Jockeys and Jewels

Chapter Four

A keyboard clicked, the only sound in the dingy motel room, as Kurt updated his case journal. Contact had been made with the woman on Archer's list, and tonight he'd have a chance to inspect Otto's trailer.

Satisfied, he closed the laptop and jammed it back in his metal briefcase, next to his gun and holster. No need to carry the Sig. He hadn't provoked anyone, not yet. He spun the combination lock and placed the case in his room safe.

A few flexes didn't help the kinks in his shoulders, so he tossed the truck keys back on the desk. The barns were close, and a brisk walk might loosen some tension.

The motel was a dive but conveniently located. He reached the track's public entrance in seven minutes flat; however, the doors were locked, the clubhouse deserted. He was forced to circle to the side where a squat guardhouse blocked his way.

He paused by the grilled window and flipped open his trainer's license. The narrow-eyed guard wore a crisp khaki uniform and was so polite Kurt guessed he was new. He scrutinized Kurt's training credentials, carefully matching photo to face before gesturing him through the horsemen's gate.

Kurt followed the row of dimly lit buildings to G barn and paused outside the door. It was library quiet, devoid of humans, so he walked down the aisle to Cisco's stall. The horse blinked and charged the door, ever hopeful for food.

"Not breakfast time yet," Kurt murmured as he scratched the base of Cisco's shaggy ears. He'd known a lot of horses, but Cisco was his all-time favorite.

Crack!

The abrupt noise made them both jump. Across the aisle a horse kicked with such force the wall boards quivered. Curious, Kurt approached the stall, but mismatched planks had been nailed over the wire mesh, blocking any view of the stall's unruly occupant.

Something moved above his head-a dark muzzle snuffling between the top board and ceiling. Nostrils flared, revealing a healthy pink lining.

"Don't hurt yourself," Kurt said, reassured the agitated horse was okay.

The muzzle disappeared and hooves cracked the planks again, so Kurt eased away. Obviously his presence didn't improve that animal's disposition.

He continued his sweep of the barn, noting the absence of security cams, then slipped out the end door and onto the graveled lot.

Exterior barn lights cast only a feeble glow, and trailers of assorted shapes and sizes loomed in a murky row. He counted as he walked, five rigs over, one row back. And there it was-the slant load with Montana plates that Connor had described in his last call to dispatch.

Otto Laing's trailer.

He gave the side door a shake but it was warped and welded shut. He circled to the back, eased two bolts out and lowered the ramp. Creak. The grating metal made him cringe and he paused, but the area remained still, silent except for peeping frogs and the rumble of traffic beyond the river.

He edged up the ramp, groping in his pocket for gloves, bag and flashlight.

The beam of his light revealed worn and jagged interior walls. Something fluttered. He jerked back, his heart racing until he saw it was merely a clump of tail hair caught on a wooden sliver. He tugged the hair loose and dropped it in his bag.

The floor mat was heavy and awkward, but he pulled the rubber aside, breathing through his mouth, ignoring the acrid smell of urine. Ants scurried to escape and, within seconds, vanished into a crevice. He propped the flashlight between his knees and scraped at the exposed crack. Insect eggs gleamed as rotten wood crumbled in his hand. Not much of a hiding place, only a home for ants.

He replaced the mat, careful to press it down in the corners before stepping outside.

There wasn't much clearance under the trailer, but he dropped to the gravel and squeezed beneath the floorboards. Gravel pricked his back, along with a growing sense of urgency. Still, he checked every inch.

Found nothing.

He sprawled on the cold ground, heavy with frustration, stymied by the unremarkable floor. He'd assumed drugs were involved. That was Connor's specialty, his motive for joining the RCMP, but Kurt simply couldn't see what had prompted him to follow this particular trailer.

Gravel crunched, and the smell of chewing tobacco wafted on the breeze. Damn. He pocketed the bag and gloves, rolling to his feet just as a hulking figure charged from the shadows.

"What the fuck you doing with my trailer?" the man snarled.

"You must be Adam West." Kurt grabbed a name Sandra had mentioned, keeping his voice relaxed. "Heard you rent your trailer. My horse is tall, and I need to make sure he'll fit."

"I ain't West. His trailer's over there somewhere." The man had close-cropped hair, a thick neck and a head like a Rottweiler. He jerked his arm to the left but kept his suspicious gaze locked on Kurt. "Kind of dark to be looking at a trailer, ain't it?"

"Only time I had." Kurt extended his hand. "I'm Kurt MacKinnon. Sorry for the mix-up, Mr.?"

"Otto." The man ignored Kurt's hand. "Now get away from there."

Something throbbed behind Kurt's right eye, but he forced his voice to remain mild as he trailed Otto back toward the lights of the barn. "Guess I'll have to check Adam's trailer tomorrow. Can you recommend an exercise rider?"

Otto was silent for so long it seemed he wasn't going to answer. Finally. "I use Adam West's girl. Nice tits."

Kurt rubbed hard at his forehead. "Well, I guess that's important. But can she ride?"

"She don't fall off."

"But can she ride?" And now Kurt didn't try quite so hard to keep his voice mild.

"Do I look like a fucking information center?"

"Not a bit." Kurt's hands fisted. He forced them open then deliberately let them fist again. He'd never had much patience with assholes. "Real sorry if the question's too tough for you," he added.

Otto took one menacing step then twisted his mouth and spat a stream of tobacco, just missing the toe of Kurt's boot. "Fuck off," he said, before stomping into the barn.

A hunter's awareness swept Kurt, an exhilaration he hadn't felt since turning in his badge. Otto was the type of suspect he liked working with, the type of man he didn't mind lying to. Obviously though, his people skills had eroded. Archer had asked that he ingratiate himself with the locals, yet somehow he'd managed to rile both Otto and Julie on the very first meet.

Smiling, he stepped over the gob of tobacco and headed toward his motel. The wind had pushed holes in the cloud cover, and stars glinted through the gaps. It was a relaxing walk, quiet and serene. Serene until the kick of a horse echoed from the barn Otto had just entered. The sound jarred the night with its protest and made him wonder why even the animals didn't like Otto.