Jockeys and Jewels

Chapter Eight

Dawn’s colorless light seeped through the motel curtain. Kurt turned on his back and rolled to the middle of the bed. He liked mulling over a case when he was half asleep, when ideas drifted and took shape. But foreign sounds kept intruding: the hum of the clock radio, the slam of a car door, water swooshing through pipes.

Sighing, he propped his head on the lumpy pillow and stared at the ceiling. Wide awake now, he had no need to rush. His horses had been fed, his stalls cleaned. Sandra had found a teenager who was eager to earn money working as a stable hand. And the luxury of extra time this morning was appreciated. He felt sluggish, his sleep disrupted by confusing pictures of Connor and Otto…and Julie.

Why was Otto hauling the horse back to the States so quickly? Julie said he was determined to race the mare tonight. But based on the conversation Kurt had overheard in the barn, there had been no concern about the horse's health or about her readiness to run. They’d only discussed her suitability to ship. Race results seemed irrelevant.

It was possible the horse was used for smuggling, although he hadn’t found any signs. A vet check might show how they hid the contraband, and he also wanted a farrier to look at her, but it would be impossible to confiscate the animal without exposing the investigation. And it was premature to do that. Shaking his head, he flung back the sheet and rose.

His frustration lingered after his shower. It was ironic both he and Connor had transferred from the undercover street team, frazzled but still functioning. Kurt had left police work and immersed himself in the race world. Connor, older but less emotionally scathed, had stayed with the RCMP but retreated to a relatively undemanding job in southern Alberta.

It had been nine months since Kurt last talked to him, nine months since Kurt had jotted down his phone number and promptly tucked it away. Regret seared him. He should have talked longer. Should have asked more questions. Should have made more effort.

At least Connor had sounded content. He’d even joked about his boring job. A boring job that had resulted in his murder. Kurt winced.

He yanked on his boots, consumed with the need to discover what had drawn Connor to Otto’s mare. Connor’s report stated he’d encountered an emergency traffic hazard so had assisted with a flat tire and helped reload a horse. In that twenty-minute period, he must have spotted something illegal.

Edgy with purpose, Kurt slammed the motel door and slid into his truck. When Connor had signed in at the track gate, he’d asked directions to Otto Laing’s barn but had said little else. Julie was the last person to speak with Connor, the last known person to see him alive. Kurt had to get her talking. She might remember something Connor had said, some small detail that would expose a motive for murder.

He detoured for coffee and a bagel. By the time he rolled onto the track parking lot, the backside bustled. A sleepy-eyed attendant sold him a race program. Kurt flicked through it while balancing two coffee cups in his right hand.

Otto’s horse was listed on page sixteen. She was entered in the seventh race tonight: a ten-thousand-dollar claiming race for fillies and mares. Her registered name was Country Girl. Julie West was the jockey. Otto Laing was listed as both owner and trainer.

Kurt scanned the horse's past performance. Her previous races were in Idaho and Montana. All were claiming races, a low-level race where any horse could be claimed for the stated amount. Her best finish was a second at the seventy-five-hundred dollar level.

The steep jump in class was noticeable. Otto didn't want to risk losing the mare so he’d bumped her from seventy-five hundred to ten thousand. It was doubtful anyone would claim her for ten when she couldn’t win at the lower price tag. Her breeding was unremarkable; even with the dollar exchange the mare would be a poor bargain. A bad claim.