The Stars Shine Bright (11 page)

“But when all the horses didn't take off,” Harrold said, “I thought maybe the doors got stuck. I leaned over the line, trying to see the gates.” He stretched his neck out over his jiggling legs, demonstrating for us. “And then I saw, you know . . .”

“No, we don't know.” Mr. Yuck aimed the second remote at the television. “But this is what you saw.”

An image of the starting gate flashed on the screen. It showed the empty gates from a side view. Mr. Yuck clicked through stilled video images, showing the horses entering the gate, one by one. Jockeys adjusted grips and helmets, or made the sign of the cross over their bright silks. And the horses' faces—brown and bay, black and chestnut—were as beautiful as marble busts. The gates blew open.

In slow motion, the animals' long heads seemed to stretch out. The front legs kicked forward. Shiny coats shimmered over rippling muscles.

Cuppa Joe hesitated. Loosey Goosey didn't move. And SunTzu . . .

Eleanor placed the back of her hand across her forehead. “I can't bear to watch this again.”

I glanced at the people in the room. Watching the images, Sal Gag's face seemed as implacable as stone. Jimmy Bello scowled. But Claire Manchester's dark blue eyes were shifting between the two Italian men. Her shrewd expression suggested she sensed a traitor.

When I glanced back at the television, Cuppa Joe was proving his competitive streak. Though he didn't leave the gate for several frames, when he finally took off he leaped like a standing long jumper, and that first stride drew a moment of silence in the room. It was sheer appreciation for a curvet of power, the absolute might of a horse that could cover fifteen feet from a stationary position. Clinging to his back in Abbondanza's bright pink silks, the jockey looked like a tropical fish holding on to a black leviathan.

Mr. Yuck nodded. “That horse seems suspiciously healthy, Mr. Gagliardo.”

“Everything's suspicious to you.” Sal Gag tugged back his cuff-linked shirtsleeve, exposing a gold Rolex, and checked the time. “How long you plan to string this out?”

Mr. Yuck hit the remote again. “Let us examine those horses left behind.”

The images shifted to normal speed. Cuppa Joe was tearing up the muddy track. But when the picture returned to the starting gate, the jockey riding Loosey Goosey had already jumped from his saddle. His face looked familiar—the rider who translated for the vet this morning—and in the next gate SunTzu was pitching forward, dragging the jockey down. Watching it again, I felt the futile pain of seeing a car crash in slow motion. And I didn't want to see the jockey's face again, that look of shock, that realization of defeat in his soul. Lowering my gaze, I stared at the bottom of the screen. The groomed turf had the soothing appearance of a mandala, all the soil combed into fine rows still untouched by the horse. I could even see the drops of rain, clinging to the grains of sand.

“Harrold,” said Mr. Yuck, “how much money did you put on Cuppa Joe?”

The silence that fell on the room felt like the moment just before a bomb detonates.

“How much?” Mr. Yuck repeated.

“I didn't place a bet.” Harrold wiped his forehead. “That would be illegal.”

“Yes. It would. How much?”

“My sister placed the bet.”

Mr. Yuck gave his sick smile. “Fifty dollars on Cuppa Joe, wasn't it? Not to win, even though the horse was the favorite. But fifty dollars to place. Did you know something, Harrold?”

Harrold looked at his jiggling legs, staring at them as if they belonged to another man.

Claire Manchester almost spit. “I knew it. Abbondanza's as crooked as cat poo.”

“Poo?” said Jimmy Bello. “What is this, kindergarten?”

But Mr. Yuck had turned his gloomy gaze on Sal Gag. “When Harrold placed that bet on Cuppa Joe—”

Harrold jumped in. “My sister—”

“Doesn't matter.” Mr. Yuck hit the remote, backing up the film to the first tragic images. Then he zoomed in on the three gates. “The track's rules specifically state that Emerald Meadows employees are prohibited from betting on races in which they are working. Tell me, Harrold, what did you plan to do with your two hundred dollars?”

Sal Gag made a guttural sound, deep in his throat. “Two hundred bucks? You hauled me in here for a measly two hundred bucks?”

Mr. Yuck had placed a paddle hand on Harrold's shoulder and squeezed. Harrold winced.

“While Harrold broke the rules to make some money,” Mr. Yuck said, “I am certain that you, Mr. Gagliardo, and you, Mr. Bello, and perhaps even you, Miss Manchester, have profited even more handsomely. The only person who lost in this instance was Eleanor.”

“Mendacity,” she said as her chin came up. “Mendacity's the system we live in. Liquor is one way out and death's the other.” She sighed. “Brick said that, in act two.”

But I was the only person who heard her. The other three erupted with a round of protests: Sal Gag saying it wasn't his problem that Harrold bet on the race, Bello tossing out insults, and Claire accusing them both of equine abuse. Mr. Yuck gave a dour retort, but his exact words passed me by because I was looking at the image on the television. Specifically, the turf soil. It looked like mud rubbed across the screen with a dark line bisecting the brown area. I stepped closer. It looked like some kind of shadow. Maybe. But it was raining then. No sun. When I turned around, Jimmy Bello was leaning into Mr. Yuck. And the security chief wore a weird smile, like that involuntary rictus gripping a person's mouth right before they vomit.

I waved my hand. “Excuse me.” The next words required effort. “Gentlemen. I have another question. Did anyone look at the turf?”

“Yeah, it's mud,” Bello said. “And if your horse is a pansy, that's your problem. Cuppa Joe's a mudder. So shoot me.”

Tempted, I turned to Mr. Yuck. “Could you reverse the film, back to where the doors open?”

“Gates,” he corrected, putting me in my place.

“Yes, the gates.” I pretended to be embarrassed. “And would it be possible to zoom in on SunTzu's gate?”

He clicked and clicked until SunTzu's beautiful face pierced my heart. The horse looked confident in the gate, completely unaware that the next seconds would finish him.

“Please keep zooming in. On the turf.”

The soil grew into a vague brown smudge with large silver freckles, and the dark line was clearly visible now, though slightly out of focus. I pointed to it. “At first I thought it was a shadow. But we all know there was no sun this morning.”

Harrold wiped his forehead again.

Mr. Yuck pressed the remote button. The shadowed line changed to a series of bursting blurs, each shaped like a funnel and each erupting from the ground. Pyroclastic blasts. They lasted two frames, then disappeared. I glanced at Mr. Yuck. The corners of his mouth were coming down, like some overfed trout caught in an ever-tightening lure. He reversed the film again, zooming in and out. We saw SunTzu balk. Loosey Goosey buck, causing the jockey to jump. And Cuppa Joe, who waited, then leaped like a coiled spring.

“How incredibly well timed,” said Mr. Yuck. “Makes one wonder if the horse knew to expect something.”

“Gimme a break,” said Jimmy Bello. But his voice had lost its confident bluster.

Mr. Yuck turned to the guard named Lou, who had remained silent behind us. So silent I almost forgot about him.

“Lieutenant, get the vehicles ready,” Mr. Yuck said. “We're all going to take a ride.”

Chapter Twelve

T
he afternoon rain fell like graphite shavings, dull and gray. I gazed out the windshield of the track's official Suburban, which was carrying us to the turf. All of us except Eleanor and Sal Gag. They both had declined to see the starting gate for themselves. Mr. Yuck didn't argue with them, since he had a representative from each barn. I sat on the second-row seat with Jimmy Bellow, separated by Claire Manchester, who chatted on her cell phone.

“No comment,” she said.

A
Seattle Times
reporter was calling each barn, putting together a piece about the morning's bad start. He tried Eleanor first. She gave him Big Daddy's extended soliloquy about mendacity from
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
. I figured Sal Gag and Jimmy Bello wouldn't talk to the media. But Claire Manchester took the call inside the car. As I listened to her answers, my stomach growled. My only food today was dry toast, skim milk, and a bite of one BnE in the Quarterchute. But I almost lost my appetite listening to Claire's answers. Whatever the question, she always came back to herself—how she felt, how things were when she was a jockey, how frightening it was for her to see Loosey Goosey bucking in the gate.

“And they're doing some investigation,” she added. “I'm going to look at the gate right now.”

I turned in my seat. Harrold sat behind us on the third-row seat, by himself. The expression in his eyes reminded me of so many suspects. So scared that a guilty conscience was going into overdrive.

“No comment,” Claire said. “But I think they suspect somebody messed around with the starting gate. Not my barn. Another barn.”

There was a pause. I assumed the reporter was asking,
Which barn?

“No comment. But it's not my barn. And it's not Hot Tin.”

“Hey, Norma Rae,” said Jimmy Bello. “All you're doing is feeding blood to the sharks.”

Our driver slowed down. The starting gate was thirty yards ahead. Claire suddenly snapped her phone shut, without saying good-bye.

Standing in the rain, Mr. Yuck waited for us. He was wearing a green fedora now and the color clashed with his pasty skin. Raising his cheerless voice to the rain, he said, “I don't want any complaints later. Or any rumors. You're all witnesses to whatever we find.”

He wasn't being nice; he was being smart. A breeding ground for paranoia, Emerald Meadows' owners didn't trust management, and the management suspected the barns of illegal activity that could get the track's license revoked by the state. All that distrust made undercover work difficult, but now I felt a sudden gratefulness. Without that chronic ill will, Raleigh David would never get this close to the crime scene. And once again, something like hope floated around my heart. Hard evidence. It would help me push back against OPR.

“Lieutenant Campbell.” Mr. Yuck nodded at the security officer Eleanor called “Lou.” “I am considering you another witness. Does anyone object?”

“Yo.” Jimmy Bello held out both hands, palms open to the rain. “Notice something? It's raining. Crank up the show.”

Mr. Yuck turned and walked to the starting gate. He had a churning stride, the short steps digging deep into the soil. The starting gate had been rolled back to its position for the first race, at the three-quarter mile mark. The small tires had carved channels into the turf, filling with rainwater, and hoof marks pocked the surface. Staring at the soil, I felt a desperate desire to collect samples. It was a mixture of sandy quartz and fine clay. Under a microscope I was certain a portion of the sand grains would have angular shapes. It was called sharp sand, or builder's sand, used in concrete and gardening projects to aerate the soil. Somewhere out there, an expert waited to explain the exact proportions necessary for running horses, and where these soils came from. But as Raleigh David, I could only stare at the hoof-shaped puddles and feel grateful that the track was so well groomed before the first race. Otherwise I might've missed the shadow. It was the most elementary lead in forensic geology: always check the topography for unnatural changes in a soil's profile.

“Well, well, well.” Mr. Yuck bent down, digging his paddle hands into the soil. “What do we have here?”

I wanted to scream,
Stop! Put on gloves—you're contaminating evidence!

He pulled at the object buried in the soil. A black tube came up, running like a buried cable. I bit my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
Please! Call the state lab!

He yanked again. The black tube ran across the turf to the infield's white rail.

Bello said, “The horses tripped over that?”

“You moron,” Claire said. “None of the horses tripped.”

Harrold was dancing again. “I never saw it. I swear, I was in the cage. How would I see that?”

Suddenly they turned to me. It was apparently my turn to say something.

“Doesn't security watch over the turf?” I asked.

Mr. Yuck glanced at the lieutenant, who looked at the track official who had driven the Suburban. He was management, I guessed. A pink and stocky man, he drew himself up, sending the accumulated rainwater sluicing off his emerald-green hat.

“Of course we watch the track,” he said.

Claire crossed her arms. “Twenty-four seven?” She still wore the sleeveless shirt, oblivious to the weather, and the drops of rain beaded on her tanned, oiled skin like it was hide. “You can account for every single minute, what goes on out here?”

“Well . . .”