Into the Fire

            Fifth chapter of unfinished novel titled Race:

Five

Mondays at the track were noticeably laid back. Two off days of racing followed the usually climactic Sunday when most of the stakes and handicap races were run. Various stakes and handicap races featured the best horses of specific ages competing at set distances, the schedule usually progressing to longer distances as the meet wore on.

      Those who celebrated the end of the week at the local establishments sleepwalked through their stall cleaning and managed to complete their other Thoroughbred maintenance. Some collapsed in tack rooms for naps after the morning work concluded while others resumed their partying ways, meeting up at various bars or designated locations. I knew this because I used to work here for a few summers when I was a kid in high school. Truth is I loved it, loved the horses. Couldn’t say the same for most of the idiot owners except for a few who seemed to understand their horses were genuine athletes who sored up or got tired and needed a break once in awhile.

     I looked up as a warm ray rushed over me. The sun ambushed a retreating cloud and displayed its presence with authority. I soaked it in with admiration and appreciation. My partner walked up behind me still in the shade of the shedrow.

     “What do ya see?” His gaze searched the sky, his expensive Aviator sunglasses perfectly in place.

     “Sunshine. What’ve you got?” I didn’t want to explain my focus on the heavens.

     “Well, it turns out the boss-man’s missus arrived with a pony horse to exchange for another one at her barn around 11 PM and left about 12:10 AM or so.” He smirked.

     “Really. This is startin’ to get interesting.”

     “I’d say so.”

     We heard her before we saw her reaming the security guard who’d put up one hand in defense and cocked his head in an attempt to cool the lady’s rapid fire repartee. Her arms wind-milled around pointing into the victim’s room and encompassed the shedrow. Neither of us moved for at least 30 seconds, watching the breeze catch her Farrah Fawcett hair and play with it. Finally the guard pointed toward us and the woman stomped her brown leather boots and sprayed on designer jeans in our direction. Her Levi jacket hung open exposing a pale pink form-fitting scooped-neck top which drew our eyes to the tan flesh protruding and bouncing with each stride. I sensed Jesse throw a quick glance my way and I stepped forward into the shedrow to greet who I assumed must be Mrs. Trainer in a tizzy. Also a potential suspect now that I could see what she looked like.

     “Speak of the devil?” Jesse said softly, barely moving his lips.

     “Officers, what happened to Roman? He can’t be dead! He helped me switch my ponies last night. He—”

     “What time was that, ma’am?”

     “It’s Renee Casey. And—” She hesitated. “Sometime after eleven, I guess. Why?”

     Jesse jumped in with a good question. “Do you always exchange horses that late at night?”

     She glared at him and her tone took on a condescending note. “I exchange horses whenever I feel like it, Officer—”

     “It’s Detective, ma’am. I’m Detective Jesse Davidson and this is Detective David James.”

     “Well, Detectives,” she said, ice forming a glacier around each word, “I had to run a horse in the last race and our pony horse pulled up sore so I had to go home, get my trailer, and bring another one back.”

     I wouldn’t want to be in the area if Mr. and Mrs. Trainer ever got in a tussle. It’d be hard to say at this point who might win that skirmish.

     “Mrs. Casey, we don’t know yet what happened to Mr. Diego, but he is dead. And so far only you and his girlfriend happened to be in the vicinity around the time he passed,” I said as gently as I could muster.

     “Well, Detective, he was alive and well when I left the barn. And Carmella wasn’t here—probably out partying. The only other person at the barn last night was Dr. Sims, Ronnie, the vet. She and Roman had some vet work to do. Our other grooms weren’t available.”

     The almost empty syringe in the garbage can flashed to mind.   

     “Was Dr. Sims here when you arrived?” Jesse asked.

     “Yes.”

     I noted the slightest bristling at the question. “When you left?”

     Hesitation. “No.” She scuffed the toe of her leather boot in the shedrow dirt. “They were finished by the time I got my pony unloaded. I called for Roman to get the horse I was taking home.”

     “So you switched the horses and then hung around for a bit before leaving?” Jesse made sure his voice sounded strictly business without implication.

     She shoved hands in her jacket pockets and looked to her right down the shedrow. “I had some things to take care of in the office, so it took me a few minutes to get out of here.”

     “Do you know where Roman was when you left?” I asked.

     Her voice strained. “In his tack room I assume.”

     “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Casey,” I said.

     “When is all this tape going to come down? We have a business to run here. That tape can be very disruptive to Thoroughbreds.”

     I’m not putting racetrackers down because they’re just regular people, but most of them would never use the word “disruptive” in this situation. Mrs. Trainer had some education, and I wondered about her background before becoming Mrs. Trainer. From the looks of her and what I could remember from grainy newspaper photos of Walter Casey, the missus was considerably younger and much better looking than her husband.

     Jesse replied to her question, making an effort to execute his politest voice, but the answer was “up to our determination”. She literally huffed away to the other side of the barn.

Father, thank you is never enough. Again and again. Never enough. Please help me to continue. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.