The 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 . . .”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Who’s out here at night?”
“Night?”
Bello said, “Yeah, night. You know, when the sun don’t shine?”
The official looked indignant. “We can’t see the track at night. It’s pitch black out here.”
“Is that some kinda joke?” Bello said.
Mr. Yuck stepped forward. “Lights cost money.”
“So what are we paying fees for?” Claire Manchester pointed her cell phone at him. “A couple thousand every month—for what? Stressed-out horses and some kind of virus that’s ruining my barn. Now somebody’s burying lines that—”
“Hey.” Bello turned to me. “You saw it first.”
I tried to look dumb. “Pardon?”
“On the video.” He scowled. “You were looking for it.”
In the humid air, I smelled fresh scapegoat. And Bello looked ravenous for someone to blame.
“And,” he said, “you were in the barn when it caught fire.”
Claire picked up the scent. “She was also in the clinic when SunTzu died. Two dead horses in one week, and she happens to be connected to both. I don’t like coincidences.”
I didn’t either. Standing there, reeking of scapegoat, I felt my brain trying to slap into hard reality, into something void of emotions. What came back was physics. The situation was some horrible example of the first law of thermodynamics, where energy changes from one form to another but can’t be destroyed. Right now, my only hope was to go with the current. I sighed.
“You caught me,” I said. “I’m a coward. I couldn’t watch that jockey get crushed again, so I was looking at the turf. When I saw that dark line, it looked weird.”
Bello looked over at Claire.
She shook her head. “Still too convenient. I heard she asked to stay in the stall with Solo. And she rode out here with the vet this morning.”
“You’re forgetting something,” I said. “Both of those horses belonged to my aunt.”
“I didn’t forget that,” she said. “I was just wondering what other disaster you have planned for the last week of the season.”
When I looked at Mr. Yuck, he wore a sour yet pleased expression that said his favorite dish was being served up. And it wasn’t fresh scapegoat. It was the perfect target.
“Y’all are way off base.” I sounded baffled, and it was genuine. Here I was, finally telling the truth—that I looked away out of cowardice—and I was being accused of lying. By these people. These secretive people. The irony made my head hurt. “Here are the facts. I stayed with Solo because she was sick. I was in the clinic because Doc Madison wanted women in there with SunTzu, and because Aunt Eleanor ordered me to go.”
The summer rain felt cloying, suffocating. I waited for somebody to reply and counted the drops as they hit my head—four, five, six. And my brain said my next best shot was to try the second law of thermodynamics. Entropy. Chaos. Diversion.
“This is ridiculous.” I reached into my bag, pulling out my cell phone. “I’m calling Aunt Eleanor.”
“Please do.” Mr. Yuck’s ill smile was growing. “And I’ll call the police. Nobody leaves until they give their statement. Especially you, Miss David.”