The Trojan Colt (6 page)

“I doubt it,” I said. “I spoke to him last night and he seemed very disturbed about something. Do you have any idea what it might have been?”

“No.”

“Has he ever mentioned a desire to see other places?” I continued. “Maybe California, maybe, I don't know, Miami?”

“Tony?” she said incredulously. “I don't think he's ever been thirty miles from here. Whenever we've talked about getting married and going on a honeymoon, the farthest he would even consider is Mammoth Cave.”

I pulled a card out of my wallet, then realized that I was a hundred miles from the phone, and scribbled the Hyatt's number on the back of it, then handed it to her.

“If you should hear from him, call this number and leave a message for Ben Miller. He'll see to it that I get it.”

“Why don't I just call you on your cell phone?” she asked.

“It's broken,” I lied. “And I haven't had a chance to pick up a new one.”

“You could buy one right here,” she said. “We're running a sale.”

“My company's picking one up for me,” I said, which was easier than explaining that I refused to own a cell phone or even learn how they worked.

“Well, when you get a number, call here and leave it for me.”

“Will do,” I said.

“Damn, I hope he's all right.”

“He's probably fine,” I said. “Young men just tend to get restless.” It didn't sound all that reasonable even to me, and I could tell she wasn't buying it. “I'll keep in touch,” I promised her and headed out the door.

I tried the other three friends on the list. Two were out, and the third had nothing to add. Tony loved horses and the racing game, he had eyes for no two-legged female except Nan, and he seemed happy as a clam the last time they'd met.

By the time I was through hitting all the addresses and talking to the last friend, it was nearing nine o'clock, and I realized I hadn't eaten dinner yet, so I stopped at a Bob Evans, had some steak and eggs and a piece of pecan pie, downed a couple of cups of coffee, and hunted up a Motel 6, which cost about as much as a closet in the downtown Hyatt. I left a message for Ben Miller, telling him where he could find me if he had to, took a shower, and got ready for bed.

About two in the morning my phone rang. I picked it up, grunted a “Hello” into it, and was rewarded by the sound of Ben Miller's voice.

“Eli, this is Ben. Sorry to wake you, but I just got in.”

“What's up?”

“Message for you from someone called Nanette. Says to call her, night or day.” He gave me the number.

“Thanks, Ben.”

“You working on that missing groom?”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

He hung up, and I dialed Nan's number.

“Yes?” said a wide-awake female voice.

“Hi, Nan. This is Eli Paxton.”

“Thank goodness!” she said.

“You've heard from him?”

“No,” she replied. “But I lied to you before. Now that I've had time to think about it, I realize I should have told you the truth. I thought I was protecting him, but you're being paid to find and protect him too.”

“Okay,” I said. “What can you tell me?”

“I did hear from him last night.”

“When?”

“Just before midnight,” she said. “He sounded very upset, very worried. He wouldn't say what it was, but he said he had to come by and talk to me in person, either today or tomorrow . . . well, yesterday or today, now.”

“Did he give you any hint of what was bothering him?”

“No. Just that he had to do or see something, and then we'd talk.”

“Nothing about any of the owners or trainers, at the track or at the farm?” I persisted. “Nothing he heard them say? I mean, a lot of them are filthy rich, and I'm sure their dealings aren't always ethical or legal.”

“No, not a word about it.”

“Did you get the feeling he thought he was in danger?”

“Just worried.”

“What kind of things worried him?”

“I don't know!” she said in an exasperated tone, and a few seconds later she was crying.

“Calm down,” I said. “Thank you for the information.”

“And you're not mad at me for lying?”

“I'm grateful to you for finally telling the truth.”

“And you'll let me know when you find him and that he's all right?”

“Yes.”

She hung up without another word.

I thought about it for a while, realized there was nothing to be done at two-fifteen in the morning, and lay back on the bed. I'd run through Tony's friends, so I decided that, come sunrise, I'd pay a visit to Bigelow's farm.

Mill Creek Farm was about fifteen miles out of town. It wasn't one of the classic farms like Claiborne or Calumet or Gainesway, but over the years Travis Bigelow had produced his share of stakes winners. No Derby winners, but that seemed to be a lot more important to sportswriters who followed racing two or three days a year than to the people in the industry.

I kept looking for blue grass, and what I kept seeing was green grass. I drove past a few thoroughbred farms with picturesque white split-rail fences for the public and electric wires that delivered a very mild shock for the horses, since some of the more athletic horses could probably jump the fence, but they couldn't jump the electric wire that ran along the top of it maybe a foot or so above the top rail.

A number of the farms had training tracks, but no one was out running on them as I drove past. What struck me was the size of the pastures. You could stick a hundred head of cattle into each enclosed pasture that housed from one to ten thoroughbreds. Then I thought about it and realized that it made sense, that based on some of the figures Tony had quoted, there was every likelihood that one top racehorse or stallion was worth more than a hundred cows.

Finally I came to a sign telling me I'd reached Mill Creek Farm. I turned into the driveway, which was lined with fenced pastures on both sides, and started driving up to the house. There were a quartet of barns off to the left, and another to the right. Straight ahead was what I assumed was a typical horse country mansion, a large two-story white house with a quartet of huge white pillars holding up a portico in the front.

There was actually a uniformed guy standing at the front door. He walked over when I pulled up and waited for me to open the window.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked.

“I hope so,” I said. “My name's Eli Paxton. I'd like to talk to the guy who does the hiring around here, or if he's at the sale, then to Mr. Bigelow.”

“I'm afraid we are not currently hiring,” said the man.

I pulled out my wallet and flashed my license at him. “I'm not looking for work. I'm here about a missing groom.”

He sighed deeply. “They come and go all the time, sir.”

“Just the same, I'd like to talk to someone who knew him, and maybe take a look around.”

He frowned. “Mr. Standish is the farm manager. I believe he's in one of the barns. As for letting you ‘look around'”—I could almost hear the quote marks around it—“you will require Mr. Bigelow's permission.”

“Is he home?”

“He will be shortly. I believe he's at the bank.”

I couldn't blame him. If I had a check for three and a quarter million in my pocket, I'd want to make sure it was good too.

“Well, if you'll point out where this Standish is, I can start by talking to him.”

“I can't leave my post, sir. I'll summon someone to take you to him.”

He pulled out a cell phone that made Star Trek's communicators look like primitive kid stuff, spoke into it so softly I couldn't hear him, and then tucked it away.

“Well?” I asked.

He pointed to a young man who was walking toward us from the nearest barn.

“This is Jeremy,” he said. “He will take you to Mr. Standish.”

“Has he got a first name?”

“I just told you.”

“I mean Standish,” I said.

“Frank.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, but he was already walking back to his station at the front door.

I decided that since he hadn't told me to move the car, I'd leave it right where it was so I could find it again when I was done. I got out, closed the door, wished I had one of those remote control locks—not that there was anything worth stealing, but just because I didn't want anyone pushing the car out of the way—and began walking across the lush green field toward Jeremy.

We met halfway between the barn and the house, introduced ourselves, and shook hands.

“Hector tells me you're a cop?” he said.

“Hector?” I repeated. “No wonder he didn't tell me his name.”

Jeremy chuckled. “I read about a Hector in high school. Some Greek guy. Got himself killed by another Greek guy.” We began walking toward the farthest barn. “So what's a cop doing here?”

“I'm a private eye,” I said.

“Wow!” he said excitedly. “I've never met one of them before! You got an office and a sexy secretary and girls stashed all over the city like all those private dicks on television?”

“Well, I have an office, anyway,” I said.

“So what are you here for?”

“A groom's gone missing, and I've been hired to find him.”

“Another?”

“This has happened before?”

“Happens all the time. The old grooms, they don't know nothing else so they stick around forever, but the young guys like me, we're just passing through. Who's flown the coop?”

“You know Tony Sanders?”

“Tony? Sure.” Jeremy frowned. “But he's the last guy I'd expect to walk away. He loved horses and racing. I mean, every time someone would talk about heading off to California or maybe Miami, all he could talk about was Santa Anita and Hialeah.”

I nodded my head. “That's Tony, all right.”

“What's running this week?” said Jeremy, frowning. “Arlington, I think. And Belmont. Probably Monmouth. Oh. And Hollywood or Del Mar, something out west. You want him, that's where you'll find him. He probably hooked up with some trainer, talked himself into a job while they were all looking at Tyrone.”

“I don't know,” I said. “He seemed pretty upset last night.”

“Have you met Nan?”

“Yeah.”

Jeremy smiled. “If you were leaving a looker like her, wouldn't you be upset?”

It sounded logical, but it felt wrong. Something more than leaving his girlfriend behind had been bothering him.

“Maybe you're right,” I said, “but I need to talk to Mr. Standish and probably Mr. Bigelow, just to be thorough.”

“Call him Frank,” said Jeremy. “Everyone does.”

“Gotcha.”

“He could have been a hell of a trainer,” continued Jeremy. “In fact, he was once.” He shook his head. “Too bad.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“He won some big filly-and-mare stakes race out east, the winner flunked her drug test, and he was ruled off for a year, so he took a job managing the Wilson farm a few miles south of here, and then when the job opened up here a few months ago, he took it.” He frowned again. “You know the crazy part? They busted up some doping ring a couple of years later, and one of them admitted he'd doped Frank's filly. But by then he'd settled in and was raising a family and didn't want to go back on the circuit. I asked him about it a couple of times, if he missed it. He said that sometimes he did, but racing's not like football or basketball or any other sport: it's twelve months a year, and he didn't want to be away from his wife and kids all the time.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“You away from your wife much?”

“Constantly,” I said.

He looked puzzled.

“We're divorced.”

“Hell, just about everybody is these days. Well, except for Frank and Mr. Bigelow. And if he got rid of that witch, we'd all cheer.”

“Frank's wife?” I asked.

He laughed. “No, Mrs. Bigelow. She always goes around acting like she's too good for us common folks—but it's us common folks who run her goddamned farm for her.”

We reached the largest barn, and Jeremy escorted me inside, where a middle-aged man was on his knees, running his hands over a horse's ankle while a female groom held its halter.

“Yeah, there's definitely some heat there,” he said to the girl. “Keep him in his stall. I'll check every morning, and if it's still there in two days we'll get the vet in here.”

“I thought all the big farms had vets in residence,” I said.

“Not when they're dispersing all their stock,” he said, standing up as she led the horse away. He turned to look at me. “Should I know you?”

I extended my hand. “My name's Eli Paxton. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions.”

He shook his head. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Paxton, but anything you want to know about what's for sale, you'll have to talk to Mr. Bigelow.”