Hair of the Dog (14 page)

Before the final interment, several friends offered anecdotes, one a prayer. So far, Dan didn't see one thing out of order. Then Officer Bartlett started to walk toward them.

“Uh oh. I think I'll go check on Fucher.” Elaine nodded to the officer and retreated.

“I see your boy's out. Wouldn't have thought you'd want to bring him here.”

“And just why would that be? I think he considered Kevin Elliott a friend.”

“Some friend. For starters, Kev's bike had been tampered with. A new set of Metzelers and the inner wall had been shaved. No way to see it from the outside and no way of knowing when the tire would blow. Poor guy never had a chance.”

“Come on, you don't expect me to believe that Fucher would be able to do that? His motor skills can be a little challenged. And he might as well have been under house arrest the last couple weeks. He hasn't gone anywhere since he was let out. He certainly hasn't been back to the track.” Dan hoped he was right. He hadn't kept tabs on Fucher, but someone would have had to have given him a ride. He didn't remember seeing any cars there, and Fucher was still hard at work on the surveillance records.

“Just saying. This Fucher knew where the bike was parked. And it wasn't like it was out in the open or anything. Pretty secluded—easy to vandalize something parked behind the kennel. And these? Found 'em stuffed in the saddlebags.” Officer Bartlett pulled a half dozen Snickers' wrappers from his pocket. “Pretty much his calling card from what I hear.”

“Can I have some candy?” Dan hadn't seen Fucher and Elaine walk up.

“Do I have to say more?” With a sneer Officer Bartlett turned to go, then waving the fistful of wrappers turned back, “If I was a bettin' man, I'd put money on this.” He crumpled up the wrappers and stuffed them back in his pocket.

Dan watched him walk back toward the crowd. And if you had more than circumstantial evidence, you'd be able to do something about it, he thought. But you don't. He wondered if those wrappers had been dusted for prints? Or had any other lab work done on them? Were they just for show? Could someone be trying to set Fucher up? Again? Implicate him in one murder and when that didn't pan out, try him for another? But who? It would take some knowledge of Fucher's habits. But then he guessed just about everyone who handled dogs at the track would know that Fucher liked Snickers bars.

“He's not nice.” Fucher stood watching Officer Bartlett walk away. “He doesn't like me. I want to leave.”

Well said, Dan thought. He wanted to leave too.

Chapter Seventeen

Monday. All the chores she'd put off over the weekend needed attention. First, up to Palm Coast to drop off her client report on Stanley and the garden elf retrieval. Next, groceries and last, a stop for dog food before circling back home. There was every possibility that Simon would be with them this week. She'd rented a car. Just as well, she had no time to shop for something permanent. And, as always, her good, economical angel was having a tussle with her bad, throw-caution-to-the-wind angel. Good common sense told her she could put some of the money paid out for the burned Mercedes—part of the nightmare in Wagon Mound last month—in the bank and not buy another, instead spending the rest on maybe a
used
luxury car. Or not buy luxury at all. She could get a truck or SUV or…possibilities were endless and made her head hurt. A rental would buy a little time.

She was faced with more than one major decision. She'd honestly enjoyed the gun-safety workshop and target practice. Yet, a gun permit still seemed like overkill even though the permit could arrive any day. The real question still was did she really want to carry a firearm? She admitted to being a little squeamish. It would just take practice to get used to it. The more comfortable she became, the easier it would be to accept. Dan promised to help her find a gun and take her to the range. The class on gun safety had allowed her to explore a semi-automatic as well as a revolver. And she'd honestly felt safer with the revolver. It was just the feel of the thing.

Dan had already turned up his nose at a nifty looking Lady Smith and Wesson she'd found online. He was suggesting a revolver, too, but nothing with the name “lady” on it, probably a snub-nosed .38—a revolver versus a semi-automatic because a revolver wouldn't jam. She could carry it in a pocket or her purse and no amount of lint or fuzzies would cause it to misfire. It'd be ready to go when she needed it. Needed it? She still felt a little shiver. Could she really kill another human being? And wasn't that the one question you had to be comfortable with before even carrying a gun? She still had a little soul-searching before all this became routine. No class on Chaucer had ever required her to be armed.

The stop at Scott Ramsey's office wouldn't take long but she did want to hand it off personally. She decided not to just leave the report with his receptionist. She needed some info on their next assignment and would just wait. What a luxury to have time to kill. Elaine took a chair against the wall and picked up a
Car and Driver
. She really needed to get serious about getting another car. Elevated voices said he had someone in the office with him but the receptionist indicated she didn't think the wait would be long.

A particularly good article on “going green” was interrupted by a buzz on the intercom. The receptionist quickly picked up and then went to the file cabinet and pulled out two manila folders. She knocked on the conference room door and stood with it partially open getting directions on yet another project, Elaine thought. Then a male voice chimed in and the magazine slipped from Elaine's grasp. The man in the office was the same man who had tethered her by the ankle. Who had hid under her car to do so. The same agent who had handed off an envelope of lies.

She missed what he was saying and quickly stood to place the magazine on the table and leave. But didn't move fast enough.

“Elaine? I didn't realize you were here.” Scott had stepped out of the conference room and walked to the copier. “If you have a minute, I think my colleague has some questions for you.”

She waited until Scott had finished copying and followed him back into the room. The man sitting just inside the door stood and offered his hand. Manners. Better late than never, she supposed.

“Scott was telling me your first surveillance job involved Stanley Evers. Interesting coincidence.”

“It allowed me to use truthful information to dissuade my fiancé's mother from investing in property with him.”

“That was timely.” Not a reaction to the word “truthful.” The man was older than Scott and just slightly past his prime. Not one she would think enjoyed crawling under vehicles. Thinning hair, a couple extra chins and just the hint of love handles suggested retirement might be getting close.

“Yes, it helped me make a decision.”

“Do you think it helped Ms. Mahoney make a decision?”

“I'm assuming you mean to stop seeing Mr. Evers?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not positive, she's been out of town, but she has indicated that she won't be moving in with him.”

“If the romance is still alive and well, I'd appreciate your letting us know.”

Elaine looked at Scott but he was staring out the only window in the room with his back slightly turned her way and didn't seem inclined to enter the conversation.

“May I ask why?” She was still feeling that Dan's mother was lucky to have gotten out of the relationship—it didn't seem a possibility that Stanley would still be around after the little two-hour episode in the storage barn.

“Let's just cross that bridge when we get to it.” A smile of dismissal. Elaine slid her report across the table to Scott, turned and left.

***

The chief couldn't get there until one and Roger needed to run by his office—that left Dan in the casino restaurant sipping his fifth cup of coffee. This might be a good time to catch up with Fred Manson and tour the maintenance barn. Better than just sitting around. News that Wayne Warren was missing coupled with the death of Kevin Elliot and it was like a somber blanket had been thrown over track personnel. People talked in hushed tones reliving when they had last seen the track manager or conversed with the vet. A lot of conjecture—the dead or missing had a tendency to take on the vestiges of martyrdom in a very short period of time. And as to what had happened? Each man had stories circulating and the rumor mills were just getting geared up.

The tall double doors of the metal barn were wide open and a roller attachment sat between a couple of tractors. Along the back wall was what looked like a king-sized bedspring on wheels. Hoses, water tanks, tool boxes, hanging lights, lights on pedestals, work benches, vices, compressors—the place looked pretty well equipped for repairs, as well as storage.

Dan grabbed a pair of safety goggles from a bin marked “Mandatory Safety Gear” and slipped them on. This was probably a place for steel-toed shoes, too, but his Nike cross-trainers would have to do. Fred Manson was at the back of the barn supervising a welding job, and Dan was doubly thankful he'd slipped the dark-tinted wraparound glasses on before he entered. Photokeratitus or welder's eye wasn't something to mess with.

Fred looked up and motioned to him. A young man was welding a cross-bar support onto what could have been the frame for an awning. He vaguely remembered noticing awnings across the front of the casino. He guessed maintenance went beyond just the track.

“I see you decided to visit the dark side. What can I do for you?”

“I guess the nickel tour if you have the time.”

“Sure. Let me finish this up.” Fred turned back to the welding project, pointed out a joint and a couple seams in the metal tubing that needed reinforcing then gestured toward an office in the back corner. Dan followed him over.

“All the comforts of home.” Dan stepped into a neatly set up space of computers, printers, fax machine, not to mention the mini-fridge, and the hot plate next to a coffee and latte machine.

“Can I get you anything? Latte? Cappuccino? I can't break out the beer until after five.”

“No, nothing for me, thanks.” He watched as Fred got a small bag of espresso out of the mini-fridge, filled the basket, tamped down the grounds, slipped the “arm” into a slot in the machine and flipped the switch to “on.” Even after a morning of coffee, Dan had to admit the espresso smelled good.

“Sure you don't want to change your mind?” Had he read his mind? Dan again shook his head. “Then tell me what you'd like to know about track maintenance.”

Dan watched Fred dump the shot of espresso into a paper cup, froth some two percent milk in a metal pitcher, and pour the contents on top. There was something odd about this picture—lattes served in a maintenance barn? Sometimes, just when he thought he'd seen everything…but he reminded himself, he was here to get information, not pass judgment.

“For starters, and maybe more out of curiosity than a need to know, how important is track maintenance? You've got a neophyte here—I don't even know the composition of a dog track.”

“Then I could tell you anything. Just kidding, you've tapped into one of my favorite subjects. Why don't we take a walk out to the track—easier to show you and talk about it at the same time.”

Fred pointed out that from this vantage point at the south end, Dan could see the boxes where up to eight greyhounds lined up for races eight to ten times a day. Weights and condition were tightly regulated and usually one or two dogs were scratched from each race because they were over or under their racing weight. After the weighing of each dog, handlers lead them out to the starting area along the side of the track. The track was dragged and packed between races and only the dogs touched it first.

Dan couldn't help but think what a perfect job this was for Fucher—repetitive, exacting but not necessarily demanding, and it involved living beings. The dogs would reward him with their affection. He had an easy-to-follow routine of feeding and exercising and general care well within his capacity to perform correctly. Dan promised himself once again that he'd see the young man back at his job as quickly as he could.

Fred stopped in front of an apparatus attached to a single rail that circled the track. “The mechanical ‘rabbit' or lure is started about here. Then as it passes the boxes it will continue for about fifteen to twenty feet before the dogs are released. The lure is controlled electronically from a mechanical room up there.” Fred pointed to a second story on the main building, above the outdoor viewing area that opened off the restaurant.

“You know they say that you should only bet on those dogs that are consistently in first or second, one-eighth of the way into a race. Fifty-seven percent of the dogs who stay in the lead on this track are the winners. I don't follow strategies myself…I just want to make sure my dog has peed on his way to the boxes.” A chuckle, then Fred aimed a nasty looking brown stream of spit into the cup that used to hold a latte. “You a betting man?”

“Not if I can help it.” From the look of barely concealed disapproval, Dan knew he'd given the wrong answer. Funny, Dan had never looked at it before, but he wasn't a “betting man.” He really didn't enjoy taking chances—sometimes he was forced to for work, but he wasn't comfortable doing it. Did that make him stodgy? Maybe he should wear a diamond stud in his ear like the man in front of him? And was that a gold chain peeking out from under the collar of his coveralls? Under the “ring” around his collar? The man was grubby but Dan knew he was probably looking at a lot of money. If the items were real. Somehow, though, it just screamed poor taste. And chewing tobacco? An ugly, messy, cancer-inviting habit.

“What do you know about greyhound racing?”

“You're seeing it. Just about this close to nothing.” Dan held index and thumb about a half inch apart.

“Well, let me impress you with just how important the condition of this track is. Greyhounds are trained to race an oval but they run in ‘instinctive reaction.' They react to stimuli—the other dogs, the lure—and no one is riding on their backs to steer them around potholes or slow them down for the corners. See those bumpers?”

Dan looked in the direction that Fred was pointing. The fence set back some twenty feet directly across from the track's curve was covered with heavy, rubberized padding for a distance of fifteen feet or more.

“A seventy-pound dog taking that corner at close to forty miles per hour could take a nasty tumble if he lost his footing—momentum could propel him right into the chain-link. That padding can mean life over death.”

“I guess I never thought that there would have to be special safety features.”

“An' we haven't even talked about the track itself. Let me show you something.” Fred knelt down on one knee at the edge of the track. “A track is to a greyhound as a shoe is to a human being. The track has to cushion and protect the feet of the dogs. But it has to give him traction—think of this as a running shoe, a big Nike for the dog. If the traction isn't there, the track eats up the animal's energy. Three things make up the composition: sand, clay/silt, and water. This formula is concocted based on environment—humidity versus dry air, for example. Water is the crucial element. It's real easy to let a track go soupy. I'm proud to say Daytona has a great reputation for speed and safety.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Dan had to admit he was impressed.

“I've been numero uno here for about five years. Did research for the University of Kansas. Lot a tracks back there—Abilene's home to it all. Some of the reasons dog racing has a bad rep is due to the tracks they're running on. A hard surface and you get broken bones, too soft and it's pulled muscles.”

Dan remembered the National Greyhound Registry or Association was in Abilene. Fred was quite the specialist. He might not fit Dan's idea of the usual maintenance man, but this took some real know-how.

“Let's take a look at the equipment.” Fred started back toward the barn. Just inside the door, he stopped by a wide, open-faced, roller machine. “This here maintains the cushion. A big-o hunk of equipment that has a very delicate task. Even adds moisture, if needed.” Fred continued around the barn pointing out a conditioning machine with spike-like tongs, a solid drum-shaped roller used to smooth edges that could flatten a roadrunner if used in a comic setting, and machines that resurfaced, dug up, poured new material—each one looking more forbidding, if not menacing. A rogue's gallery of machinery, so to speak, if one thought in terms of methods of torture.