desk. Blue, red, yellow, white, all with gold letters spelling something I couldn’t make out. I’d seen the raw materials when I’d reluctantly accompanied Rose to a party-supply store one time, and wondered how you could tell which ones were legitimate.
“Very impressive,” Matt said. There was no way Lorna could know that the police detective in front of her was afraid of large animals, horses in particular. I’d found this out through George Berger. Matt and I had sat with him and his wife at a department party, and he’d related an anecdote about how the rookie Matt Gennaro had refused to mount a police horse for a Veteran’s Day parade. He’d been able to make a deal with his captain, that he’d close at least three cold cases that week if they’d let him off parade duty. He’d closed four. Matt held a smug smile through the telling of the story.
“It’s department legend,” Berger said, when I asked him how he knew this, since he was much younger and couldn’t have known Matt in his early years with RPD.
Lorna sat down and picked up a photo from her desk, herself on a speckled gray-and-black horse. “This is Degas, my Appaloosa, one of my favorites. He’s won me one ribbon after another. Not many people realize Edgar Degas painted and sculpted horses as
well as ballerinas.” Lorna leaned back, steepled her fingers. “I’ve been a horsewoman since I was eight years old. Cleaned stalls in exchange for lessons, and now I own more horses than my first instructor at Sunset Ranch did.”
How nice for you , I thought.
“Impressive,” Matt said again, as if he had limited vocabulary when it came to equestrian prowess.
My eyes strayed to a large whiteboard on the side wall, its tray filled with erasers and thick markers in as many colors as the ribbons Lorna had won. I could tell she had left real science and engineering far behind. The board was filled with organizational charts, budget items with dollar amounts, timelines, and acronyms for funding sponsors. My eyes landed on DoD . Leave it to the Department of Defense to use a lowercase O, so that every scientist had to tell her or his editors it wasn’t a typo. DOE, DARPA, NRC. The Department of Energy, Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, Nuclear Regulatory Commission. A few nongovernment names, some of which were pharmaceutical companies I recognized, were on the board also, with question marks next to them. Not committed, I assumed. There wasn’t an equation or a force diagram in sight.
“Interesting that you didn’t choose horse-raising as a career,” Matt said.
I wondered if horses were actually raised, like children, or chickens and sheep. My mind wandered in search of a more appropriate word, but neither Matt nor Lorna seemed hampered by the word choice. Lorna told us how her father, a rancher, had convinced her that the best strategy was for her to get an education in a field where she could make enough money to afford the luxury of competitive riding.
“No money in these competitions?” Matt asked, glancing at the showcase, as if to ask the worth of dozens of satiny ribbons.
Lorna shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, almost losing her scarf/shawl. “Not much, at least not in the local shows. There’s decent money in the bigger jumping competitions, sometimes
as much as a hundred thousand dollars, but that would be split up among the top placings. Canada has a famous event, maybe close to a half million in prizes, but on the average it’s much less than that. Most people are in it for the sport.” She smiled, leaned forward, sharing a secret. “Well, for ego, too, I admit. You’re always competing for points, which you accumulate toward yearend awards, at a big ceremony.” Lorna opened her arms wide, to signify how big, again almost losing her wrap.
Matt nodded, relaxed. I knew he was gearing up, letting Lorna get comfortable. “But you have to make a living somehow,” he said, giving a palms-up.
“Very impressive,” Matt said. There was no way Lorna could know that the police detective in front of her was afraid of large animals, horses in particular. I’d found this out through George Berger. Matt and I had sat with him and his wife at a department party, and he’d related an anecdote about how the rookie Matt Gennaro had refused to mount a police horse for a Veteran’s Day parade. He’d been able to make a deal with his captain, that he’d close at least three cold cases that week if they’d let him off parade duty. He’d closed four. Matt held a smug smile through the telling of the story.
“It’s department legend,” Berger said, when I asked him how he knew this, since he was much younger and couldn’t have known Matt in his early years with RPD.
Lorna sat down and picked up a photo from her desk, herself on a speckled gray-and-black horse. “This is Degas, my Appaloosa, one of my favorites. He’s won me one ribbon after another. Not many people realize Edgar Degas painted and sculpted horses as
well as ballerinas.” Lorna leaned back, steepled her fingers. “I’ve been a horsewoman since I was eight years old. Cleaned stalls in exchange for lessons, and now I own more horses than my first instructor at Sunset Ranch did.”
How nice for you , I thought.
“Impressive,” Matt said again, as if he had limited vocabulary when it came to equestrian prowess.
My eyes strayed to a large whiteboard on the side wall, its tray filled with erasers and thick markers in as many colors as the ribbons Lorna had won. I could tell she had left real science and engineering far behind. The board was filled with organizational charts, budget items with dollar amounts, timelines, and acronyms for funding sponsors. My eyes landed on DoD . Leave it to the Department of Defense to use a lowercase O, so that every scientist had to tell her or his editors it wasn’t a typo. DOE, DARPA, NRC. The Department of Energy, Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, Nuclear Regulatory Commission. A few nongovernment names, some of which were pharmaceutical companies I recognized, were on the board also, with question marks next to them. Not committed, I assumed. There wasn’t an equation or a force diagram in sight.
“Interesting that you didn’t choose horse-raising as a career,” Matt said.
I wondered if horses were actually raised, like children, or chickens and sheep. My mind wandered in search of a more appropriate word, but neither Matt nor Lorna seemed hampered by the word choice. Lorna told us how her father, a rancher, had convinced her that the best strategy was for her to get an education in a field where she could make enough money to afford the luxury of competitive riding.
“No money in these competitions?” Matt asked, glancing at the showcase, as if to ask the worth of dozens of satiny ribbons.
Lorna shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, almost losing her scarf/shawl. “Not much, at least not in the local shows. There’s decent money in the bigger jumping competitions, sometimes
as much as a hundred thousand dollars, but that would be split up among the top placings. Canada has a famous event, maybe close to a half million in prizes, but on the average it’s much less than that. Most people are in it for the sport.” She smiled, leaned forward, sharing a secret. “Well, for ego, too, I admit. You’re always competing for points, which you accumulate toward yearend awards, at a big ceremony.” Lorna opened her arms wide, to signify how big, again almost losing her wrap.
Matt nodded, relaxed. I knew he was gearing up, letting Lorna get comfortable. “But you have to make a living somehow,” he said, giving a palms-up.
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