and strength were a wash. Bottom line: the damned thing hurt.

Next was a little box containing some gold chains. The gold was already flaking off, so it was obvious they were cheap imitations, but then, if he was a kid who read porn, probably the young ladies he went after were cheap imitations too.

Then there was his shaving kit, which contained a long razor like they used in barber shops when I was a kid, which looked impressive but made it damned easy to slit your throat if you sneezed at the wrong moment. It also contained a toothbrush and toothpaste, and two spray bottles of a cheap men's cologne.

And, finally, there was the Little Black Book. I thumbed through it. Our Billy didn't have much of a social life. There were only five girls' names, plus one of those joints that will give you an advance on your paycheck for a mere twenty-five percent per week or whatever. I checked to see if any of the girls lived on Leestown Road. None did, and even if one of them had I wouldn't have known what to do about it anyway, since Leestown was where Tony had made his way, not Billy.

I closed the box. It hadn't told me much. The kid was old enough to shave, big enough to lust for women, he had a birthday sometime before he vanished, he had at least a passing interest in sports, and he either knew a jockey and kept the whip as a souvenir, or he was into really kinky sex.

End result: nothing.

In fact, there was only one loose end at all: Hal Chessman. And I was sure someone at Mill Creek could tell me who he was, and then the last possible link between Tony and Billy Paulson would be gone. I figured I'd spend another couple of days and then give the Sanders another chance to call it off just about the time I ran through every last possibility, no matter how obscure or unlikely, of finding their son.