The Trojan Colt (20 page)

I stopped at Fishbein's, walked in, and looked around for Nanette. She was nowhere to be seen. My first thought was that she knew something, and the killer got to her. My second thought, far more rational, was to ask the cashier where she was. I was informed that she was on her break and would be back in a couple of minutes.

I wandered over to the magazine section and realized that I didn't have to exert the usual willpower, as Fishbein's didn't carry
Playboy
or its imitators. I saw a Raymond Chandler paperback, picked it up, thumbed through it, and wondered why Philip Marlowe (or Sam Spade, or Lew Archer, or any of the other fictional detectives) never seemed to feel nervous when someone was out to kill them. Or why each had, at most, one friend on the police force that he could trust and rely upon.

I put the book back and began walking up and down the aisles, not looking for anything in particular, just killing time. Finally, as I was studying a package of disposable baby diapers, I felt a tap on my shoulder, resisted the urge to jump, resisted an even stronger urge to pull my gun, and turned around to find myself facing the lovely young blonde.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Paxton?” said Nanette. “Is there some news about Tony?”

“Not yet,” I said.

She frowned. “I'm very worried about him.”

“I know,” I said, doing my best to sound comforting. I'd have put an arm around her shoulders, but I had a feeling that could get you arrested in a family drugstore in the Upper South.

“You obviously have more questions to ask,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“This one's out of left field,” I said, “but do you or Tony know anyone who drives a Mercedes convertible?”

She shook her head. “That costs what one of us makes in maybe two years,” she answered. “We don't travel in those social circles.”

“Like I said, it was a long shot,” I replied. “Do you know if Tony ever worked for a guy—a farm manager—named Chessman?”

“No. He mentioned him now and then, always favorably. I guess he worked for Mr. Bigelow but left before Tony started.”

“Only one more question, and this is an important one,” I said. “Unfortunately, it's also an inexact one. Did he know or even mention anyone who might live in the vicinity, say two or three blocks, of the Leestown Road Kroger?”

She frowned. “I don't think I've ever been there. Did someone there see Tony?”

I shook my head. “No. And it has nothing to do with the Kroger itself. I just need to know if he knows someone who lives or works near there.”

“I've no idea, Mr. Paxton, but I can't imagine that he does. He's always been pretty much of a loner. I'm sure if he knew anyone in that area, he'd have told me about it.”

I must have shown my disappointment, because suddenly she looked even more worried.

“If you'll tell me who you think he knew there,” she said, “I'll be happy to help you look for them every day when my shift's over.”

“I wish I knew,” I admitted.

She frowned. “Then why are you asking me about it?”

I figured it couldn't hurt to tell her the truth. “Because the police found his car parked there.” I decided not to tell her that he'd left the top down with a rainstorm coming.

I promised to keep her informed of any developments and then walked out to the Chevy, which I'd parked right in front of the store, got in, and tried to think of what I might have missed. Finally I decided to drive back to Keeneland.

It was a lot less crowded now that the sale was over, and it wouldn't be open for racing again until the fall, but there were still about fifty or sixty cars parked there—trainers, exercise boys (well, that's the term, though half of them are girls these days), grooms, track officials, the crew that maintained the track, and a couple of unclassifiables.

I walked over toward where the yearlings had been stabled, and as I approached Barn 9 a guard approached me.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “May I see your credentials?”

“I'm just looking for someone,” I replied. “Another guard, in fact.”

“Even so, I'm afraid you're not allowed in this area without a pass.”

“My name's Eli Paxton,” I said, pulling out my wallet and flashing my detective's license. “I just want to see the guard who was on duty here during the sale.”

“We had lots of guards,” he replied, relaxing somewhat now that he saw I was almost a cop.

“I need the guy who was in charge of Barn 9.”

“I'll have to go check the duty chart,” he said. “I can't leave you here alone, so why don't you come with me, Mr. Paxton?”

“Lead the way,” I said, falling into step behind him as he walked to a small building at the end of the row of barns. We entered it, and while I was looking for a chart tacked to a wall, he activated a computer, typed in a few words, waited for an answer, and then turned to me.

“The man who you want is Roger Combes,” he announced. “He's currently at”—he peered intently at the screen—“the owners' and track officials' private lot.”

“And where is that?” I asked.

“Under the clubhouse,” he said, pointing toward the grandstand. “Just a minute.” He pulled out an official-looking notepad, scribbled something on it, and handed it to me. “This'll get your car in and save you walking almost a mile each way from where your car is now. We're not racing, so Roger should be the only one on duty today.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Much appreciated.”

I walked back to the Chevy, got into it, and drove where he had indicated. I finally pulled into the private lot, and as I got out of the car, Combes walked over.

“May I please see your—?” He stopped dead and stared at me. “Don't I know you?”

I nodded and extended my hand. “Eli Paxton. I was keeping watch over the Trojan colt.”

He smiled. “Ah! Now I remember. And he topped the sale, didn't he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Pretty horse.” Suddenly he frowned. “Ah! I remember now. That groom went missing. That's why you're here, isn't it?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” I said.

“He seemed like a good kid. It's hard to believe that he just ran off to have a good time before the colt even made it to the sales ring.”

“A lot of us are finding that difficult to believe,” I replied, “which is why I've been retained.”

“Good!” he said.

I stared at him curiously.

“I'd hate to think nobody cares.”

“People care,” I said. “His parents, for starters.”

“So what can I do to help?” asked Combes.

“The night before the colt was sold . . .” I began.

“The night the groom disappeared,” he interrupted, nodding his head.

“Right,” I said. “I was with him all day, and again at night. The only time I left the barn was to eat at the kitchen. Now, think hard, because this may be very important: Were there any visitors during the half hour or so I was gone for dinner?”

“We don't keep a record of each visitor, Mr. Paxton,” he said. He closed his eyes and seemed to make almost a physical effort to concentrate. Finally he opened his eyes and looked at me. “I think he only had one—a portly gentleman with white hair.”

“Do you know who it was?”

He shook his head. “No. It was probably just a potential buyer or his agent or trainer. Whoever it was, he had a right to be there. He spent a few minutes talking to the young man, probably asking questions about the colt, and then he left.”

“And that's all you can remember?”

“I seem to think he was local, that I may have seen him a couple of times over the years, but that's all,” said Combes. “I'm sorry, Mr. Paxton. If I'd known then that it was important . . .”

“Not your fault,” I said. “And the likelihood is that it was just a possible bidder and had nothing to do with Tony's disappearance.”

“When he finally turns up, let me know,” said Combes. “He was a nice kid. Whenever he wasn't working he was always reading. You just don't find many young people like that.”

“I agree,” I said. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Combes.”

“Roger,” he corrected me.

“Roger,” I amended.

I walked back to the Chevy, pulled out of the parking lot, and realized I had no idea where to go next. I could visit his parents, or Standish, or Nanette, or Chessman, or Jeremy the farm hand, or even Bigelow himself, but the truth of the matter is that I was all out of questions to ask them—and I was no closer to finding out what had become of Tony Sanders than the morning I woke up and found that he was missing.

I awoke to the smell of coffee and saw Bernice standing there in the doorway with a tray that held a pot, a cup, and the necessary white stuff.

“Well, look who finally woke up,” she said as she walked into the room and put the tray on a table.

“Coffee in the hands of a good-looking woman does it every time,” I said, swinging my feet down to the floor and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“So is Sam Spade making any progress?”

I shook my head. “Not so's you'd notice it.”

“Let me know if there's anything I can do to help,” she said.

“If I can come up with something, you'll be the first to know.”

“There's always the possibility that he just ran off, you know,” she said. “Thousands of kids do, every month.”

“I know,” I said. “I just don't think he's one of them.”

“Drew went home an hour ago,” said Bernice. “He didn't have any messages for you. Lou's in his office if you need to speak to him.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Let me inject some of that coffee into a vein first.”

“Okay,” she said. “I'll be at my desk if you need me.”

I poured the coffee, stopped by the bathroom, considered shaving, decided I was still groggy enough that I might slit my throat, and went back to finish the coffee. I thumbed aimlessly through one of Tony's magazines. After a few minutes I started feeling a little more human as the second cup took effect, and walked over to Berger's office.

His door was ajar, and he was hunched over his computer, reading some report on the screen.

“You open for business?” I said.

He swiveled around on his chair. “Hi, Eli. Come on in.”

“Thanks.”

“So what can your local police department do for you today?” he asked.

“Not much, to tell the truth,” I said. “I've got just one thing left to do, and if it doesn't work I'm going to tell Tony's parents not to waste any more of their money.”

“An honest private eye?” he said with a smile. “You'll destroy the whole profession's reputation.”

“I can make up for it by promising the moon to the next woman I take out,” I said, returning his smile.

“Not Bernice,” he replied. “I don't think there's enough money in petty cash to pay for your funeral.”

“Then I'll just lie to the IRS like everyone else does,” I said. “Of course, first I have to make enough for the IRS to give a damn.”

“Don't count on that. They'll come down on you just as hard for a nickel as a million.” He picked up a coffee cup from his desk and took a sip. “Okay, how can I help you?”

“Yesterday I went to Keeneland,” I said. “I hunted up the security guard who'd been in charge of some of the barns at the sale, including the one where Tony and I stayed.” I felt a need for a cigarette, looked around, couldn't spot an ashtray, and tried to ignore the craving. “I asked him if there'd been any visitors during the half hour I was over at the kitchen having dinner, and he says there was just one.”

“That's awfully thin, Eli,” he said. “The horse was on display to anyone with credentials, and that included every registered buyer and trainer on the grounds.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “But trust me, the kid was happy and carefree when I left, and he acted like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders when I got back thirty minutes later.”

“Okay,” he said, frowning. “Go on.”

“I asked about the visitor. He couldn't remember the name, but he was sure it wasn't one of the nationally known trainers like Wayne Lukas or Bob Baffert that even I would recognize from their photos in the sports section. So I asked Combes—that's the guard—to describe him, and he remembered that he was kind of fat with a head of white hair.”

“A fat guy with white hair,” repeated Berger with a smile. “Well, that eliminates half the men and all the women.”

“It's a long shot,” I agreed. “But damn it, Lou, something spooked that kid while I was gone.”

“So to come back to it, what do you want me to do?” asked Berger.

“You must be able to print out a photo of this Jimenez. I want to see if Combes recognizes it.”

“I seem to think he's an elegant, well-built guy, kind of a 1930s ladies' man, with coal-black hair,” said Berger. “But who knows? Maybe he's overeaten and gone gray. I can get the photo faxed to us in five minutes' time.”