Black Orchid Novella Award Winner: 

HORSE PIT 

by John David Betancourt

 

We’re pleased to present here the winner of what will be an annual contest sponsored by Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine and the Wolfe-Pack. The Black Orchid Novella Award honors novella-length stories in the classic detective mode of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe. For more information about the contest, go to www.nerowolfe.org. 

 

* * * *

 

HORSE PIT 

 

When the telephone rang, I rolled over and squinted at it. Not again. Why couldn’t people leave me alone? If I wanted to sit in my apartment and drink until the pain stopped, was that too much to ask?

 

Sighing, I fumbled the receiver to my ear. Probably tele-marketers. Best to get it over with.

 

“Hullo?” I rasped. My mouth tasted like day-old bread.

 

“Pit?” It was David Hunt, my only remaining friend. We had been in the same fraternity in college. I hadn’t heard from Davy in a couple of weeks, so the call was due.

 

Groaning, I managed to sit up. My head throbbed and my bones ached; the room tilted out from under me. Where had I put that bottle of Jack Daniel’s? Probably somewhere under the covers, hopefully with the cap still on. Booze was the only thing that blunted the pain from my ruined legs. And it had the welcome side effect of slowing my always racing mind.

 

“Hi, Davy,” I managed to say in an almost normal voice.

 

“You up?” he asked.

 

“Kinda.” I yawned. “What time is it?”

 

“Midnight.”

 

That brought me fully awake. Davy was a morning person; he rarely stayed up past ten o’clock. Something must have happened. Something bad for him to call this late.

 

“What’s wrong?” I demanded. “Are you and Cree all right?”

 

“We’re fine. It’s just ... I bought a racehorse!”

 

I blinked. “What?”

 

“A racehorse. Pretty cool, huh? His name’s Bailey’s Final Call, and he’s won several stakes races over the last year.”

 

“Are you insane?” I rubbed my crusty eyes, wishing I’d never awakened, wishing I’d never been born. “You called me at midnight to say you bought a horse?”

 

“Yep!”

 

“You barely know which end to feed!”

 

“That’s what jockeys are for.”

 

I thought he was joking. I hoped he was joking.

 

Davy went on, “Actually, I’m one-fifth owner. A bunch of us formed a mini syndicate. Opportunity of a lifetime and all that.”

 

Since Davy was already worth upwards of fifty million, if anyone could make a profit from a horse, he could. He had a Midas touch.

 

But why call me? I had no interest in horses. And why so late? Something didn’t fit.

 

Gingerly, I eased my feet to the floor. “What are your plans for this unfortunate creature?” I asked. Flicking on the light, I felt around my faded blue bedspread. Where had that bottle gone?

 

Davy said, “A few more races, then we put him out to stud.”

 

“Is there money in that?” Maybe Bailey’s Final Call wasn’t so unfortunate.

 

“For a champion? You’d better believe it. I think—”

 

I found my Jack Daniel’s—cap on, but empty. So much for that. I added it to the growing pile of empties in the corner as Davy nattered on about his horse, but I only half listened. I’d have to recycle everything soon.

 

“—already worth more than a hundred thousand a year in stud fees,” Davy was saying. “There will be more—lots more—if he keeps on winning.”

 

I whistled. “The sex trade really pays.” What was the average life span of a horse, anyway? Twenty years? Thirty? At a hundred thousand a year ... or more...

 

“It pays for horses, anyway.”

 

“And what did this creature cost?”

 

“A lot.”

 

“Davy...” A warning note crept into my voice. “I know you’re calling because you want my help with something, so don’t get cute. How much did you spend?”

 

He laughed, but uncertainly, as if he had something to hide. That sent up more warning flags.

 

“Spill it!” I ordered.

 

“Okay, okay. We each chipped in two hundred thousand.”

 

I gasped. “You spent a million dollars on one horse? What were you thinking?”

 

“Bailey is a champion.” He sounded defensive. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

“But now you think you were ripped off.”

 

A confirming silence followed. My doubts turned into a horrible premonition.

 

“Davy-boy?” I said.

 

“Let’s say I have a bad feeling. Will you help me or not?”

 

“I know nothing about racing. I know less about horses.”

 

“You’re the smartest guy I know, Pit. If anyone can spot a scam, you can.”

 

“I’m flattered, but you need an expert. How about Dick Francis? That guy knows crime and horses. With your money, I bet you could rent him for an afternoon.”

 

“Get serious, Pit. We’ve already had two vets and a trainer look Bailey over. They say he’s sound of hoof and heart. By all accounts, he’s the real deal.”

 

“Then be happy. You got a bargain, right?”

 

“I don’t know.” He hesitated. “I can’t put my finger on it. But something’s wrong. Bailey sold way too cheap.”

 

“A million dollars isn’t cheap.”

 

“For an investment that’s going to yield three to ten million in profit, that’s rock bottom. He’s worth at least double what we paid.”

 

“People find bargains all the time. I don’t see your problem.”

 

“Trust me on this.”

 

“If you’re getting cold feet, sell him off and count your blessings. And your profits.”

 

“I can’t. My partners plan on running Bailey in the Kentucky Derby. If I dump my share and something is wrong with him, everyone will think I found out and deliberately stuck my buddies. Lawsuits, ruined friendships, nasty gossip...”

 

“Better to go down with, er, the horse?”

 

“Exactly. So what do you say, Pit?”

 

“No.” It didn’t add up.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because you aren’t telling me the whole truth.” I knew him too well. “Your story doesn’t match your personality—or your finances. So have fun with your pet, and leave me out of it.”

 

I hung up. Did I have another bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet? Yesterday hazed over in my mind. I could have finished it in bed. But maybe not. I hobbled in to see.

 

The phone rang ... and rang...

 

Nothing in the cabinet but a single can of tomato soup. Which meant I’d need to get dressed tomorrow and walk to the state store for more. God, I hated leaving my apartment.

 

Still the phone rang. Fifteen times. Twenty.

 

He wasn’t going away. And if I didn’t answer, he’d drive out and bang on my apartment door. He’d done it before.

 

At last I grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”

 

“What do you mean,” he said as though I’d never hung up on him, “about my story not matching my personality?”

 

“Or your finances.”

 

“Yeah. That too.”

 

I sighed as I sat at my tiny kitchen table. “I have more than a vague idea of your net worth, Davy. Two hundred thousand is pocket change. You probably have that much lying around your house.”

 

“Uh, maybe,” he said. “But if I did, I’d keep it locked in a safe.”

 

“Now,” I continued, warming up, “let’s assume you bought Bailey on a lark. You’re rich; he’s a new toy. Your golf club pals are pitching in too. But suddenly you panic. Why?”

 

“You tell me,” he said.

 

“I can only think of one reason. Buying the horse became a point of honor.” I paused, and the truth came to me like the final piece of a puzzle snapping into place. “Cree told you not to buy Bailey’s Final Call, didn’t she?”

 

Cree was Davy’s fiancee, a stunning model—and not the bubblehead you’d expect from her Sports Illustrated swimsuit photos. I liked her a lot. In the last year, she had cured Davy of most of his playboy ways—Bailey’s Final Call notwithstanding.

 

In a quiet voice, Davy said, “You’re right. Cree told me not to join the syndicate. But I did it anyway. On paper it looks like it’s a money maker. Better be, or I’ll never hear the end of it. But now I’m getting a funny—”

 

“Maybe it’s guilt,” I said softly. After my nervous breakdown, I’d seen enough shrinks to last a lifetime. They had all talked to me in the same soothing tone. “Maybe you’re looking for a way to get out of the deal for Cree’s sake. After all, you don’t want to fight with her.”

 

“Something is wrong with that horse. I know it. You’ve got to help, Pit.”

 

“But I can barely tell a fetlock from a furlong!”

 

“Don’t make me beg.”

 

Of all things, a racehorse. But I couldn’t let my friend down. He was the only one who kept in touch, kept pushing me to leave my apartment, get outside and actually think. I would have drunk myself to death by now without him.

 

“All right,” I said. “I’ll do what I can. Where are you keeping this refugee from the glue factory?”

 

“Black Fox Farm in Buckston. That’s in—”

 

“I know, Bucks County.” About an hour north of Philadelphia. Lots of old money, lots of horses.

 

“I’m driving out tomorrow,” Davy said. “Pick you up at eight?”

 

I muttered something about ungodly hours, but he laughed.

 

“Don’t forget, dress for a farm.” He hung up.

 

Against my will, odd bits of information about horses began popping into my head. I had one of those trick brains: I could recall every name, face, fact, and figure I had ever encountered while sober. To my surprise, lists of Kentucky Derby winners (and losers), Belmont Stakes purses, and even old episodes of Mister Ed and My Friend Flicka from a misspent childhood in front of the TV bubbled up. I knew more about horses than I’d thought.

 

Cursing Davy and his new toy, I levered myself out of my chair and limped around the apartment, bagging empty whiskey bottles, picking out clothes. So much for sleep. I’d never get any rest now.

 

* * * *

 

The next morning, Davy roared up to my apartment building in his shiny silver BMW convertible, music blaring from the satellite radio. He owned half a dozen cars, and he’d chosen my personal favorite despite the slate gray sky threatening rain.

 

Leaning hard on the railing, I worked my way down four short steps to the sidewalk. It promised to be a hot, uncomfortable, muggy day—typical late June weather in Philadelphia.

 

Davy reached over and opened the door for me. When I glared, he grinned his perfect smile and touched the brim of his green Sports Illustrated cap in salute. God, I hate morning people. They’re so damn cheerful.

 

“You owe me big for this.”

 

“I’ll name my first kid after you.”

 

Snorting, I eased my way inside. He had already put the seat back as far as it would go. Tentatively, I stretched my legs out. I could endure the cramped space for an hour or so.

 

The moment I slammed the door, Davy accelerated into light rush hour traffic. Row houses streamed past. I buckled my safety belt and closed my eyes. The familiar smells of Philly’s Northwood section—soft pretzels from vendors on the street corner, already baking asphalt, diesel bus exhaust—washed over me. Three blocks later, we turned into Roosevelt Boulevard’s express lanes and sped up, heading north.

 

“Want to stop for coffee?” Davy asked.

 

“Are you trying to poison me?”

 

“You can’t live on alcohol alone.”

 

“One group of medieval monks lived on nothing but beer.”

 

“Really?”

 

“They brewed it so thick, it became almost a bread. Beer and pizza gets me cheese and tomato sauce too. Covers all my food groups.”

 

“Not healthy.”

 

“Tell you what, get us there in forty-five minutes instead of an hour and you can buy me lunch at the restaurant of your choice.”

 

Grinning, he floored the accelerator. He probably had visions of Salad Alley dancing through his head.

 

* * * *

 

We flew until we left the city limits. Then we hit construction delays and crawled the last twenty miles. By the time Davy turned off Route 202 and onto a rutted gravel driveway, we had been driving almost two hours. Pains wracked my body, from the steel pins in my legs to my overly compressed spinal cord to the knotted-up muscles in my neck and shoulders. Fortunately, I had taken half a dozen aspirin before leaving my apartment. Those, plus the Motrin I had dry-swallowed on the road, made my pains almost bearable. I really needed something alcoholic.

 

Finally Davy said, “There it is.”

 

I sat up straighter. A small, weathered sign said BLACK FOX FARM.

 

We turned onto a private road and cruised between two ivy-covered stone gateposts—the gates themselves were missing—then crossed a dense line of poplars and white birches, lush in their summer greenness.

 

Rounding a corner, the farm came into view. To the right, inside a pasture with a split rail fence, six brown and white horses raised their heads to gaze at us. To the left, in an exercise ring, a girl of nine or ten in an English riding habit sat astride a lanky brown horse with a white nose.

 

Two men stood watching the girl. One was thin and grizzled, with bib overalls and a Phillies baseball cap. The other was burly and grayhaired with a ponytail. Ponytail Man frowned as Davy neared.

 

“Is that girl riding Bailey?” I asked.

 

“Uh...” Davy squinted. “I’m not sure.”

 

“You do know what your horse looks like?”

 

“He’s brown.”

 

I rolled my eyes.

 

Directly ahead sat a sprawling Victorian-style farmhouse. It had a fresh coat of white paint, but the roof and front porch sagged, and I got an impression of benign neglect. Picturesque oak trees flanked the house, half obscuring a pair of ancient red barns with fieldstone foundations. Both barns had Pennsylvania Dutch hex signs under the eaves. Any watercolor artist would have drooled.

 

The man with the ponytail left the exercise ring and stalked in our direction. He looked quite annoyed.

 

“Who’s that?” I asked.

 

“Mitch Goldsmith. We bought Bailey from him.”

 

“Did you tell him we were coming?”

 

Davy grinned and waved to Mitch. Through his teeth, he said to me, “Why should I? It’s my horse!”

 

“Only twenty percent.”

 

Cruising past the exercise ring, Davy parked next to a battered silver horse van and a bright red Sebring convertible. As he cut the engine, I popped my door and heaved my feet out. White-hot fires surged the length of my legs. Gasping, I paused to knead and massage my calves through ridges of scar tissue. It took a minute, but the pain receded.

 

By the time I struggled to my feet, Mitch had reached the other side of the car. His stained navy blue polo shirt had BLACK FOX FARM stitched across the right breast in silver thread.

 

“Yo, Mitch,” Davy said cheerfully. He tossed his baseball cap onto the dashboard and ran his fingers through his short blond hair. “How’s Bailey this morning?”

 

“We don’t like drop-in visitors,” Mitch said. “It upsets the routine.”

 

“Don’t think of us as visitors, think of us as family.” Davy flashed his perfect smile. “We’re all in this together, right? As long as we’re paying you to train Bailey.”

 

“Care to make introductions?” I asked from across the car.

 

“Oh, sorry. Pit, this is Mitch Goldsmith, Bailey’s trainer and former owner. Mitch, Pit Geller.”

 

“Hello,” I said. I limped around Davy’s BMW, shifting my cane to my left hand and offering Mitch my right. Time to play peacemaker. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

 

He nodded brusquely. “Call me Mitch.”

 

I learn a lot about a man in the first seconds of our initial meeting. Pity, revulsion, even outright fear—I’ve gotten it all since my accident. Pity gets me seats on crowded trains. Revulsion usually wears off with the realization that limps aren’t contagious. Fear, though, never ends.

 

Mitch paid no notice to my handicap. He shook hands without hesitation, grip firm but not painful. His palms and fingers had plenty of calluses. Clearly this was no gentleman of leisure. I took an instant liking to him.

 

“Did I catch your name right?” he asked. “Pit?”

 

“A college nickname.” I pulled a sour face. “Davy won’t stop using it, much as I’d like him to. Call me Peter.”

 

Mitch raised his eyebrows. “You went to school together?”

 

“Don’t let him fool you,” I said, lowering my voice. We were both thirty-one, but the years hadn’t been kind to me. “Hair dye and plastic surgery did wonders for him. We’re both from the class of ‘75.”

 

“Pit!” Davy protested.

 

“Okay, okay. It’s really the class of ‘73. I’m vain about my age too.” I gave Mitch a wink, and he grinned.

 

Davy tried to say something but only managed exasperated noises. Mitch studied him with new interest. Probably wondering whether Davy really could be that old.

 

“Anyway,” Davy said, giving me a dirty look, “we were in the neighborhood, and I thought we’d watch Bailey run.”

 

Mitch glanced at his watch. “Too late. Bailey finished five minutes ago. You can watch him cool down, I guess.”

 

“Where do you train him?” I asked.

 

Mitch waved at someplace beyond the barns. “It’s a five-minute walk. We have fifty acres here, which includes a small track. Follow the path behind the house if you want to see it.”

 

“Another time.” My legs weren’t up to it; I needed more time to recover from the car ride.

 

“Why aren’t you training Bailey?” Davy demanded.

 

“Do I look like a jockey?” Mitch gave him a withering glare. “I weigh a hundred pounds too much. My stepson is with him this morning. Don’t worry, Bailey will be ready for the Derby.” He turned toward the exercise ring, paused, glanced back at me. “Missy just made some pink lemonade. Might as well have a glass while you wait.”

 

“Thanks.” I would have preferred something stronger, but at least he hadn’t offered water.

 

“That would be great,” Davy said.

 

“Sure.” Mitch headed for the house. Davy and I stood in silence till he was out of earshot.

 

“Well?” Davy asked.

 

“Definitely the criminal type,” I said. “Pink lemonade. It’s fiendish!”

 

Davy punched me in the arm—hard.

 

“Hey! Ow!” Davy didn’t believe in coddling cripples either. Another reason I liked him so much.

 

“That’s for the hair dye and plastic surgery,” he said.

 

“What do you expect, dragging me out here for nothing?”

 

“I’m serious, Pit.”

 

“Me too. Look at this place! It’s falling apart.” I pointed with my cane. “The house needs a new roof. The paint is a cheap, cosmetic fix. Ditto for both barns. The porch is collapsing. You’re looking at eighty or ninety thousand for basic repairs. On top of that, he’s got his own kid exercising Bailey rather than a pro. What does it add up to?”

 

“They need a good contractor?”

 

“They’re broke. Mitch must have lucked out and gotten a champion racehorse, and he’s cashing out because he can’t afford to maintain the family farm any other way.”

 

Davy paused. “You think so?”

 

“There’s a reason horse racing attracts millionaires. Mitch is out of his league.”

 

“Hmm.” Davy stared into the distance. He’d have to work it out for himself.

 

A minute later, Mitch reappeared carrying a pair of cheap plastic lawn chairs. He set them up in the shade of one of the oak trees and beckoned us over.

 

“Take a load off, Peter,” Mitch said. “You too, Hunt. Missy will be right out with lemonade.”

 

“Might as well relax while we wait for Bailey,” I said, limping forward.

 

“Yeah. I guess.” Davy sounded more reserved than usual. No doubt disappointed that his conspiracy theory had fizzled.

 

“Thanks.” I sagged into the closest seat and balanced my cane across my knees. Much better.

 

Behind me, the house door slammed. I half turned and spotted a thin woman with curly black hair headed our way. She wore a bright pink housedress with horses embroidered around the hem, and she carried a vintage ‘50s-style red plastic tray with a matching set of plastic glasses.

 

“Don’t stand there,” she called to Mitch. She had a definite South Jersey accent. “Bring one of those little tables for our guests!”

 

“Yes, Missy.” Mitch trotted around the house again. I chuckled. His wife was a force to be reckoned with.

 

I struggled to my feet.

 

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said.

 

“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me!” she said. If her hands had been free, she would have been gesturing and tsk-tsking. “I’m not your grandmother!”

 

“Yes, uh, Missy?”

 

“You must be Peter?”

 

“Peter Geller, yes.”

 

Mitch sprinted back around the side of the house. He didn’t have a table.

 

“Call Doc Christiansen, Missy!” he shouted. “Bailey’s down!” Turning, he dashed out of sight.

 

Davy and I exchanged panicked looks.

 

“Go!” I told him. He sprinted after Mitch.

 

“Here, Peter.” Missy thrust the tray into my hands before rushing back to the house.

 

I set Missy’s tray on the seat of my chair, then followed Davy. I rounded the building to find a brown horse with a white star on his forehead and two white front feet lying on his side between the barns. His legs twitched faintly. A slender boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, lay across the animal’s neck, keeping him on the ground. Mitch knelt by Bailey’s head, stroking his nose and whispering soft words.

 

Davy stood to one side, arms folded, helpless.

 

“Missy’s calling your vet,” I said, panting hard, legs on the verge of buckling.

 

Bailey jerked twice, then lay still. Too still. Mitch rose slowly, face white.

 

“Doesn’t matter now,” he said, and his voice cracked. “He’s ... he’s dead. Bailey’s dead.”

 

“No!” The kid clutched at the horse, fingers knotting in his mane. He managed to hold back tears.

 

Davy and I exchanged a glance. He had an I-told-you-so expression. But I couldn’t believe Mitch would set us up. His reaction—and the kid’s—felt real.

 

A distant crack echoed across the farm. Mitch staggered. An odd look came over his face. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. I saw the silver lettering on his shirt turn crimson.

 

“Mitch?” I said, not quite comprehending.

 

He slid to his knees. Blood flecked his lips and dribbled down his chin. He tried to speak. A heartbeat later, he fell face-first into the dirt.

 

“Get down!” I shouted, shoving Davy to the ground behind the horse.

 

“What—” Davy began.

 

“Sniper!” I said.

 

Mitch’s son gaped at us. I reached over, grabbed his shirt and dragged him across the horse with more strength than I knew I had. I shoved his head to the dirt path.

 

“Keep down, kid!”

 

“But—” The boy struggled to get to his father, but I leaned hard and kept him in place. Thin as I was, I still outweighed him by thirty or forty pounds.

 

“Lie still,” I snapped. No way was he standing up. “We’ll get help. Davy—”

 

“Y-yes.” He yanked his cell phone from its belt clip and dialed 911.

 

“Is that what happened to Bailey?” I asked the boy. I shook him to make him focus. “Was Bailey shot?”

 

“I—I don’t know,” he cried. “He collapsed—couldn’t stand up—”

 

Davy reached an emergency operator and explained our situation. He listened, repeated himself, listened again, then lowered the phone.

 

“The police want us to stay down,” he reported. “They’re on their way—and they’ve called an ambulance for Mitch.”

 

“Good.” I looked at the boy. “What’s your name?”

 

“Bobby,” he said, eyes wide.

 

“Bobby, listen. I have to ask you something important before the police get here.” There was no easy way to put it. “This horse—he isn’t Bailey’s Final Call, is he?”

 

Bobby stared. “Of course he is. I’ve known him his whole life. You can’t mistake the star on his forehead or his two white socks.”

 

“Okay.” I believed the kid. But it didn’t make sense. Why shoot a champion horse? And why shoot Mitch? Common sense said Mitch should be the criminal, not the victim here.

 

* * * *

 

I have to give the local police credit. Within two minutes of Davy’s call, I heard the wail of approaching sirens. The sniper must have heard them too. I counted to twenty—time enough for him to make his getaway—then rose on unsteady legs. Nobody shot me. I scanned the distant trees before motioning Davy and Bobby up.

 

“Tell the ambulance driver where we are,” I ordered Bobby. He took off running.

 

Davy continued talking on his cell phone, telling the police what was going on. He looked stunned. No help there.

 

I rolled Mitch onto his back and brushed dirt from his cheeks and forehead.

 

“Hey?” I asked. “Mitch? Can you hear me?”

 

His eyes opened. They had a glassy sheen, but focused on my face. Then he began to cough, and from deep in his chest came a liquid gurgle. That couldn’t be good.

 

“Hang on,” I said. I squeezed his limp hand. “You’re going to be okay.”

 

He turned his head slightly. His blood-flecked lips moved.

 

“Tell...” he breathed.

 

I bent close.

 

“Fifi ... Dows...” His voice trailed off.

 

“Mitch?” I slapped his cheeks gently, but he had passed out.

 

Tell Fifi Dows? Who was she? And tell her what?

 

The back door of the house banged open, and Missy stepped out with a phone to her ear. From her expression, she hadn’t heard a thing. She probably had their vet on the line.

 

She looked from the dead horse to me to Mitch. Then she dropped the phone and screamed.

 

* * * *

 

Things got weird after that. An ambulance ... police cars ... flashing lights ... Missy sobbing...

 

My eyesight narrowed into a kind of tunnel vision. I moved through an unreal haze as bits of conversation, out-of-focus faces, and pulsing red and white lights all jumbled together. A steady thrumming, like rain on a metal roof, filled my ears. I might have been a passenger in someone else’s body.

 

Panic attack. As though in a dream, part of me diagnosed the problem with clinical precision. It had happened too many times before to count. But not this bad. Not in a long, long time. Not since New York.

 

A woman shoved a microphone into my face. I mumbled answers.

 

No, I don’t know who fired the shots.

 

No, I don’t know anything about Mitch Goldsmith.

 

No, I don’t own Bailey’s Final Call.

 

At one point a young-faced officer with a shaved head and Marine Corps tattoos on his forearms sat with me on the rear bumper of an ambulance. Someone had draped a blanket around my shoulders. I clutched my cane to my chest. I wanted to close my eyes and shut down, but people kept talking and talking and nudging me to respond.

 

“You did good,” the officer said, patting my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pete, we’ll get to the bottom of everything.”

 

“No,” I said numbly. “No, you won’t.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“It was a very professional job.”

 

* * * *

 

The next thing I knew, I lay in the back seat of Davy’s BMW. Night had fallen. Through the open roof, I stared up at an illuminated blue and yellow Best Western motel sign.

 

Davy must have registered us. He half carried, half dragged me into a room. I crawled into a queen-sized bed, pulled the covers over myself, and passed out.

 

* * * *

 

Sometime later, a door squeaked open and hot morning sunlight splashed across my face. I crawled out of my mental hole. Sitting up, I shaded my eyes with a trembling hand and squinted into brightness.

 

Davy stood silhouetted in the doorway. He hefted a pair of plastic grocery bags onto the round table by the window before turning in my direction.

 

“Feeling better?”

 

“No.” I managed to sit up.

 

“You’re talking. That’s good. You’re pretty freaky when you go non-verbal.”

 

“I need a drink.”

 

“Here.” He rummaged around in one of the grocery bags, then tossed a can of Diet Dr Pepper onto the bed beside me.

 

I stared at it. “You have a cruel sense of humor.”

 

“There’s ice in the bucket by the sink. Glasses too. Drink up.”

 

“I want whiskey.”

 

“You’re on the clock, Pit. No alcohol.”

 

“I said I’d look at Bailey. He’s dead. Take me home.”

 

“We aren’t leaving. I want to know who killed my horse.”

 

“Only twenty percent yours.” I paused. “What about Mitch? Is he okay?”

 

“No.” His frown deepened. “The bullet nicked his heart, poor guy. He didn’t make it to the hospital.”

 

I flashed back to the farm. The crack of the rifle. The way Mitch fell. Something faintly wrong tickled at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t quite place it. Later, maybe.

 

I said, “And what about Bailey?”

 

“Focus, Pit. I already told you he’s dead.”

 

“But was he shot?”

 

He blinked. “Uh, I never thought to ask. I just assumed, since Mitch...”

 

“Find out. I’m betting he wasn’t.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I only heard one shot.”

 

In my head, I ran through our visit from the moment our car pulled into the driveway. I hadn’t heard anything unusual before Mitch rounded the corner of the house. Nor had the sniper tried to shoot anyone after Mitch. Could Mitch have been his only target?

 

Davy said, “We have to stop at the police station this morning. They want us to sign the statements we made yesterday. They’ll know what killed Bailey.”

 

“Okay.” A statement? What had I said?

 

He returned to his shopping bags. “Here. You’ll want this too.”

 

He tossed a bottle of generic aspirin next to the Diet Dr Pepper. At last, something useful. While I fumbled with the shrink-wrap, he pulled out mouthwash, toothpaste and toothbrushes, deodorant, packages of generic white underwear, soy protein bars, a couple of cheap-looking gray T-shirts, and a copy of the Bucks County Gazette.

 

“I’ll take the paper,” I said.

 

“Here.” He handed it over.

 

Bailey had made the front page. horse farm sniper strikes! screamed a huge headline. The picture showed Mitch holding Bailey by his halter. Unfortunately, the article offered the barest of facts, but little interested me beyond the fairly impressive list of races Bailey had won.

 

I flipped through the rest of the Gazette, ignoring articles like “Severe Drought Warnings Bring Water Restrictions,” “Police Corruption Alleged,” and “Arsonist Sought in Bar Blaze” as irrelevant. The obituaries made no mention of Mitch Goldsmith, either. We’d have to pick up the next edition. I wanted to know more about Mitch, a lot more.

 

At last I lowered the paper. “What next?”

 

“There’s an outlet village down the road,” Davy said, “but it’s not open yet. We can get clean clothes later. In the meantime...” He tossed me one of the gray T-shirts. It said new hope, pennsylvania in neon green letters.

 

Great. We’d look like tourists.

 

* * * *

 

We reached the police station two hours later. Davy pulled into a spot next to the same bright red Sebring convertible I’d seen at Mitch’s place. “hrskyd” read the license plate. “Horse kid”? Probably Mitch’s car. Missy must be here.

 

Davy strolled inside, introduced himself at the front window, and asked for Detective Nunes. I tried to remember Nunes, but drew a blank.

 

“She’s with someone,” the officer behind the window replied. His name tag said l. weinstein. He pointed with his pen toward a line of gray plastic chairs. “Take a seat. I’ll call you when she’s free.”

 

“Thanks.” Davy led the way.

 

A kid slouched in one of the chairs, head down, watching music videos on an iPod. When he raised his head, I recognized Mitch’s son, Bobby.

 

“Hi,” he said, voice flat. He pulled out his earbuds.

 

Davy gave a “Yo” and a nod.

 

“Hi.” I motioned Davy toward the far end of the line of chairs. He played along and went off by himself. “Do you remember me?” I asked Bobby. “Peter Geller.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I’m sorry about what happened.” I settled onto the chair next to him. My hands had begun to tremble, not nerves, but a deep, dull pain. I needed a drink to steady myself.

 

“Thanks. What happened to you?”

 

“Got run over by a New York taxi. Years ago.”

 

“No, I meant yesterday.”

 

He must have seen me shutting down. “A panic attack. I get them when I’m stressed out.” I shrugged, cleared my throat. “Anyway, have they arrested anyone yet?”

 

“No. They keep saying the investigation is ongoing.”

 

“How is your mother?”

 

“At my aunt’s house. She’s not taking it very well.”

 

I made sympathetic noises.

 

“How about Fifi?”

 

He blinked. “Who?”

 

“I thought you might know her.” It had been worth a try. Tell Fifi Dows. First, I had to find her.

 

I went on, “What about Bailey. Do you know what happened to him?”

 

Bobby shrugged, face tightening. “He died.”

 

“Shot?”

 

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I didn’t see any blood.”

 

“Did he stumble? What happened?”

 

“I was walking him back to the ring, and all of a sudden he jerked the reins out of my hands. Instead of running, though, he went down on his knees, then his side. He tried to get up, but couldn’t.”

 

“Did you hear anything?”

 

A blank look. “Like what?”

 

“A shot? I heard one when your father was hit.”

 

“No.” He looked at his feet. “I didn’t hear anything but Bailey.”

 

“Bailey?”

 

“He was crying—the way horses do when they’re hurt. You know?”

 

“Yes.” I could imagine it.

 

The inner door opened and a stern-faced policewoman stepped out. She wore a navy skirt and a pale blue blouse with a name tag like the officer at the reception window.

 

“That’s for me,” Bobby said, rising.

 

He jogged forward, accepted some papers from the woman, and said something too low for me to overhear. Then he hurried out to the parking lot.

 

“Well?” Davy asked, moving over to join me. “Learn anything?”

 

“Not really. He didn’t even know whether Bailey had been shot. You’ll probably need a necropsy.”

 

“Huh? A what?”

 

“A necropsy. Most people use the term autopsy when they actually mean necropsy.”

 

“An autopsy—necropsy—on a horse?”

 

“Sure. Any large veterinary facility should be able to do it. Or maybe the cops will. Who knows, it might be natural causes. Wouldn’t that be amusing?”

 

Officer Weinstein leaned out from his window. “Detective Nunes will see you now,” he said.

 

* * * *

 

Nunes turned out to be a pleasant Hispanic woman, short and compact, with straight black hair and large, almond-colored eyes. A plainclothes officer, she wore a tan skirt with matching jacket over a white cotton blouse. Rather than heels, she had brown running shoes. Absently, I noted a pale line circling the ring finger of her left hand. A wedding band had been removed recently.

 

“Thanks for stopping in. You look better this morning, Mr. Geller.”

 

I said, “I ... don’t handle stress well.”

 

“You did a pretty good job yesterday. You’re quite the local hero. Channel 6 and Channel 10 both ran stories on you last night.”

 

I blinked. “I was on TV?”

 

“Six o’clock and eleven o’clock broadcasts.”

 

“Slow news day,” I muttered.

 

“Are you kidding? When a handicapped local man saves two people from a sniper, that’s big stuff in Philly. They ran an interview with Mr. Hunt. He told how you single-handedly dragged Bobby Goldsmith and him to cover behind the dead horse, then risked your life to try to save the boy’s stepfather. It doesn’t get much better than that.”

 

I gave Davy an I’ll-kill-you-later look. The last thing I wanted was to be featured on television. On two channels, yet.

 

“Uh ... I don’t remember much,” I said. “It happened so fast, it’s a blur.”

 

“Your modesty is refreshing, Mr. Geller. This way.”

 

Turning, she led us through a large, high-ceilinged room full of tiny desks. A few uniformed police officers sat filling out paperwork, typing at computers, or talking on phones.

 

She said, “I need you to read over your statements, then sign them. That’s all for today.”

 

Her desk sat in the far corner of the room. Davy and I slid into a pair of white plastic chairs like the ones in the waiting area. A wooden stand in the shape of a pink poodle held business cards. I picked one up: Detective F. Nunes, Buckston Police, with address, phone number, and extension.

 

I put the card back, then stretched out my legs. My hands shook like palsy. I pressed my palms hard against my thighs. Tremens, hold the delirium. It would pass in a few minutes.

 

Nunes picked up clipboards with statements already typed out and handed one to each of us. In sixty-five words, mine told how Mitch Goldsmith got shot. It ended with Davy dialing 911.

 

“There’s one detail I left out,” I said. I repeated Mitch’s last words.

 

“Tell Fifi Dows?” From her tone, I thought she recognized the name.

 

“Mitch was whispering. I could barely hear him. I might be mistaken on the name, though. Is Fifi a real person?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

I leaned forward, gauging her reactions. “How about a Fifi? Do you know someone in the area named Fifi?”

 

“Let me do a quick Internet search.” Nunes turned to her computer, and I watched her fingers glide across the keyboard. She read something off the monitor, typed again. I leaned to one side, but couldn’t see the screen. Finally she shook her head.

 

“Afraid not, Mr. Geller. There’s nobody named Fifi or F. Dows living in Buckston—or in any nearby town.”

 

I had the distinct impression she was leaving something out. She hadn’t given a direct answer when I’d asked if she knew anyone named Fifi.

 

“You do know a Fifi, though,” I prodded.

 

An odd and somewhat hostile expression flashed across her face. Just as fast, she squelched it. I glanced at Davy. Had he noticed?

 

The detective snapped, “I already looked.”

 

“Pit,” Davy said in a warning tone, “don’t be rude.”

 

“Sorry, Detective.” I leaned back, smiling an apology I didn’t mean. “I wasn’t trying to offend. I haven’t had my meds—I didn’t think we’d be here this long.”

 

“Mr. Geller,” she said, voice hard, “I am busy. If your statement is correct, please sign it. You too, Mr. Hunt.”

 

I noted that she didn’t ask me to add Fifi Dows to my statement. Shrugging a little, I signed and returned the clipboard. Not my problem.

 

“Any news about the sniper?” Davy asked. He scrawled his signature with a John Hancock flourish.

 

“We’re following a few leads.” Nunes forced a smile as though happy to steer our discussion to safe ground again. Then she pushed her chair back and stood. “Thank you for your help. If we need anything more, someone will be in touch.”

 

I struggled to my feet. “Thanks.”

 

Davy started for the door. I took a step, then paused.

 

“About the horse...” I said. “Bailey’s Final Call? Was he shot too?”

 

“We had a vet examine him this morning. It appears to have been natural causes. Dr. Rothman said...” She rummaged around on her desk and located a yellow paper. “Death due to heart failure. Apparently, it happens with racehorses more often than people realize.”

 

“Thanks.” I turned toward the door, paused again. “Is there going to be an autopsy?”

 

“It’s routine in a murder investigation.”

 

“I meant on the horse.”

 

She shrugged. “He wasn’t shot, so it will be up to you or your insurance company.”

 

“Bailey’s death seems like an odd coincidence to me. Would anyone here mind if Davy had one performed?”

 

“As the owner, that’s certainly his right. I can’t imagine anyone would object.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction. Was I stepping on official toes? “I’ll check with the officer in charge and let you know if there’s a problem.”

 

“This isn’t your case?”

 

“I’m working on it, but Captain Dobbs is lead investigator. Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?”

 

I gave her Davy’s cell phone number.

 

* * * *

 

“Are we done here?” I asked Davy in the parking lot. “The vet said natural causes. I want to go home.”

 

“You win.” He shrugged. “The police can find Mitch’s killer. Who knows, maybe he was borrowing money from loan sharks and didn’t pay up fast enough.”

 

“Maybe.” But what self-respecting loan shark would be named Fifi?

 

As I settled into the car seat, my brain wouldn’t quit. I couldn’t stop reviewing everything Nunes had told us. And I kept coming back to her reaction when I mentioned Fifi Dows.

 

Her first name began with F. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?

 

“What’s wrong?” Davy asked.

 

“Give me your phone. I want to try something.”

 

He surrendered his cell phone. I flipped it open and, from memory, dialed the number on Nunes’s business card.

 

A male voice answered, “Buckston Police Department.”

 

“Is Fifi there?” I asked.

 

“Hang on.”

 

A few clicks. Then I heard the someone pick up. “Officer Nunes.”

 

I deepened my voice an octave. “Sorry, wrong number.” Snapping the phone shut, I told Davy what had happened.

 

“Detective Nunes is Fifi?” he said. “No way!”

 

“Probably a nickname. If the officer on duty knew, it can’t be much of a secret. No wonder she didn’t add it to my official statement.”

 

I could see him trying to connect the dots in his mind. “How would she know Mitch Goldsmith...?”

 

“Tell Fifi what? What does ‘Dows’ mean?”

 

“Got me.”

 

I chewed my lip. Perhaps “Dows” hadn’t been a last name. Part of another word?

 

Davy pulled out of Visitors’ Parking. I watched the passenger-side mirror as a white Mustang trailed us onto Route 202. The driver, a stocky man with a military-style crewcut and sunglasses, did not look familiar. Nor did the empty license plate holder help—unfortunately, Pennsylvania didn’t require front tags.

 

I said, “I think we’re being followed.”

 

Moving only his eyes, Davy glanced at the rearview mirror.

 

“White car?” he asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

He floored the accelerator and made a sharp left turn across oncoming traffic. A truck’s horn blared. I heard the squeal of brakes, but no crash followed. Davy shifted gears and sped up a twisty two-lane road, making a series of random turns. He didn’t slow until we cruised down a tree-lined country lane with farms to either side.

 

I turned in my seat to look back. The white car had disappeared.

 

My memory dredged up a picture of the parking lot behind the police station. I had seen the Mustang.

 

“Do you think that was the killer?” Davy asked.

 

“Only if the killer is a cop.”

 

He chewed that over. “Maybe Nunes put a tail on us.”

 

“Why? Your horse died of natural causes, as far as she’s concerned.” I paused. “Unless she lied.”

 

“That horse doctor—What was his name?”

 

“Rothman. Want me to call him?”

 

“Yes.” He handed over his phone again, and I dialed Information. Sure enough, the operator found a number in Doylestown for Rothman’s practice and put me through.

 

On the second ring, a woman picked up and said: “Rothman Veterinary.”

 

I thumbed on the speakerphone so Davy could hear.

 

“Hi,” I said. “I’m calling about Bailey’s Final Call. The police said Dr. Rothman examined him?”

 

“Who is this? If you’re another reporter...”

 

“No, ma’am. My name is Peter Geller. I—”

 

“Oh, I saw you on the news last night.” Her manner softened noticeably. “Hold on, Mr. Geller. Dr. Rothman will be free in a moment.”

 

Classical music began to play, tinny and small through the speaker. Davy pulled off onto a broad gravel shoulder and put the engine in neutral.

 

“Detective Fifi told the truth,” he said.

 

“We’ll see.”

 

He opened his mouth, but the music cut off and a man announced, “This is Dr. Rothman. How may I help you?”

 

I identified myself. “David Hunt is with me,” I said. “We’re looking for closure about Bailey, and the police said you examined him last night?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Any idea what happened?”

 

He cleared his throat. “As far as I can tell, he died of heart failure. As for the cause—” I envisioned him shrugging on the other end of the line. “—it could have been a previously undetected heart flaw. A virus. Or something else entirely.”

 

“He wasn’t shot?”

 

“There were no bullet wounds.”

 

“What about puncture marks? Could he have been doped with something?”

 

Rothman gave a humorless bark of a laugh. “A racehorse is a walking pincushion. Between drawing blood, Lasix shots, inoculations, and vitamins, they get more needles than you can count. If someone doped him, you’d never notice one more hole. And half the drugs used today leave no traces behind, anyway. Could he have been drugged? Sure. Do I think he was? I doubt it.”

 

“Did you take a blood sample? Davy wants blood work run.”

 

“Already sent to the lab. I won’t see results until tomorrow, though.”

 

“So there’s no official cause of death yet?”

 

“No-o-o.” He drawled it out. “But, like I said, I’m sure it will come down to heart failure. I can let you know when I get the report, if that helps.”

 

“Thanks.” I gave him Davy’s fax and cell phone numbers. “Please call any time with news. Mr. Hunt would like a copy of the lab results. You can bill him for it.”

 

“Anything more?”

 

What else might prove helpful?

 

“Did you order a specific set of tests?” I asked.

 

“All the standard ones.”

 

“Are there any others you can get—never mind the expense—that might catch something you’d normally miss?”

 

He paused. “Is there something I ought to know about Bailey’s death?”

 

“No. At least, nothing specific. Call it a hunch. Mr. Hunt has a feeling something isn’t quite right. Having Bailey and Mitch Goldsmith die together is, well, an odd coincidence. Too odd.”

 

“There are a few more tests, but they’ll add a week to the results. And they aren’t cheap.”

 

“Run them.”

 

“Mr. Hunt will pay the bill?”

 

I glanced at Davy, who nodded.

 

“Yes,” I said. “Charge it to David Hunt’s credit card.” I gave him Davy’s AmEx number from memory. “Don’t worry about costs. And if it can be expedited in any way—”

 

“I understand. I’ll take care of it. Anything else I can help you with?”

 

“Do you know Mitch’s friend, Fifi?”

 

“Afraid not. I wasn’t their vet. You might ask Dr. Christiansen. His practice is in Plumstead, the next town over. Great guy.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Call if you need anything else.” He hung up.

 

I returned Davy’s phone. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, gaze distant.

 

“It is too much of a coincidence,” he said. “Bailey was doped. I know it.”

 

“Let’s see what the lab says.”

 

“What’s our next step?”

 

“I need to eat. Low blood sugar is starting to bother me.” I hoped it was low blood sugar.

 

“Want a beer with your pizza?” he asked.

 

It was a test, and I knew it. Would I give in to alcohol or stick it out till the end?

 

“Juice,” I said. Pain I could live with. Shakes I could suffer in silence. I still had the bottle of aspirin in my pocket; it would have to do.

 

Davy smiled. “After lunch, what next?”

 

“Back to the scene of the crime. I want to look around the farm.”

 

* * * *

 

Davy’s satellite navigation system steered us into the center of Doylestown. A shop-lined main street led us past the county courthouse. There weren’t many restaurants to choose from, but we finally settled on a Greek diner in a strip mall. Chicken souvlaki, orange juice, and french fries took the edge off my hunger and calmed my shaking hands. The waitress gave us directions back to 202, so Davy overtipped her by ten dollars.

 

Twenty minutes later, we turned into Black Fox Farm, passed between the stone gateposts, and cruised up the long driveway. Today the place had a curiously deserted look, like a movie set after the actors had all gone home: no people, no horses, no signs of life anywhere. The battered horse van still sat by the exercise ring. The only other vehicles were the red convertible, now parked directly in front of the house, and a metallic purple motorcycle next to it.

 

Davy pulled up behind “horse kid” and climbed out. My legs felt like water, but I got them working.

 

Davy marched to the porch. I followed. They didn’t have a doorbell, so he rapped hard on the frame. Nobody answered. We exchanged a glance.

 

“Try the barn,” I said. “Bobby’s probably taking care of the livestock.”

 

“Want to wait in the car?”

 

“No.” I tried the front door. The knob turned easily, so I pushed it open an inch. “I want to poke around inside.”

 

“You can’t. That’s breaking and entering!”

 

“What breaking? Besides, I have to sit down in a comfy chair for a few minutes and rest. And didn’t Mitch say I was welcome anytime?”

 

“Pit...”

 

“Keep the kid busy for fifteen minutes. There’s something I want to check out.”

 

Davy set off with an I-don’t-like-this-idea expression. I grinned. By now he ought to understand the value of risk. Besides, wasn’t I a local hero? Missy wouldn’t press charges.

 

I pushed inside, flipped the light switch, and looked around. A tall-backed oak chair studded with coat hooks stood against the right wall, flanked by tasteful steel engravings of horsing scenes. A white ceramic umbrella stand stuffed with umbrellas sat to the left. Through the doorway straight ahead, I spotted a kitchen with 1960s-era fixtures.

 

A distant banging noise, over and over, came from somewhere upstairs. The breath caught in my throat. Someone else was in the house.

 

I crept forward, through the kitchen with its worn linoleum floor and floral wallpaper, to a tiny butler’s staircase in the rear. The banging grew steadily louder. I heard faint music now too. I put my foot on the bottom step and paused, listening.

 

Music ... banging ... and faint animal grunts.

 

I could have slapped myself. Good thing I hadn’t called Davy or the police. It had been a long time, but I still recognized the sounds of hot sex. Someone was having a good time up there. Missy, with her husband not even in the grave? No—she was in the hospital.

 

Bobby made more sense. The “horse kid” car out front pointed to him. And the purple motorcycle probably meant a friend. From the sounds of things, they would be busy for a while.

 

Chuckling to myself, I wandered through the ground floor, keeping to the throw rugs, trying to move silently. The living room had plastic-sheathed furniture, a dozen pink roses in a vase, and more tasteful horse pictures. Then, off the dining room, I found what I had been searching for: Mitch’s office.

 

It was small and cluttered, much as I’d imagined, with a battered steel desk, a wooden filing cabinet topped with a fax machine, a small pink couch that must have been one of Missy’s cast-offs ... and stacked against the wall, four large shipping cartons.

 

Those interested me. The top one had been opened; its flaps stuck up. I peeked inside at sealed plastic containers: iPods—and not cheap models, either. These had large video screens. One had been removed from its carton. I remembered Bobby’s from the police station. The kid must have swiped it from this stash.

 

Stepping back, I estimated forty iPods per carton, a hundred and sixty total.

 

I turned to the desk and plopped into an old-fashioned wooden chair, then rolled forward on squeaky wheels.

 

A pocket-sized address book lay at hand, so I flipped to F but only found three entries. No Fifi. I flipped back to D—no Dows. Could I have misunderstood? What sounded like Dows? Tows? I tried T. Nothing.

 

I snapped the address book shut and slipped it into my pocket; I’d go through it at my leisure, then get it back to Missy somehow.

 

What about the cubbyholes? A large three-up check ledger had been tucked into one, so I pulled it out and paged to the last stub, $3,554.00 for feed.

 

I worked backward. Mitch had been diligent about recording not only checks, but deposits. I could see at a glance where all his money had come from and gone. As I’d suspected, the farm barely scraped by. If not for a single big deposit from two days ago, Mitch would have been overdrawn by nearly forty thousand dollars.

 

Besides the usual utility and feed bills—could hay and oats cost that much?—I found a few deposit entries of interest:

 

BFC (1st) . . . . . . . $ 75,000

 

R (rent) . . . . . . . . . .$ 2,500

 

BFC had to be Bailey’s Final Call—probably Davy’s down payment on the horse. Every penny had gone out the next day to pay what must have been long overdue bills.

 

Who or what was R? I flipped back through the stubs looking at deposit records. Sure enough, R paid his rent like clockwork on the fifteenth of every month. But what was being rented for so much money?

 

There were no entries for Fifi Dows, nor any combination of her initials.

 

I had just started looking for Mitch’s insurance policy when a floorboard squeaked behind me. I swiveled in my chair.

 

“What are you doing?” Bobby demanded from the doorway. He wore nothing but boxer shorts done in red, white, and blue like the American flag, and to my surprise, he had not an ounce of fat on his body, from six-pack abs to sharply defined shoulders and biceps. More than anything, he looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model.

 

“Hi, Bobby. We knocked a bunch of times. Since the door was open, I didn’t think your mother would mind if I waited inside.” I grasped my cane. If he wanted to beat me to a pulp, I might not be able to stop him—but I’d try.

 

“Well, I mind.” With two quick steps, he closed the distance between us. He loomed over me, fists tight, the mingled odors of sweat and sex rolling off his body. “Where is Mr. Hunt?”

 

“Out looking for you.”

 

He stretched out his hand, and I half cringed. But instead of grabbing me, he reached past and slapped the desk shut.

 

“Keep out of our stuff!”

 

“I need the phone number for your vet—”

 

“Dr. Christiansen?” He hesitated. “What for?”

 

“Davy wants an autopsy performed on Bailey.”

 

His fists unclenched. “You’re too late. Valley Protein picked him up this morning.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Valley Protein—the disposal company.”

 

“What! Who gave them permission?”

 

“I did. After I checked with the police.”

 

I blinked. “You mean Detective Nunes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

My breath caught in my throat. Nunes had told us that we could order an autopsy, but if she’d already given permission for the horse to be disposed of...

 

Maybe I had the timeline wrong.

 

I said, “When did you talk to her about it? This morning?”

 

“Yeah. At the police station.”

 

So much for that idea. She had to be covering something up, just like she’d held out on her name. She had pushed the “accidental death” theory a little too hard for my satisfaction.

 

Bobby went on, “It’s summer. You can’t leave a dead horse lying around. Bailey was already attracting turkey vultures. Oh! Hang on.” He stepped from the room, then returned a moment later with a folded-up piece of paper, which he handed to me.

 

It was a bill for two hundred and fifty dollars, a disposal fee to remove Bailey’s Final Call. It had the company name and phone number. Davy would have to call and stop them from doing whatever they did with dead horses. Dog food?

 

“Since Bailey is yours,” Bobby said, arms folded, “I think you guys should pay for it. I paid them cash this afternoon.”

 

“Of course.” I forced another smile. “I’ll give it to Davy. He’ll take care of it. I think he has his checkbook.” Rising, I stuck the bill in my pocket, then limped toward the door. There I paused. “Why so many iPods?”

 

“We sell them on eBay.”

 

“Ah.” Perhaps a side business, begun to keep food on the table in leaner times. It might even be more successful than horse farming, aside from flukes like Bailey.

 

“Want a deal?” He pulled one from the open box—a white iPod with a large video screen, sealed in heavy plastic. “A hundred and twenty. That’s better than wholesale.”

 

“I don’t listen to music.”

 

He frowned and thrust it into my hands anyway. The room seesawed. I gazed past Bobby at the door. I had to get out.

 

“It’s more than music,” he said, pushing closer. He jabbed at the package with one finger. I jumped. “See here? It plays audiobooks, podcasts, TV shows, and movies. Everything you need is inside. It’s a sweet deal. You should take it.”

 

His voice sounded impossibly far away now, as though at the end of a long tunnel. My vision began to dim at the corners of my eyes, narrowing in on just his face.

 

Another panic attack was coming. I had to get out of here.

 

“Well?” he demanded.

 

Gulping hard, I nodded. Buy the damn thing. He’d back off. I could get away.

 

“Credit? Card?” I tried to sound normal.

 

“I gotta charge you an extra two percent.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

I fumbled for my wallet. My hands shook so much, I dropped everything. Credit cards, organ donor card, and driver’s license spilled across the floor.

 

“I’ll get it,” he said, bending and scooping everything back into place except my Visa card. “This one?”

 

“Uh ... huh...”

 

He found an old-fashioned charge machine in a desk drawer, loaded a credit slip, and ran my card through. As he filled out the total with a stub of a pencil, my eyes kept drifting toward the doorway. I could make a break for it—

 

Bobby grinned, suddenly too close, almost in my face. “You’ll love it. Trust me. I just need an e-mail address...”

 

Babbling something incoherent, I hugged the iPod and hurried through the doorway. I’d be all right once I got outside. Down the hall, through the kitchen. My legs tried to buckle. I struggled to lock my knees.

 

Floorboards squeaked behind me. Keep moving. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Don’t look. Another step. A trickle of sweat ran down my left side, leaving a cold trail. Another step. I could hear Bobby breathing.

 

In a sudden rush, I shouldered the front door open and burst onto the porch. Free. I clutched the railing, gasping, eyes wide.

 

The world stopped closing in. The earth stopped rolling. My chest grew lighter and I could breathe.

 

“Are you okay?” Bobby asked, still behind me. “Mr. Geller?”

 

“I’ll—I’ll be all right. Give me a minute...”

 

Where had Davy gotten off to? I couldn’t see him anywhere. I had to distract the kid before he went looking.

 

My attention focused on the front steps. A little accident should do it.

 

I worked my way over to the top step, hanging onto the railing with my right hand, and started down to the yard. On the second step, I let my knees buckle. With a yelp of fear, I dropped my cane and the iPod and pitched forward. My grip on the railing kept me from tumbling to the ground, so I hung half suspended in air. I could either be saved or—if necessary—save myself, depending on what Bobby did.

 

Teetering, I gave a very authentic moan.

 

Bare feet pounded on the porch. A second later, a hand grabbed my shoulder and hauled me back. Saved. Good kid, all right. My first impression hadn’t been wrong.

 

“Did you hurt yourself?” Bobby said.

 

“I ... don’t think so. Not much.” How far could I play up my “accident” without him getting suspicious? “I thought I was going to break my neck!”

 

“Good thing I was here.”

 

I searched his face. Concern, maybe a hint of pity. Best he should view me as a harmless old cripple.

 

Looping my arm across his neck and shoulder, he helped me down the steps, then went back for my cane. I leaned on it harder than I needed to. Then he retrieved my iPod.

 

“It’s not broken or anything,” he said, brushing off the plastic packaging. “Here you go.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Can I get you anything? A glass of water, maybe?”

 

“No ... just let me rest for a minute.” I wiped at my face. God, I was soaked with sweat.

 

“Want to come back inside?”

 

“I ... I don’t think I can make it up the steps.”

 

He looked relieved. Instead, I nodded at the lawn chairs Mitch had placed under the huge oak. Nobody had put them away.

 

“Help me over there?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He steadied my arm as I hobbled across and sat hard. My hands still trembled. I exaggerated it to good effect. No sign of Davy yet.

 

“You better get dressed,” I told him. “Your mother would have a fit if she saw you outside like that.”

 

“Yeah.” Without another word, he turned and ran back to the house. The front door banged. I imagined him throwing the deadbolts.

 

Davy was just returning from the barns. Perfect timing.

 

“Find anything?” I asked.

 

“Nah. The barn by the house has a bunch of horses inside. That old guy, Carl, was cleaning out the stalls.”

 

“What old guy?”

 

“You saw him—he was at the exercise ring with Mitch when we got here yesterday.”

 

“Thin, fifty-five or so, bib overalls and a Phillies baseball cap?”

 

“That’s Carl. I asked him about the murder. He said he was giving a riding lesson and didn’t hear anything. He didn’t know anything had happened till the police and ambulance showed up.”

 

“I’m not surprised. I think we can safely cross him off as a suspect. The little girl too. What about the other barn?”

 

“It’s padlocked, so I couldn’t get inside to check it out. How about you? Have any luck?”

 

“Yep.” I grinned and patted my pocket. “I swiped Mitch’s address book. Unfortunately, the kid surprised me rifling through the office desk. I thought he was going to punch me out, so I made a strategic withdrawal.”

 

“Ran away, you mean.”

 

“Something like that.” I glanced at the house and noted a shadow at one of the dining room windows. That had to be Bobby. A second shadow drifted over to him—the girlfriend, no doubt.

 

Wouldn’t it be amusing if his girlfriend turned out to be Detective Fifi? Her wedding ring had been recently removed. And with Bobby’s tight little body, who could blame her for a little cradle-robbing?

 

“Well, what did you expect?” Davy chuckled. “I would have punched you out in his position. How come he didn’t answer when I knocked?”

 

“He didn’t hear you. He had a girl upstairs, and they were going at it hot and heavy.”

 

“So we’ve hit another dead end.”

 

“I almost forgot! I have the address book, and I’ve got a couple of presents for you.” I fished out the Valley Protein bill. “The kid had Bailey picked up this morning. You’d better call the removal company and save Bailey from the dog food factory. You might still want an autopsy, depending on the blood results. I bet they have a freezer where they can store him for you. Of course, it’ll cost a bit...”

 

He pulled out his phone and began to dial. “What next? Are we done here?”

 

“Not quite.” I handed him the iPod. “Happy birthday.”

 

“Uh. Thanks. But it’s not my birthday yet.”

 

“Four months, two days early. Close enough.” Rising, I started for the path around the house. “I want to see the scene of the crime again.”

 

* * * *

 

Davy talked Valley Protein into putting Bailey’s Final Call on ice pending the insurance company’s investigation. Apparently it wasn’t that odd or unusual of a request. Fifty bucks a day took care of everything.

 

Bailey might have been carted off, but even without my trick memory, I would have known the spot where he had lain from the flattened grass. A small, rust-colored stain marked where Mitch had fallen.

 

Closing my eyes, I replayed yesterday’s murder.

 

Bailey on the ground.

 

Bobby across the horse’s neck.

 

Mitch facing us as blood colored the silver letters of his shirt...

 

I crossed to Mitch’s last standing position and turned around. With Bailey in front of me, the first barn to my right, the second barn directly behind me, and Davy slightly to my left ... a bullet from the woods would have hit me in my side.

 

But Mitch had been shot in the back.

 

I turned and stared at Barn number 2, with its dark red paint, the hex sign under the eaves, and the peeling white trim. It had no windows, but this close I noticed gaps between side boards. And the second-story hayloft had doors, one of which sat open a foot. A sniper could have shot Mitch from up there. Maybe even from the roof.

 

In my mind, I replayed the loud crack of the shot, but couldn’t tell where it had originated. Even the slight echo as the sound bounced back from the main house offered no significant help.

 

Turning, I faced the woods. Yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the faint breeze.

 

“What’s all that?” I asked Davy, pointing with my cane.

 

“The cops found a rifle shell over there. The sniper lay in the grass to take his shot.”

 

“When did they find it? Yesterday?”

 

“Yeah. They had twenty people combing the area. Why?”

 

“Someone planted that shell. The shot came from the barn.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Do you need to ask?”

 

He shrugged. “Okay. Now what? Back to Detective Fifi? The police should be told—”

 

I snorted. “For all we know, she was the sniper. What better way of escaping? She could just blend in with the police going over the farm?”

 

He gaped. “You don’t really think—”

 

“No, I’m just babbling. But nothing would surprise me these days.”

 

“So what’s our next move?”

 

“I want to go shopping. I want a real shirt with buttons.” As I said it, I studied the second barn. Davy hadn’t gotten a peek inside. But now I wanted to see its contents. “After dark, we’ll come back with a bolt cutter. That will be breaking and entering.”

 

“Pit...” He shook his head.

 

“No one will press charges if we’re caught.”

 

“When we’re caught, you mean.”

 

Movement from the house caught my eye. Bobby, still in his patriotic boxers, had stepped onto the small back porch. He leaned on the railing and stared at us.

 

“We’ve got an audience,” I muttered. “Quick, act natural.”

 

Davy glanced over his shoulder and waved. Bobby gave a curt nod, turned, and stalked back inside. A not-so-subtle hint for us to get out.

 

Then, from the front of the house, I heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, starting for the front yard.

 

When we reached the BMW, the purple bike was gone. Somehow, I couldn’t picture Detective Fifi on it.

 

* * * *

 

We spent the rest of the afternoon running errands. Doyles-town didn’t have a hardware store, or we couldn’t find it, so K-Mart supplied two small but powerful flashlights and a bolt cutter, which Davy thought would nip off the padlock with little difficulty.

 

Muttering, “Now for a shirt,” I started for the clothing department.

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Davy caught my arm.

 

“Forget designer labels.” He had been fussy about his appearance in college, and dating a model had only made things worse. “Clothes are clothes. Let’s get ‘em while we’re here.”

 

“Bad enough I’m wearing a grocery-store T-shirt. No way am I buying the rest of my wardrobe here.”

 

I shrugged. “It’s your money.”

 

“Damn right!”

 

* * * *

 

We paid for the tools and left. To the annoyance of drivers behind us, Davy stuck to the speed limit on Route 202. That probably attracted more notice than speeding would have. Not that I could point it out.

 

As we neared the outlet stores and whatever garments Davy considered suitable for an evening of crime, I watched the road. Twice police cars cruised past in the opposite direction. Neither slowed to check us out.

 

Fifteen minutes later, we came to our Best Western. Davy kept going, and soon a couple of strip malls appeared. I took in the signs. Orvis ... Bose ... Mikasa ... Davy would be in his element here.

 

We parked in front of an Urban Safari. After my usual moans and groans from being cramped up, which Davy ignored, I followed him in.

 

The place had a weird retro-safari vibe going. Images of lions and giraffes superimposed over skyscrapers, while yuppies and dinks fished from the roofs of Audis. Yep, Davy’s sort of place.

 

Skirting high-tech silver mannequins, I made a beeline for the clearance rack. Sometimes it pays to be small and thin. Sure enough, I found a bunch of markdowns in my size. Soft fabrics and earthy colors suited me, so I picked out three presentable shirts in various shades of brown and two pairs of brown pants. I left them at the checkout counter with a bubblegum-chewing girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, then wandered over to check on Davy. He could pay for everything and haul it out to the car.

 

“What would Cree say?” I asked. He was holding up olive green shorts covered with what must have been two dozen pockets with heavy steel zippers. “Are pockets ‘in’ this year?”

 

“I do fashion fine by myself.” He put the zippered pants back quickly though. “What about you? Find any clothes you want?”

 

“Lots. My stuff’s waiting at checkout. I’m done.”

 

“But you haven’t tried anything on!”

 

“Everything will fit.”

 

He shook his head, turned to the rack, and pulled out a pair identical to the last, only dusty blue. Then he put those back and pulled out burnt-orange shorts with coils of chains hanging from every seam. A Goth nightmare. Did he intend to go through every garment? Better him than me.

 

I said, “I’ll be sitting out front. Call me if you need me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

I pushed through the door and into the heat again. The sun had moved enough to put the bench in shadow. The deep warmth of the wood felt soothing against my back.

 

Settling down as comfortably as I could, I flipped open Mitch’s black address book. It contained little more than names and phone numbers, beginning with “Abramson, Eli and Faye” and ending with “Zensen, Jon.” I started from the beginning.

 

No patterns emerged, though I learned the names and addresses of their priest, their church choir director, and dozens of friends and relatives. As an added bonus, it had all the companies with which Mitch did business: feed stores, hardware companies, racetracks, horse trailer rentals, that sort of thing. He even knew a blacksmith.

 

Then I stopped cold. Fifi Nunes’s name almost leaped off the page. Mitch had listed her under P for “Police.” And he had two numbers for her, the office number and a cell phone number.

 

I could have slapped myself for not checking under P first. Her listing came before “Det. Arthur Dawson.” She had extension 127, and Dawson had 128. Adjoining desks? Partners?

 

“Tell Fifi Dows” could have meant, “Tell Fifi and Dawson.” Mitch had barely been able to speak. Or maybe “Daws” rather than “Dows” ... “Daws” could have been a nickname.

 

But tell them what? That he’d been shot? Or something more?

 

I looked up, gaze unfocused, trying to think it through logically. Mitch ... Bobby ... Missy ... too much didn’t make sense yet.

 

A motorcycle roared down the highway right in front of me. A metallic purple motorcycle.

 

My attention snapped to it. I scrambled to my feet.

 

It was the same one I’d seen next to Bobby’s convertible. I would have sworn to it. And the rider wasn’t a girl, it was a young man—very thin, like Bobby, almost elfin. His unbuttoned shirt hung open and flapping in the breeze, leaving his bare chest exposed.

 

There was no mistaking his sex.

 

I sat. No wonder Bobby had reacted so violently when he found me in the house. I’d almost outed him. His reaction made a lot more sense now. And so much for Detective Fifi being his girlfriend.

 

I peeked in the Urban Safari’s window. Davy browsed past, a blood-red shirt in one hand, but nothing else yet. He had such an intense expression, I almost laughed. If little old ladies got in his way, he’d mow them down.

 

Returning to my seat, I finished reading through the address book. No more Fifis. No Dows. It came back to the two detectives, Nunes and Dawson.

 

Maybe Mitch knew them socially—through church, or the Elks Club, or the Rotarians. But he’d put them under “Police.” All his social contacts went in under their last names.

 

Returning to the P section, I studied the entries. Every other P name had been alphabetized, from Sara Paul to Tom Purdom, as though copied from a previous address book. Fifi Nunes and Arthur Dawson came last, added more recently than the others.

 

* * * *

 

Half an hour later, in the car heading back to the Best Western, I filled Davy in on the purple motorcycle.

 

“Huh,” was all he said.

 

Then I told him what I’d discovered in Mitch’s book. He pursed his lips and nodded.

 

“Detective Fifi knows a lot more than she’s saying,” he added. “She’s been lying to us all along.”

 

“Not technically. She doesn’t know any Fifis. She is a Fifi. And there probably aren’t any others in the area.”

 

“Lying by omission is still lying.”

 

“Kinda.” I yawned. “What time is it?”

 

He glanced at his watch. “Almost six.”

 

“It should be dark enough by eleven to hit the farm. Assuming they keep early hours...”

 

“How about dinner?”

 

“Maybe a nap first, then dinner. I’m exhausted.”

 

The Best Western appeared. Davy turned into the parking lot and circled to the left.

 

I sat up straight. Parked directly in front of our door sat the white Mustang that had followed us from the Buckston police station. The driver with the crewcut and the sunglasses leaned against the passenger side, arms folded, face expressionless. He stood as we neared.

 

“Want to bet he’s Fifi’s partner?” I whispered.

 

“No.” Davy pulled into the space on the other side of the Mustang. He didn’t cut the engine.

 

Sunglasses Man stalked around the car.

 

“David Hunt?” he asked. He pulled a badge from his pocket and held it up. “Buckston Police.”

 

“Detective Dawson?” Davy countered.

 

“Yes.” Dawson reached past Davy, turned the key in the BMW’s ignition, and pulled it out. He dropped it into his breast pocket. Then, in an emotionless voice, he said, “May I see your operator’s license and vehicle registration, sir.” It was not a question.

 

Davy blanched but pulled out his driver’s license. The convertible’s registration was in the glove compartment. I retrieved it.

 

Dawson took everything to his Mustang, climbed inside, and spoke into a radio handset. Slowly, Davy sank in his seat as though trying to disappear.

 

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not like this car is stolen.”

 

Davy didn’t answer.

 

“Is it?”

 

“Oh, shut up!”

 

When the detective came back, he held a small clipboard. The kind that held traffic tickets.

 

“Mr. Hunt,” he said, “were you aware of an oncoming truck when you made a turn across traffic on Route 202 this morning?”

 

“Yes,” Davy said. “I didn’t know who you were, and—”

 

The detective cut him off. “I am issuing a citation for reckless driving. You endangered the lives of other motorists. I suggest you take more care on our roads in the future. Sign here.”

 

“Can’t you let us off with a warning, officer?” I asked.

 

“Not this time.”

 

“Where do you want me to sign?” Davy asked.

 

Dawson jabbed a finger at the bottom of the clipboard. Without another peep, Davy scrawled his name. Dawson tore off the ticket and handed it over, along with Davy’s keys.

 

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Davy sank even lower in his seat.

 

“Excuse me,” I said.

 

“What?”

 

“Are you Fifi Nunes’s partner?”

 

“We sometimes work together. It depends on the case.”

 

“On Mitch Goldsmith’s case?”

 

“We are both assisting Captain Dobbs with that investigation, yes.”

 

“No, Mitch’s other case.”

 

He hesitated, studying me. I wished I could have seen his eyes.

 

“I cannot discuss ongoing investigations,” he said.

 

Interesting.

 

“I understand—and I’m not trying to interfere.” I paused. “It’s just that beforehedied,MitchGoldsmith gave me this message—”

 

“What message?”

 

“He said, ‘Tell Fifi and Daws,’ mumbled a few words I couldn’t quite understand, and passed out.” Partly a lie, but it ought to catch Dawson’s interest. “He called you Daws?”

 

“My friends do.”

 

So Dawson considered Mitch a friend. Interesting.

 

“Do you have any more news about Missy? Is she still in the hospital?”

 

“She should be home now. Mitch’s viewing is at ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the Himmelbach Funeral Home.”

 

Davy asked, “That’s in Buckston?”

 

“On Route 202. You won’t have trouble finding it.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Dawson stepped back. “Drive safely, sir.”

 

* * * *

 

It was closer to eleven thirty that night when we reached Black Fox Farm. Davy cut the headlights as he pulled into the driveway, coasting through the poplars and birches, then onto the grass. Crickets burred in the grass, and something small to our left made a rustling sound in the bushes. A raccoon, or maybe the eponymous fox.

 

“I can go alone, if you want,” Davy said.

 

“Not a chance.”

 

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

I twisted in my seat, but couldn’t see Route 202. We’d be safe from Fifi or Daws if they happened past. Anyone leaving the house would spot us at once, of course, but it was late enough that everyone should be in for the night.

 

Davy passed me a flashlight. I didn’t turn it on; my eyes were growing used to the dark. With the moon up and a faint glow shining in from streetlights on the highway, I could get to the barn.

 

Davy climbed out, and I did the same. The clicks of our doors shutting sounded like gunshots in the night. As we walked up the driveway, feet crunching softly on the gravel, I spotted two dim lights in the farmhouse windows, one on the second floor—probably a bedroom—and one deep in the ground floor. The kitchen? A yellow bug light cast a dim glow across the front porch.

 

Like a cat, Davy padded down the path between the house and stables, making no sounds at all. I clunked along after him. Between my shuffling walk, gasps for breath, and occasional loud tap as my cane struck something hard, I felt like the world’s most incompetent burglar.

 

At last, panting, I caught up with Davy at the second barn. He pulled out the bolt cutter.

 

“Light?” he said.

 

I thumbed on my flashlight and aimed it at the door. I found a handle and two metal brackets for a padlock, but the lock itself was gone. We exchanged a glance.

 

“We should come back in an hour,” I whispered. “Might be someone inside.”

 

“Shh!” He pressed his ear to the door. I strained to listen. Nothing.

 

“Risk versus reward,” he muttered. “Isn’t that what you keep saying?”

 

He pulled the door open a foot, hinges squealing, and a band of yellow light caught me. It wasn’t all that bright, but after the darkness, it seemed piercing.

 

Blinking and shading my eyes, I retreated a few steps. If bullets came flying, I didn’t want to catch one.

 

Davy darted inside. I counted to ten. Then ten more. Finally Davy stuck his head out.

 

“No one here. Come on.”

 

I followed him inside, and he pulled the door shut behind us. A bare yellow bulb, maybe sixty watts, dangled from a cord overhead. The hard-packed dirt floor had been swept clean, and the walls had been painted white in the not-too-distant past. Stalls to the left held storage—boxes of all sizes, a stack of rusting bicycles and bicycle parts, wooden pallets. In the center of the room stood a huge riding lawnmower with still-green clippings on its blades. To the right sat a dusty workbench covered with ancient computers, hard drives, cases, and parts.

 

Nothing terribly incriminating—about what you’d expect to find in a barn these days. Then I noticed a ladder leading up to the hayloft. I nudged Davy and pointed.

 

“Take a look upstairs. Maybe the rifle’s there.”

 

“Okay.” He set down his tools, went to the ladder, and climbed out of sight.

 

I wandered around the lawnmower and came to the rear wall. It took a moment, but I realized it wasn’t the back of the building. A section of the barn had been fixed up professionally, and two steel security doors, the kind you’d normally find on the outside of a house, faced in at me.

 

Both doors had peepholes, so I peeped into the first. Even backwards, I knew peepholes worked, distorting images smaller instead of larger. I saw only blackness though. There was no light source inside.

 

I tried the knob, and it turned. Risk versus reward. Taking a deep breath, I pushed into a dark room, switched on my flashlight, and swept its beam across an unmade twin-sized bed, a night table with a 1950s-era lamp, a battered oak dresser with a round Art Deco mirror, and a bookcase holding ribbons and trophies. Posters on the walls showed horses.

 

I pulled the door shut, then crossed to the bookcase. Aside from a couple of small soccer cups, the trophies were all horse related. Dates ran back twelve years. The kid must have been born in the saddle.

 

Next I moved to the dresser. A half dozen pictures in cheap frames showed Bobby with various horses in the winner’s circle, often with his mother and another man I didn’t recognize. No pictures of Mitch, but then, Mitch was his stepfather.

 

What did Bobby read for pleasure? I poked through a pile of magazines on the floor by the bed. Blood Sport, Equestrian Times, and Fast Ride mingled with tech magazines like Alt.2600, E-mail Today, and Wired.

 

No real surprises. I returned to the barn’s main room and eased the door shut. When I turned, I saw the second steel door now standing ajar. Seeping around the edges came the bright, flickering glow of a television.

 

Cold prickled at the back of my neck. Bobby must have been inside. Had he seen Davy? Had he seen me? He’d almost struck me in the house. What would he do if he caught me here?

 

“Don’t move!”

 

Something hard jabbed the center of my back. I stiffened.

 

“Bobby?”

 

“Mr. Geller?”

 

I shuffled around, leaning hard on my cane, trying to look as old and feeble and helpless as possible. It had worked in the house, even if it cost me the price of an iPod.

 

Bobby still wore those red, white, and blue boxers, but with a gray U.S. Air Force T-shirt and flip-flops. And he held a rusted pitchfork leveled at my back. He had poked me with one of the prongs.

 

“Are you crazy? Put that thing down!” I said as loud as I could, trying for a parental Voice of Authority. It came out more as a Squeak of Discomfort.

 

“Shut up!” Bobby snapped. “I’m sick of you spying on me!”

 

The wild look in his eyes alarmed me more than anything else. If he thought I was spying, what would he do if he found Davy upstairs?

 

I had to buy more time.

 

“There’s been another shooting,” I blurted out.

 

“Shut up!”

 

Then a voice from beyond the lawnmower broke in: “Pit! Where are you?”

 

It was Davy. He stood in the doorway, peering at us like he’d just arrived. He must have heard my warning. But how had he gotten outside? The loft doors had to be fifteen feet above the ground.

 

“Over here!” I waved and started in his direction as fast as I could. Bobby hesitated.

 

“Wait!” the kid finally cried. He lowered the pitchfork and ran to catch up. “Who did you say was shot?”

 

Too late. He’d told me more with his answer than he’d intended.

 

“No one was shot,” I said. “You scared me with the pitchfork. It was the first thing I thought of.”

 

“Oh.” He actually looked relieved.

 

I joined Davy. “I found him,” I said. “He was here, just like his mother said he would be.”

 

“Did you ask him your question?” Davy said.

 

I blinked. Question?

 

“What question?” Bobby asked, staring at me.

 

Think fast. “About Detective Nunes,” I said. “She told us yesterday morning, after you left, that Davy could get an autopsy done on Bailey. But you said she gave you permission to dispose of him before we got there. It’s been bothering me.”

 

“Maybe it was my second trip to the police station, not the first. I wasn’t paying attention.”

 

“Second trip?”

 

“Yeah. I brought papers to my mother at the hospital. She signed her statement for Detective Nunes, then I dropped it off. That was right after lunch. She must have given me permission then.”

 

“Oh,” I said. “That explains it.”

 

Davy said, “Come on. Let’s get to the motel.”

 

We left Bobby standing in the doorway, still holding his pitchfork.

 

* * * *

 

My mouth went dry and I shook all over when we reached the BMW. I could have used a drink—beer, whiskey, anything alcoholic.

 

Davy put the car in gear, made a U-turn, and pulled out fast. He flipped on the headlights when we hit the highway.

 

“Thanks for the warning,” he said. “I was about to climb down when I heard you talking to Bobby.”

 

“How did you get outside?”

 

“There’s a big nail below the loft doors. I hooked my belt onto it and eased myself down. That only left a five-foot drop. Of course, I couldn’t get my belt back—I left it hanging there.”

 

“We’ll get it tomorrow.”

 

“So, aren’t you going to ask me what I found?”

 

I looked at him. “You found something?”

 

“Take a look at this!” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a shell casing with a handkerchief. It was about three quarters of an inch long and shiny brass.

 

“Where was it?”

 

“In the corner, where the ceiling slopes down almost to the floor. You wouldn’t see it normally, but my flashlight picked it out.”

 

“Good job.” It confirmed my theory about the shooter being in the second barn. “I don’t suppose you saw a rifle?”

 

“No sign of one.”

 

It had been a lot to hope for.

 

“What next?” Davy said.

 

“We speak to Detective Fifi again. First thing in the morning. Then we’ll have to attend Mitch’s viewing at the funeral parlor.”

 

“You know who did it, don’t you?”

 

I shrugged. “My list of suspects is narrowing.”

 

“Dawson?” Davy probably had visions of his reckless driving ticket being thrown out by a sympathetic judge.

 

“I think it was Bobby.”

 

“No way!” he said. “He was with us when it happened. And he’s just a kid.”

 

“He may not have pulled the trigger, but I know he’s involved. As for being a kid...” I remembered the trophies in his bedroom. The dates had gone back twelve years. If he’d started riding competitively at age ten, how old would that make him? “He’s in his twenties. Maybe his mid twenties.”

 

“No way!” he said again.

 

“You’re only saying that because he’s small. But think about it. Jockeys are always small. Give him a youthful face, and I can see how he’d pass for a teenager. Especially when he wants to.” As he’d clearly done for our benefit. And probably for the police’s.

 

“But why?”

 

“I don’t know, yet. And the hard part will be proving it. He covered everything pretty well.”

 

* * * *

 

We returned to the Best Western and spent an uneventful night. As usual, Davy was up with the sun the next morning, showering and bustling around our room. Even with the pillow over my head, I could hear his damn cheerful whistling.

 

“Will you cut that out?” I snarled.

 

He laughed. “Want a Dr Pepper? You need some caffeine.”

 

I mumbled obscenities into the mattress. But finally I roused myself enough to sit up.

 

An hour later, after a truly wretched breakfast of burnt toast, bitter coffee, and runny scrambled eggs at a nearby diner, I borrowed his cell phone. Almost nine o’clock—time to contact Detective Fifi.

 

I punched in her number, asked for her extension, and on the third ring she picked up.

 

“Officer Nunes,” she said.

 

“Good morning,” I said. “This is Peter Geller. May David Hunt and I stop by and see you this morning?”

 

“What about?”

 

“We have some new information about Mitch Goldsmith’s murder.”

 

She hesitated. “When?”

 

“How about now?”

 

“Fine. I’m free for the next half hour.”

 

We made it to the Buckston Police Station in record time. The officer at the window called Detective Fifi for us, and she ushered us to her desk. I settled into my chair.

 

“You said you have information?” Nunes moved straight to business. I liked that.

 

“Yes,” I said, “but first I have a question. Did you give Bobby permission to dispose of Bailey’s Final Call?”

 

She looked startled. “Certainly not. Did he—?”

 

“He tried. We stopped the disposal company. The horse is being held on ice for us.”

 

“Good.”

 

Davy said, “Why didn’t you tell us you and your partner were the Fifi and Daws that Mitch referred to?”

 

She looked away. “Because we didn’t know if you’d murdered him. You insured Bailey’s Final Call for two million dollars, after all. That’s a lot of motive.”

 

I looked at Davy, who shifted uncomfortably. A Midas touch indeed.

 

“Davy’s worth a hell of a lot more than that,” I said.

 

“We know now. But we didn’t at the time. And it would have wrapped things up nicely if you two had been guilty. Daws pressed to have you picked up and questioned, but Captain Dobbs said we needed more evidence.”

 

That had to be why Dawson followed us in his car. When Davy gave him the slip, he’d gotten pissed off and staked out our room at the Best Western.

 

“So who did shoot Mitch?” Davy asked.

 

“Bobby would have been our chief suspect, but he has the pair of you for his alibi.”

 

“Right,” I said. “Your other investigation makes him the natural suspect, of course.”

 

Surprise crossed her face. “How—”

 

“The same way I know your first name is Fifi and Dawson likes to be called Daws.” Why not embroider the truth a little? I leaned forward and dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have Mitch’s diary.”

 

“Let me have it,” she said.

 

“Nothing doing,” Davy said. He picked up fast. “After the way Dawson bushwacked me at the motel, I half suspect he shot Mitch!”

 

Nunes sighed. “What did he do?”

 

“Camped out and waited for me.” Davy pulled out his ticket and handed it over. “Just because I out-drove him yesterday. For all we knew, he was the sniper and meant to pick us off!”

 

She sighed and stuck the ticket in a desk drawer. “I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Daws has quite a temper, and he isn’t having a great week. I’m sure he didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

 

“Thanks.” I nudged Davy. “Give her the casing.”

 

He pulled out his handkerchief and passed it over.

 

“What’s this?” she asked, unfolding it.

 

I told her my theory that the shooter had been in the second barn, and Davy told how he’d found the shell casing in the loft. I filled in extra details, like Bobby’s reaction when he discovered me.

 

“I really thought he was going to run me through with the pitchfork,” I said.

 

“You’re lucky he didn’t. He’s been arrested several times for assault.”

 

No surprise there. “What happened?”

 

“The charges were dropped. Bobby paid off everyone he beat up.”

 

“But where did he get that much money?” I wondered aloud.

 

“That’s what Mitch wanted to know.” Fifi shook her head. “No visible means of support, and he spends cash like a Saudi prince. Can’t be legal.”

 

At last, a clue to their investigation. If Mitch had tipped off the police about Bobby, would that be enough motive for Bobby to kill him?

 

Probably not. Bobby had only gotten violent with me when I’d stepped on his toes, first in the house and then in the barn. It sounded like Mitch had been treading very carefully around him. No, I had missed something. Something big.

 

“What about the barn?” Davy asked. “Can you get a search warrant?”

 

“Based on one shell casing? Probably not. It could have been up there for months.”

 

“You will check it for fingerprints though?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And you do believe me about the shooter?”

 

“Yes. But there’s a big difference between belief and proof. And Bobby is hardly going to confess, is he?”

 

“No.” At least, not without proper motivation.

 

“How old is Bobby?” Davy asked.

 

“Twenty-six.”

 

“Huh. I would have sworn he was in his teens.”

 

I gave Davy an I-told-you-so glance.

 

“Here.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out Mitch’s little black book. “It’s not quite a diary, but you might as well have it.” I could remember every entry on every page, anyway.

 

Nunes took it, leafed through, then sat back and laughed. “You’re sharp,” she said. At least she was a good sport; Daws probably would have pounded me into the floor. “You bluffed me completely. Did you get the information you wanted?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who do you think killed Mitch?”

 

“I don’t think, I know. Bobby set it up. I’d bet money his boyfriend pulled the trigger.” I thought of the man on the metallic purple motorcycle. If only we knew his name.

 

Nunes stared at me. “Boyfriend?”

 

“Didn’t you know? Bobby’s gay.”

 

“No, I didn’t know. But that’s not a sign of guilt these days. The courts need proof. Physical evidence, or a confession.”

 

I nodded at the shell casing. “There you go.”

 

“We already have a well-documented crime scene with another shell casing, a body impression, and a clear line-of-sight to the crime scene.”

 

“All planted,” I said. “I’m an eyewitness. The way Mitch was standing, the bullet couldn’t have hit him in the back unless it came from the barn.”

 

“Don’t get me wrong—I believe you. But that’s not enough for me to act.”

 

“I see.” I bit my lip. How much more did she need?

 

“Mitch’s viewing starts at ten o’clock,” she went on. “I thought I’d make an early appearance. Want a ride over?”

 

“We’ll follow you,” I said. I looked at Davy, who nodded.

 

When she turned to get her purse from the bookcase in back of her chair, I scooped up the shell casing. The way things were going, I didn’t want to let it out of my sight just yet.

 

* * * *

 

The Himmelbach Funeral Home was a sprawling Victorian mansion with additions to both sides. It was just after ten o’clock, and mourners had already begun to arrive. Good thing I had dressed in dark colors. Davy looked out of place in his yellow shorts and shirt.

 

Mitch’s coffin sat in the back of a large room. He must have been well liked; dozens of wreaths, vases of flowers, and floral displays surrounded him. Missy, dressed all in black, sat up front and wept. Bobby had his arm around her shoulders. His dark suit looked fresh from the tailor.

 

We joined the line of mourners passing Mitch for one last look. The woman ahead of me crossed herself, then turned to Missy, whispering condolences. Davy and I followed Detective Fifi to the second row of seats.

 

That’s when Bobby spotted us. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave a nod in our direction. Then he excused himself from his mother and made his way over to us.

 

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “It means a lot to my mother. She’s very religious.”

 

I said, “That’s what makes this so much harder.”

 

“What?”

 

“You remember Officer Nunes?”

 

He nodded to her. “Of course.”

 

“She’s here to arrest your mother for Mitch’s murder.”

 

“Are you crazy?” His voice rose, and heads began to turn in our direction. Missy wept on, not listening, not caring.

 

“Mr. Geller—” Nunes began quickly. I hushed her with a gesture.

 

“You see,” I continued, “I found this when I was in your house yesterday.” I produced the shell casing. Bobby stared at it. “This one came from the bullet that killed Mitch. Officer Nunes already had the crime lab do a match on it. And since your mother was the only one in the house at the time—”

 

“Shut up!” His voice dropped to a whisper, but his hands balled into fists. I could see that rage building inside him. “Shut up! It wasn’t her!”

 

“It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

Nunes must have picked up on what I was doing. She said, “Your mother was too smart for her own good. She must have been planning it for a long time. After all, she set up a fake blind for the sniper, complete with a fake shell casing. That’s premeditated. All that insurance on Mitch—quite a motive. It makes us wonder about her first husband’s death too.”

 

“My dad died of cancer!”

 

“That’s what we were told.” Her voice hardened. “But now we’re not so sure.”

 

I added, “Wasn’t he insured too?”

 

Bobby pressed his fists to his ears. His eyes flicked from one of us to another.

 

“She’s looking at life in jail,” I added, “if she doesn’t get the death penalty.”

 

With a shriek of rage, he leaped at me.

 

“Look out!” a man’s voice shouted from somewhere behind me. “He’s got a knife!”

 

Only Bobby didn’t have a knife. It was a lie.

 

Time seemed to slow. As Bobby hung in the air, two shots rang out. Then, instead of fists, dead weight slammed into me. My chair started to tip, but Davy and Nunes were on their feet, grabbing us, trying to hold Bobby off of me.

 

Cringing, I rolled to the side and fell between two folding chairs. The floor came up with bone-jarring force.

 

I found myself staring into Bobby’s face. Shock, hate, and pain filled it. And disbelief.

 

Everyone in the room began to shout and run. Missy screamed.

 

I tilted my head back. The shooter—I focused on the last row of seats.

 

It wasn’t Bobby’s boyfriend, but Dawson. He lowered his gun, then sat heavily in a folding chair. He didn’t look at any of us.

 

“Dawson shot him,” Bobby screamed out so everyone could hear. “Dawson shot my stepfather! Dawson shot him!”

 

Davy and Nunes wrestled Bobby up and into my chair. He clutched at his left shoulder. Blood poured between his fingers, dripping all over. Davy applied pressure to the wound. Nunes headed for her partner.

 

“It was Dawson!” Bobby was still screaming when my head drooped to the floor. Everything went black.

 

* * * *

 

Some time later, I woke in a hospital room. I tried to move, but couldn’t. My left arm was in a cast. I must have broken it when I fell.

 

“Hey!” Davy leaped to his feet and hurried to my side. “How you doing?”

 

“What happened?” I demanded.

 

“Two fractures, forearm and collarbone.”

 

Great. I’d be laid up for months.

 

“What about Bobby?” I asked.

 

“Dawson shot him.”

 

“Yeah, I saw. Is he—?”

 

“Alive, yeah. He was lucky. He took one bullet in the shoulder, and the other grazed his neck. He couldn’t talk fast enough.”

 

I struggled to sit up. Davy leaned over, pressed the button on my bed’s remote control, and raised the back for me.

 

“But what happened?” I said. “Spill it!”

 

“I hardly know where to start.” He cleared his throat. “Bobby’s a computer hacker. The kid’s really smart, and he wrote a virus that infected computers worldwide. Every night, he uses his private army of zombie-machines to spew out millions of e-mail ads for porno sites and online casinos. He gets a referral fee for every sucker they hook. Over the years, it’s added up to hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

 

So that was where he got his money. I thought of the tech magazines I’d seen in his bedroom, then the glow of that television from the other room in the barn. Only it hadn’t been a television. It must have been a computer monitor—or many computer monitors.

 

“And Dawson?” I asked. “Did the kid buy him off too?”

 

“Yeah. Paid him a hundred thousand dollars in cash to lay off. It seems Dawson was already being looked at for corruption. Want to know something funny? Dawson wanted to kill Mitch from the beginning, but Bobby refused. The kid only gave in when Mitch sold Bailey’s Final Call to me.”

 

“Bobby loved that horse.” I had seen it in his eyes.

 

“Apparently the kid thought the deal would fall apart after Mitch died. Never mind that the contracts had all been signed.”

 

“Then he wasn’t trying to kill Bailey?”

 

“Hell no. He accidentally gave the horse too much tranquilizer. The overdose turned up in the second blood test—Dr. Rothman called me yesterday afternoon and let me know. The plan was to knock Bailey out, then lure Mitch and the other farmhand, Carl, over to see him. Carl would have been Bobby’s alibi. But since we were there, Bobby used us instead.”

 

I nodded. “And while the farm was crawling with police, Daws walked out of the barn and joined the investigation.”

 

“Exactly, just like you said.”

 

Only I had been joking, and it hadn’t been Nunes who shot Mitch.

 

“Why did Daws shoot Bobby?”

 

“Dawson was in the back of the room. He picked up on what you were doing and thought Bobby might confess to save his mother.”

 

“But why did he shout a warning to me? There wasn’t a knife!”

 

“If Bobby had a knife, or Dawson thought Bobby had a knife, that would make it a justified shooting. Defending the innocent—don’t smirk, that’s you—and all that.”

 

“Only Dawson didn’t kill him.”

 

“Yeah. His aim was slightly off.”

 

It made sense, in a twisted sort of way.

 

I asked, “So what now?”

 

“Well, since you’re going to be laid up for a while, I thought you could stay with Cree and me till you’re recovered. We have that guest house by the pool...”

 

“Do I have a choice?”

 

“Not really.” He grinned. “But I can promise you a young and attentive full-time nurse, three healthy meals a day, and all the Diet Dr Pepper you can drink!”

 

“Feh,” I said. It was going to be a long, long summer.