CHAPTER 3

I wasn’t happy when Detective Bailey put me in her unmarked. At least she hadn’t stuffed me in the backseat cage of a cruiser. She didn’t talk as the car rolled up the boulevard toward the Hallandale Beach Police Department. Didn’t introduce me to the squat, powerfully built guy who drove, either. Probably a detective, and a junior one at that, since he was driving.

Way to go, Nikki. You haven’t been here a day and you’re already being taken in for questioning.

As we passed an entrance to the racetrack, I tried to peer through the dark, but the car moved too quickly to see anything. Some first trip to Florida. I had horses shipping in, a million details to take care of. People were depending on me.

I thought I saw the outline of a grandstand silhouetted by the first glimmer of dawn over the sea, to the east. To our left, Gulfstream Park stretched along a seemingly endless tract of ground. Bailey’s partner drove several more blocks, then turned left.

I wanted to squirm right out of the cruiser. Instead, I studied the back of Bailey’s red hair with its precisely scissored layers. Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

“When we get you to the station, you can clean up in the ladies room. It’s got soap and paper towels.”

I stared at her reflection, confused.

Bailey shifted around in the passenger seat. “You’ve got blood all over you, Ms. Latrelle. You don’t need to leave our department looking like that.”

* * * *

Bailey took me to a small room with a metal table and two chairs. She turned on a digital recorder and talked me through what had happened several times, probably hoping to trip me up. Then she stood and left the room without shutting off the recorder. Did she think I’d confess to myself?

I glanced in the one-way mirror on the opposite wall. Bailey was right, I looked like hell, like I’d been using cosmetics and hair products for vampires. Was someone watching me through the glass? I resisted an urge to fidget, forced myself to sit quietly in the metal chair.

They’d taken my hoodie back on Hallandale Boulevard, leaving me in my black sleeveless tee. I felt chilled by the air-conditioning. After an eternity, a guy came in to test me for gunshot residue. He had a humorless expression and a shaved head.

He removed some sticky-backed papers from a test kit and after peeling off the smooth covers, he worked the tacky material over my hands. I’d done this before and felt like a pro.

“I still have to get your fingerprints. You’re going to have to wash your hands first. You should do something about your face, too.”

He should do something about his head stubble.

We walked down the hall to a ladies room. Mr. Shaved Head gave me a hard look. “I’ll be right outside.”

I got the warm water going and soaped up my hands and face, rinsed. My black tee shirt camouflaged the red bloodstains and didn’t look too bad. Further inspection in the mirror revealed red-brown smears on my neck. I’d obviously run those sticky fingers through my hair, too.

“Screw it.” I filled the sink and dunked my head. When I straightened and looked at my reflection, I started giggling. If only my friend, the always perfect Carla Ruben, could see me now. The one who’d dragged me kicking and screaming into the world of makeup and fashionable hair. She should have been there. We could have had a good laugh.

“Are you all right in there Ms. Latrelle?” Shaved Head, speaking from the hall.

“I’ll be right out,” I said.

Grabbing paper towels, I dried off as much as I could, fluffed my short hair and returned to the hallway. Shaved Head stared at me a moment too long, before leading me to a different room where he used a machine resembling a copier to get a digital record of my prints. He ushered me back to the interrogation room, then left.

Sometime later, Bailey showed up with a typed statement, which I signed.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Latrelle.”

“Sure.” Like I‘d had a choice.

“Would you like a ride to your motel?” she asked. “You said it was the Sand Castle?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “It’s not like I don’t want a shower, but I have to get to the track. Did I see an entrance to Gulfstream across the street outside?”

“Yes,” she said. “You can walk over if you want.” She pulled a card from her suit pocket and handed it to me. “Anything comes to mind, call me.”

I said I would and she told me I was free to go, pointing to the elevator, which I rode to the lobby. I stepped outside the building’s chilly air-conditioning into a warm, sunny morning. I paused on the sidewalk, letting the heat sink into my skin. Could it really be January?

Just after eight a.m., rush-hour traffic streamed up and down South Federal Highway. Less than a block away, Hallandale ran perpendicular to South Federal. No wonder the cops had gotten there so fast. Had it been only four hours since the girl died?

I stared across the street. Construction cranes, a bulldozer, and other equipment crowded Gulfstream’s parking lot, blocking my view of the racetrack. The meet would open January fourth, still two days away.

Waiting for a light at the crosswalk, I noticed leftover goop from the residue test stuck on my jeans. I picked it off, and rolling the stuff into a little gum ball, I smeared it onto the back of Detective Bailey’s business card. When the light turned green, I crossed Federal, following Gulfstream’s drive through the construction mess until the grandstand came into view.

The words Coliseum and Mediterranean popped into my head. A terracotta roof covered a large building the color of desert sand. Two ornamental towers rose near either end. Between them, a concave half-moon of columned arches drew my attention to one of the prettiest paddocks I’d ever seen. A fountain sprayed in its center and stately palm trees lined its edges. Tropical plants and flowers added to my sense of stumbling upon an oasis.

No time for gawking. In the distance, a building rose just beyond the backstretch fence. The location indicated housing for stable help, the appearance suggested upscale condominium. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but I could see the stable gate nearby and that was the place I needed to reach.

After a long march through parked vans, trucks and cars, I reached the gate, where I saw a gray-haired, paunchy man in a security uniform. Good, I could ask him about getting a license and admission to the backstretch.

A shorter, long-haired guy with a lot of moustache spoke to the guard. As I got closer, I heard them arguing.

“I tell you, I have a job working for Mr. Ravinsee.” From the side, the smaller guy looked younger than thirty. He flipped his dark hair back to reveal two gold earrings in one ear. “I supposed to meet some woman here today.”

“If you mean Mr. Ravinsky’s gal, she ain’t showed up yet. You wanna use the phone?”

The handles of the long black moustache twitched up and down in irritation. “I don’ wan’ call nobody. Her phone turned off. I need to go to barn tres!”

Ravinsky? That was my boss. Barn three was my barn. Oh my God. I’d forgotten Ramon’s cousin, Orlando. I was supposed to meet him at 7:00 a.m., see if he’d work out as an exercise rider and groom. His bling might be a bit over the top, but our Maryland groom, Ramon, had said Orlando was okay.

I stepped forward, glancing at the guard’s badge. It read “Binecourt.” I smiled at him.

“Excuse me. I’m Nikki Latrelle, Jim Ravinsky’s assistant.”

Binecourt’s eyes widened and his body straightened into a defensive, military-like posture. “I’ll need to see some ID, miss.”

I followed Binecourt’s downward gaze. I might have washed from the neck up, but my black jeans were stiff with dried blood and a shaft of sunlight lit color to red. The white laces on my Nikes looked like they’d been injured and tried to scab over.

“I was involved in a…car accident earlier.” I fished out my Maryland racing license and handed it to him.

He compared my face to the picture and relaxed slightly. “You get hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I glanced at the younger man. “Are you Orlando Castellano?”

When he turned to face me, a second set of double earrings flashed into view. He looked me up and down, then he folded his arms across his chest.

“I work for Mr. Ravinsee. Where is Mr. Ravinsee?”

Forcing a smile, I put out my hand. “He’s put me in charge for the meet. It’s nice to meet you, Orlando.”

He ignored my hand. “In mi familia, the men, they don’ work for girls.”

Great, just what I needed. I’d be twenty-four in March. How old did I need to be for this jerk?

“No problem, I can hire somebody else.”

He pasted on a quick smile, white teeth gleaming beneath the moustache. “Is okay. I ride for you.”

“That’s big of you, Orlando.”

The guard cleared his throat. “I got a call a few minutes ago. There’s a van on the way with Ravinsky’s horses.”

He must be mistaken. “They weren’t supposed to ship from Maryland until tomorrow.” I wasn’t ready for horses. I hadn’t even seen our barn yet.

“It’s not Ravinsky’s van. This was a Mr.…” He picked up a clip board. “A Mr. Mal…never can pronounce these names.”

“Maldonista?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

The Colombian. Niggling doubts about this new owner had kept me awake the night before.

I stared at a black-and silver horse van entering the parking lot. “But they’re two days early.” I tried not to whine.

“Something going on at the local quarantine facility,” the guard said. “Guess the place is overloaded. Anyways, your horses did their time and the authorities wanted them out of there.”

A heavy rumble grew audible as the eighteen-wheeler approached the stable gate. I looked down at my hand. When had I started this habit of twisting my horseshoe ring? My finger felt raw.

“That’s probably it,” the guard said.

It couldn’t be. I had to unload supplies, locate a feed and hay man, get the blood off my clothes.

With a loud hiss of air brakes, the van crawled to a stop. A deep, demonic whinny erupted from inside. Hooves crashed against an interior stall partition, and someone screamed in terror or pain.