unseeing.
Heat welled up in me, yet I felt clammy. Then the blood smell reached me, and I stumbled sideways and threw up in the straw. Agitation spurred me to leave, to get out. Something whitish in the straw next to Dennis caught my peripheral vision. I tried to observe, and not see Dennis. A plastic syringe, like the ones I’d used that morning. I moved toward it, then got smart. I wasn’t going to touch anything, didn’t need my prints on any of this. I whirled to escape and shrieked.
A man stood outside the stall. He spoke, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Stay where you are, Latrelle.” Fred Rockston, the security guard who’d been around the night Gildy died, who’d been with Beamfelter when he’d questioned me in Jim’s office. Now he’d found me with something way worse than another dead horse — he’d found me with a corpse.
He told me to stand against the wall, not to move. He sidestepped the horse, took a good look at Dennis, and his face paled. I feared he’d lose his cookies, too, but he was made of tougher stuff than me. He pulled out his radio, called in to the security office, told them to get somebody over here, call an ambulance, call the Anne Arundel County cops. He took me out, told me to sit on a nearby bale of hay and stay put. He paced, I waited, then the parade started. Track security guards came pounding down the shedrow, sirens wailed, blue lights flashed, and beat cops arrived, their radios squawking and hissing. More revolving lights reflected on the walls as an ambulance pulled up outside.
Queasy and fighting a growing headache, I dropped my head in my hands. My fight with Dennis at Shepherds Town. Who knew about that? Oh, Christ, who didn’t? Had Dennis killed the horse, or had he surprised the killer and paid with his life? No, he wouldn’t be in this barn unless here to do the horse. He’d never think twice about killing a horse for money. Who’d shot Dennis?
Hard fingers gripped my shoulder. A tall, thick-necked black man in a gray suit removed his hand, straightened up and flashed a badge.
“Are you Ms. Latrelle?” His voice was rich and deep.
When I nodded, he said he was with Anne Arundel homicide. His face, as he stared at me, wore a jaded expression, like I was just another bad incident on a long warped road. No one had ever looked at me like this before, and I started to get scared. He said his name was Trent Curtis and introduced the shorter blond guy who stood behind him as Charlie Wells. Wells wore small rimless glasses, a drab blue suit, and a tie with tiny guns and handcuffs printed on it. His expression suggested he might still believe in innocence, and laugh lines cradled his mouth.
“Miss Latrelle?” Curtis asked.
“Yes.”
“We need you to come into the Anne Arundel CID. We’d like to ask you some questions”
“What’s a CID?” I asked.
“Criminal Investigation Division,” Wells said.
I had nothing to hide and said I’d go.
A small commotion down the shedrow drew our attention. Bill Burke’s foreman with a beat cop, probably arguing that he had to start the morning training, take care of his horses. Then I saw Lorna Doone edge past them and come hurriedly in my direction. A cop stopped her before she reached me. My gaze skidded to the blond-haired detective, Wells. “Please, she’s my friend, can I talk to her?”
He considered my request, then said, “She can stand here.” He indicated a spot to his side. “You can talk. Make it brief.”
Lorna got as close as she dared, her eyes cutting from the cop to me and back again. “Dudarina, you all right?”
“Yeah. But I’m going to have to go with these detectives.”
“Why?” Her voice held a strained quality, but she threw the detectives a defiant glare. “You didn’t do anything, right?”
“Of course not. I said I’d answer their questions.” Lorna’s expression suggested she’d sidestepped into a scary mental place, but then I wasn’t doing so well myself.
Heat welled up in me, yet I felt clammy. Then the blood smell reached me, and I stumbled sideways and threw up in the straw. Agitation spurred me to leave, to get out. Something whitish in the straw next to Dennis caught my peripheral vision. I tried to observe, and not see Dennis. A plastic syringe, like the ones I’d used that morning. I moved toward it, then got smart. I wasn’t going to touch anything, didn’t need my prints on any of this. I whirled to escape and shrieked.
A man stood outside the stall. He spoke, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Stay where you are, Latrelle.” Fred Rockston, the security guard who’d been around the night Gildy died, who’d been with Beamfelter when he’d questioned me in Jim’s office. Now he’d found me with something way worse than another dead horse — he’d found me with a corpse.
He told me to stand against the wall, not to move. He sidestepped the horse, took a good look at Dennis, and his face paled. I feared he’d lose his cookies, too, but he was made of tougher stuff than me. He pulled out his radio, called in to the security office, told them to get somebody over here, call an ambulance, call the Anne Arundel County cops. He took me out, told me to sit on a nearby bale of hay and stay put. He paced, I waited, then the parade started. Track security guards came pounding down the shedrow, sirens wailed, blue lights flashed, and beat cops arrived, their radios squawking and hissing. More revolving lights reflected on the walls as an ambulance pulled up outside.
Queasy and fighting a growing headache, I dropped my head in my hands. My fight with Dennis at Shepherds Town. Who knew about that? Oh, Christ, who didn’t? Had Dennis killed the horse, or had he surprised the killer and paid with his life? No, he wouldn’t be in this barn unless here to do the horse. He’d never think twice about killing a horse for money. Who’d shot Dennis?
Hard fingers gripped my shoulder. A tall, thick-necked black man in a gray suit removed his hand, straightened up and flashed a badge.
“Are you Ms. Latrelle?” His voice was rich and deep.
When I nodded, he said he was with Anne Arundel homicide. His face, as he stared at me, wore a jaded expression, like I was just another bad incident on a long warped road. No one had ever looked at me like this before, and I started to get scared. He said his name was Trent Curtis and introduced the shorter blond guy who stood behind him as Charlie Wells. Wells wore small rimless glasses, a drab blue suit, and a tie with tiny guns and handcuffs printed on it. His expression suggested he might still believe in innocence, and laugh lines cradled his mouth.
“Miss Latrelle?” Curtis asked.
“Yes.”
“We need you to come into the Anne Arundel CID. We’d like to ask you some questions”
“What’s a CID?” I asked.
“Criminal Investigation Division,” Wells said.
I had nothing to hide and said I’d go.
A small commotion down the shedrow drew our attention. Bill Burke’s foreman with a beat cop, probably arguing that he had to start the morning training, take care of his horses. Then I saw Lorna Doone edge past them and come hurriedly in my direction. A cop stopped her before she reached me. My gaze skidded to the blond-haired detective, Wells. “Please, she’s my friend, can I talk to her?”
He considered my request, then said, “She can stand here.” He indicated a spot to his side. “You can talk. Make it brief.”
Lorna got as close as she dared, her eyes cutting from the cop to me and back again. “Dudarina, you all right?”
“Yeah. But I’m going to have to go with these detectives.”
“Why?” Her voice held a strained quality, but she threw the detectives a defiant glare. “You didn’t do anything, right?”
“Of course not. I said I’d answer their questions.” Lorna’s expression suggested she’d sidestepped into a scary mental place, but then I wasn’t doing so well myself.
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