A Killing At The Track (The Jeri Howard Series Book 9) Read online

  When Grandma and I went to the track, we’d never been so upscale as to pass through the portals of the clubhouse. It cost more to get in there, and we wanted to spend our money on bets, not frills. No, we walked on concrete rather than carpet, milling around in the lower-level stands with the rest of the ordinary folks, as well as the hard-core horseplayers with racing forms and tout sheets stuck into their pockets. These last were called hard knockers, plungers, railbirds, and they spoke in a language all their own. Grandma and I listened, fascinated but uncomprehending, to all the talk about maidens and claimers and the morning line.

  Our system suited us, such as it was. We simply parceled out our two-dollar bets on whichever horses or jockeys struck our fancy. We never won much money, but we had a lot of fun. Suddenly, as I thought of my grandmother and those outings, I realized why I hadn’t been to the track much since she died. It just wasn’t the same.

  It was certainly a different racetrack. Edgewater Downs was new. It had opened this past spring, with much fanfare and some lingering controversy, in the southern Alameda County city of Fremont. Despite the wave on the logo, the track wasn’t really at the water’s edge, unless you counted the marshlands extending eastward from the bay shore, along the approach to the Dumbarton Bridge. If I were going to build a racetrack, I would never have thought of building one in this particular location. Evidently, a lot of other people felt the same way, I recalled, remembering the media coverage. There had been some question about zoning, and the track’s proximity to the parks and to residential areas. And there had been vocal opposition from an antigambling group, as well as from animal-rights activists.

  The Northern California racing community had some questions as well. In these days of declining attendance at racetracks throughout the country, could the Bay Area support another track? It was a valid question. Golden Gate Fields was already established on the east side of the bay, and Bay Meadows on the west side. And during the summer, there was the county fair racing circuit at Pleasanton in Alameda County and Vallejo in Solano County. There were only so many fans, went the argument, and so many racing days parceled out by the California Horse Racing Board.

  Those in favor of the track had argued that Fremont wasn’t close to any of these places, unless it was the Fairgrounds in Pleasanton, and that had a limited racing season anyway. Besides, the race meetings moved from track to track. The tracks weren’t in competition, since they weren’t scheduling races at the same time. So why not add another track to the mix? The South Bay, they said, was a logical place for a new racetrack. Think of Silicon Valley, with its population sprawling all over the southern reaches of the bay, a population with lots of money in its hands, looking for places to spend it.

  Or lose it.

  David appeared in front of me. “Come on, they’re getting ready to load the horses.”

  We headed back to his box and watched as, one by one, the horses were maneuvered into their slots in the metal starting gate that had been positioned across the track.

  “They’re off!”

  The horses broke from the gate and pounded down the track on the first leg of their journey around the dirt oval. The race caller’s voice, emanating from a loudspeaker somewhere to my left, kept up a high-pitched, steady commentary on the position of each horse.

  I leaned over the railing and squinted, keeping my eye on the number four horse and the jockey in the blue silks. Chameleon was hanging back in the middle of the pack and so was Kilobyte, the number two horse, his jockey’s silks a bright splash of scarlet. The front-runner was a bay called Handy Dandy. He led the way into the backstretch, then began to fade as the favorite, Wall To Wall, moved forward.

  The horses were into the far turn when Wall To Wall took the lead. He was out in front for several lengths, then Kilobyte and Chameleon began to move up, eating distance with their powerful strides, passing one horse after another until they drew even with Wall To Wall. The three horses dueled for position in front of the rest of the pack, running neck and neck toward the finish line. I was on my feet yelling Chameleon’s name as though the sound of my voice, added to the roar emanating from the stands, would push the number four horse ahead. The exhortations must have helped, because Chameleon stuck his nose out in front and crossed the finish line in front. Of course, no one knew this for sure until the officials studied the photo, which took a few minutes. Then the OFFICIAL sign was lit up on the tote board and the results were posted.

  “Hah!” I waved my winning ticket in front of David Vanitzky’s hawk nose. Chameleon was the winner, and Kilobyte had nosed out Wall To Wall for second.

  He held three tickets in his hand, all of them to win. No place or show for David. He wasn’t the sort of man who hedged his bets. Now he tossed two of the tickets to the floor of the box and held up one. “I had Chameleon, too.”

  “Why? It sounded as though you expected Kilobyte to win. Or the favorite.”

  “I did. But I don’t always pick winners. As we both know.”

  David might have been referring to his recent association with a Bay Area food processing company called Bates Inc. whose former CEO was now facing a murder rap, as well as accounting for some lesser but serious crimes, and I’d helped tally up those charges. David had just resigned from his post as chief financial officer of Bates and gone back to work for Weper and Associates, a buyout company.

  Then again, David might have been referring to something else. Something that led him to call me, weeks after the dust had settled from our last encounter.

  “I have my own reasons for betting on Chameleon,” he said.

  “Do those reasons have some bearing on why you invited me to the races this fine crisp Saturday in November?” I asked. “After all, I haven’t seen you since the district attorney arraigned your former employer.”

  “Could it be that I sought the company of an attractive woman while I bet on horses?” He flashed a wicked smile, merriment in his gray eyes.

  “It could.” I knew he found me attractive. In fact, he’d made a pass at me once. I’d even passed back. There was something about him as well, something dangerously sexy, that was tempting. But I didn’t want to go there. Besides, I was involved with someone else.

  “But I don’t think so,” I added. I knew he probably had an ulterior motive for inviting me to join him at the track. I’d waited for him to bring it up in his own good time. When he hadn’t, I figured I’d better ask. Then I’d gotten swept up in the heady exhilaration of betting on horses and cheering them home. “Why did you call?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead his attention was drawn to the winner’s circle. Chameleon, the blue-clad jockey on his back, had just been led into the center of attention. His owner, the curly-haired brunette, accepted a trophy. Then she posed with her horse and its rider while several people took pictures. The jockey jumped down from the horse and spoke briefly to the trainer before he headed out of the ring, toward the Jockey Room. The trainer and her groom led the horse along a path toward the barns.

  “Let’s go collect our winnings,” David said. “Then come with me to the backside. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Chapter Two

  THE BACKSIDE OF EDGEWATER DOWNS, I WOULD DISCOVER, looked a lot different from the frontside. It was, in fact, a world removed from the utilitarian grandstand with its bleacherlike seats and fast food stands, from the more comfortable clubhouse, and from the tony Turf Club with its upscale restaurant and mahogany bar. The frontside was the world of owners and railbirds, of the jockeys sequestered in their changing room, of the administrators and officials such as the stewards and the Clerk of the Scales.

  The backside was the world of barns with stalls and tack rooms, of trainers, grooms, and exercise riders.

  The backside was where the horses were.

  Ordinary horseplayers didn’t have access to the backside. But David was no ordinary horseplayer. I’d figured that out when he’d told me to meet him earlier that day at the horsem
en’s entrance. That was the gate on the south side of the grandstand, the one with the sign that read LICENSED AND AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The betting public was relegated to a larger lot on the north side, and they had to pay to get into the track. I figured then that he knew an owner or trainer, that he had some clout at this track. Then I’d noticed, leafing through the program before the first race, that he was listed as one of the track’s directors.

  Now we walked through the crowded lower level of the grandstand toward a fence that separated the areas where the betting public could and couldn’t go. Just this side of the fence I saw an elderly woman whose flowered dress had seen better days. The hem straggled down to her soiled tennis shoes. A straw hat was jammed onto her gray curls and tied at her chin with a couple of red ribbons. She bent over and scooped up a handful of discarded betting tickets, then sorted through them, consulting the program she had crumpled in one hand.

  David followed the direction of my eyes. “A stooper,” he said quietly.

  I nodded. The old lady was one of the racetrack denizens who sifted through the detritus of the day’s racing, hoping to find a winning ticket that some careless bettor had tossed away. As I watched, she tossed the tickets one by one back to the concrete floor. Then she held one up in triumph, a grin splitting her wrinkled face. She hurried off in the direction of the parimutuel windows to cash in her prize.

  We approached a gate where a man stood guard, wearing a blue windbreaker with an Edgewater Downs logo, right above the block letters that read SECURITY. He had a pager and cell phone at his belt. He didn’t even ask if David was authorized or licensed. He just waved us through.

  “What’s your connection to this track?” I asked as we continued past the end of the grandstand, where a sign told me the administrative offices were located. “You’re a director, whatever that means. You’ve got a box and everyone seems to know you.”

  “I own a piece of it,” he said.

  It was nearly five, and the wind had turned chilly. The sun was low, edging behind the hills to the west, turning the light gold. The track lights had come on. I felt moisture in the air and recalled the forecast in my morning newspaper. Chance of showers tonight, it said.

  About twenty yards from the gate was the two-story Jockey Room, where the jockeys stayed between races and where the Clerk of the Scales weighed riders before and after each race. Since another race was just about to start, the jockeys in brightly colored silks had already made their way to the paddock. Just one man remained in this area, leaning against the rail fence that separated the Jockey Room from the gravel path David and I were walking along. At first I didn’t recognize him in his street clothes, gray slacks and a gray jacket over a white knit shirt. Then I saw the blue scarf around his neck, just like the one Chameleon’s owner and trainer was wearing when I saw the colt before the race. The man at the fence was Deakin Kelley.

  He turned toward us as we approached, and I saw a friendly look in his eyes, which were a startling bright blue. Then his glance moved to David. No words passed between the two men, but there was something wintry about David’s nod, a greeting the jockey returned with equal coolness. Kelley pushed away from the fence and walked toward the Jockey Room. It looked as though he was waiting for someone.

  “Chameleon’s jockey, Deakin Kelley,” I said as David and I continued along the path. David’s cold formality had piqued my curiosity. “How well do you know him? You do know him, don’t you?”

  “Just to speak to.” Something in his tone, soft and deadly, told me he didn’t want to talk about Kelley. It made me even more curious.

  I glanced back at the Jockey Room just as a young woman strode out the door. She wore a bright purple jumpsuit that hugged her slim, wiry body like a second skin. She had a sharp-featured face and her lipsticked mouth was turned down in a frown. There were two bags slung over her right shoulder, one a red nylon duffel that probably contained clothing. The other was an expensive-looking brown leather purse. At the moment the brass-fitted flap was open and the woman’s right hand poked through the bag’s contents as she fished in it.

  She stopped and grabbed her purse with both hands, peering into its depths. She didn’t see Deakin Kelley until he stood in front of her. His lips moved as he said something I couldn’t hear. She ignored him as she pulled a key ring from her bag, then tried to sidestep him as she closed the flap. He moved to block her path. Now they stood facing one another, both of them radiating tension.

  Kelley’s hand reached out, hovering near her arm but not touching it. Then she brought up her right hand, keys clinking as she clenched her fingers into a fist. She hadn’t touched him, either, but he backed away, as though her sharp, dismissive gesture and her words contained enough force to push him physically. He ran one hand through his tousled brown hair as she stepped past him and moved briskly toward the horsemen’s entrance. He shrugged, then followed, his hands stuck into the pockets of his gray jacket.

  I’d stopped walking to watch the exchange. Now I looked up at David. “Wonder what that was about.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  There was something about his tone that made me examine his eyes, expecting anger or dislike. What I saw surprised me. David was gazing at Deakin Kelley with something like troubled concern.

  “Who’s the woman?” I asked.

  “Benita Pascal,” David said. “She was up on Kilobyte.”

  I glanced toward the Jockey Room, but both riders had disappeared from view. I had heard of Benita Pascal. Read about her, in fact. In the spring, she’d been profiled in Sports Illustrated, because she was due to ride a Kentucky Derby contender. She was one of a handful of women jockeys who, like the recently retired Julie Krone, were winning races and making names for themselves in what was still very much a man’s game. She usually rode in the East — New York, Maryland, and Florida. Kilobyte must have been pretty good, I thought, to bring her to the West Coast.

  We passed the horsemen’s entrance, where the gate was open wide enough to let a pickup truck pulling a horse trailer leave. “Tell me,” I said. “Just what is it about Deakin Kelley that bothers you so much?”

  David didn’t answer right away. He gave me a little smile that didn’t extend to his gray eyes. “Let’s just say Mr. Kelley and I have some shared history.”

  I would have given anything to know what that history was, but evidently I’d have to dig for it.

  “Kelley’s name sounds familiar,” I said. “I thought so when I saw it in the program. He rides mostly in Southern California, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. Past couple of years, anyway. And the East Coast before that. But the reason his name sounds familiar has less to do with the sports page and more to do with headlines. He was implicated in a murder earlier this year.”

  “Now I remember.” I nodded slowly, recalling the headlines in a newspaper, the kind a juicy scandal generates. “Kelley was having an affair with the wife of some corporate bigwig who owned racehorses.”

  “His name was Arthur Leland Barnstable, Jr. Known to everyone as Junior, even if he was in his early fifties. And president and CEO of Barnstable Industries.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I did. Very well, as a matter of fact. Professionally as well as personally.”

  “He was poisoned, wasn’t he?”

  “You could say that. He ingested an overdose of some prescription medication belonging to Kelley, shortly after Kelley threatened to kill him. In front of a lot of people. Me included.”

  That would explain David’s antipathy toward Kelley, but not his concern. Unless he thought the jockey was likely to be implicated in another murder. But that sort of lightning didn’t usually strike twice, I thought. I remembered more details of the case now. “Barnstable’s wife and her sister killed Barnstable. They set Kelley up to be the fall guy.”

  “A very well-constructed frame,” David said. “At first. But Mrs. Barnstable left out a few nails. Kelley was cleared. The trial just wrapped up. Bo
th women were convicted. That’s one reason Kelley decided to come up here, to escape the publicity.”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. “It sounds as though you think he has other reasons for coming up here.”

  David sighed. “The guy’s bad news. Trouble follows him around like his own personal dark cloud.”

  We approached a square building with a double-wide door. This was the receiving barn, where the horses and trainers reported before each race, to be looked over by the track vet and the horse identifier. David didn’t slow his pace. Instead he led the way past the receiving barn to a smaller building next to it. I followed him inside, noting stalls to my left, faucets and hoses on the wall to my right.

  Five horses were being walked, cooled out, as the racetrackers say. Since they were no longer saddled, it took me a moment to realize that three of the horses were the first three finishers in the last race.

  “This is the testing barn,” David said as the horses circled, each led by a groom. On the far side of the room, the trainers watched, talking among themselves. “The first three, and a couple of random choices, are tested after each race. First they’re cooled out, then bathed, then we collect the samples.”

  He didn’t say what they were tested for, but I knew there was a long list of prohibited substances, things that would make a horse go faster and others that would slow it down.

  The horses circled for a few more minutes, then the grooms led their charges to the washing stations ranged against the wall on the right. Several of the owners walked over to help the grooms bathe the animals. The chestnut was at the faucet closest to us. “There’s Chameleon,” David said, as though he were formally introducing us.

  Chameleon was even more gorgeous up close than when I’d seen him in the paddock, before he’d pounded across the finish line ahead of the other horses. An impressive sight, I thought, a thousand pounds of well-proportioned muscle and curve balanced on a framework of bones and four impossibly slender ankles. In the overhead lights his burnished copper coat gleamed as it had in the sunlight before the race. As I looked him over admiringly, he put me in mind of the glorious Big Red, Secretariat himself, a horse I’d only seen in photographs or on television.