Into the Fire

Race is my first and only mystery. It was a bear to write. Most of you know I primarily read thrillers, mysteries, and suspense, and yet I write "love stories with a passion." However, this police procedural and the idea for the mystery came to me years before I wrote it and would continually pester me until I finally set to the task of writing it. Having frozen up on it several times due to the intense fear of making foolish mistakes – even with the much-needed and patient help of a police detective (who you can see on the front and back covers of Then . . . you) who is now a Sergeant in the police force – I started two other novels during the process of writing Race, those being Seeing . . . and . . . in a love song which I eventually finished after Race. 

Here is Chapter One:

MONDAY

One

It was hard to say what witnesses noticed first—the shrill piercing screams or the nearly naked young woman uttering them. Apparently she woke up next to a dead boyfriend, both of them allegedly passed out from too much alcohol consumption. The designated “sleeping” tack rooms at the track were located at the end of the long shedrows. Though not large this couple’s was tidy with a few creature comforts such as the mounted flat screen, a queen-size bed, a sturdy and colorful throw rug, a small locked black metal file box, and what looked like a well-preserved near-antique chest of drawers with a pole rigged above it to hang clothes on.

     When I arrived at the scene at 3:30 AM, Carmella Ortiz stood barefoot on the dirt in the shedrow, now clad in the couple’s bedspread concealing her apparently barely there lingerie. She spoke fast with intermittent tears and a hint of a Latino accent. Her story was she’d gone over to her sister’s place for some girls’ night-out event and proceeded to get too drunk to drive back, so her sister dropped her off at one of the racetrack gates, and after she staggered into the tack room, she passed out. When I spoke to her I asked if Mr. Wonderful was present at the time, she said she thought so but couldn’t really remember. Must’ve been some girls’ night-out. Easy to verify.

     After speaking with the young woman, I took a few moments to survey the group huddling behind the tape and to inhale the familiar fragrant aroma of horses, listening to the whooshes of their nostrils, some of them pawing their hard rubber mats at the fronts of stalls wondering what all the commotion was about. Brought back memories of high school summers spent working at the track, of underage drinking and girls who liked taking their clothes off, guys who loved it when they did. Funny how some things never change. 

     Next I needed to ascertain Mr. Wonderful’s whereabouts the previous night and wait for the determination of cause of death. Turned out his name was Roman Diego, the assistant trainer for Walter Casey who was kind of a local big-shot, perennially in the top five leading trainers. Lying on his right side at the edge of the bed, Roman’s only clothing was the beige sheet covering his manhood, no blood anywhere, and it looked like he fell asleep—or passed out—and never woke up. Long dark wavy hair obscured his face, but his torso and left arm bent at the elbow and resting on the mattress were well-muscled which made me think he probably exercised the Thoroughbreds at his barn.

     The crime scene tape forbade entrance to the immediate area which would surely annoy the people who had to work at this end of the barn and live in the neighboring tack rooms, not to mention spook a few Thoroughbreds with its unfamiliar yellow color flapping in the cool breeze.

     Death always presents an inconvenience.

Father, you have been so gracious to me, supplying what I've needed, the inspiration, characters, words for each story. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.