Читать книгу Campbell Young Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - J.D. Carpenter - Страница 12

Dot Com Acres was smaller than Young had expected. He had envisioned a two-hundred-acre spread with rolling fields, ponds, and oak trees lining both sides of the lane that led to the century farmhouse and its attendant barns. Then he remembered that shortly after Khan had purchased Cedar Creek Stud Farm, he had sold off most of the land, so that what Young found instead was an urban ranch with a kitschy Ponderosa-style archway at its entrance proclaiming “Khan’s Dot Com Acres” in burnt cursive. Next to it was a green and white barn-shaped mailbox with “The Khans” painted on one side. Young drove under the archway, followed a short red brick driveway, and stopped in front of a colossal pink monster home. To his right, beyond a late model Dodge Ram pickup truck and a black Porsche Carrera, was a chain-link fence that enclosed a cedar deck and a teardrop-shaped swimming pool. To his left, Young could see a stable and two or three other buildings—a barn, an implement shed, and a squat structure the size of a school portable. The stable wasn’t all that large; it might have accommodated eight or ten horses. After Young parked his minivan and began to walk towards the stable, he could see that Khan’s land was bordered to the west by a vast, treeless, lawnless, still-in-progress housing development, to the east and south by the sprawling King County Golf and Country Club, and across the road to the north by a small strip mall. Right next door, just across a split rail fence, and for maybe three hundred yards—interrupting the smooth confluence of Khan’s land and the golf course—lay Morley Rogers’ Bright’s Kill. From this perspective, unlike the up-close-and-personal view he’d had on Tuesday, Young could see just how dilapidated Morley’s farmhouse was; he could also see the glassy new solarium at the back in which the meeting of May 17 had taken place. Morley owned twelve acres altogether. Young did a slow three-sixty. Mahmoud Khan’s farm was only fifteen, maybe twenty acres, tops. Two small squares on the giant quilt of Caledon horse country.

It was 9:00 a.m., and Young was expected. Immediately after yesterday’s meeting had concluded he had called to make an appointment. When he phoned the number he had for Mahmoud Khan, it turned out to be the downtown offices of MK Internet Services. A receptionist had told him that Mr. Khan was not in at the moment, but that she would page him and he would call Young from his cell phone. Five minutes later the call came through. Young told Khan that he was a homicide detective investigating the murder of Khan’s former trainer, Shorty Rogers. Khan said, “Ah, I wondered when I might hear from you people. The circumstances of Mr. Rogers’ death were, well, unsettling.” Young remembered the rich tones of Khan’s voice from the video. When Young said that he had a few questions for Khan and asked if it would be possible to meet in person, Khan consented, saying, “It’s the only way to do business. When would you like to meet?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Young had said, “if it’s not inconvenient.”

“Not inconvenient at all,” Khan had said, “as long as you don’t mind driving up to my farm at King City.” Young couldn’t help smiling to himself. Sometimes it was too damn easy.

The front door of the huge home opened and a tall, dark-skinned man in blue jeans, loafers, and a pink golf shirt emerged. “Detective Sergeant Young, I presume?” he called cheerfully, and Young nodded. Khan trotted down the front steps and across the driveway to where Young was standing. His handshake was firm and dry. “My golly,” he said, “I thought I was tall.” Khan was an inch or two over six feet, but Young towered over him and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Because of his size and his curly red hair, Young would sometimes remain behind the scenes if he was concerned that his appearance might queer a situation. At other times, to make a show of strength he would reveal himself early. He enjoyed watching the eyes of tough guys when they looked at him for the first time. Khan was still smiling, but his dark brown eyes looked like cold coffee. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you around.”

As they walked, Young talked about horse racing, how much he loved it, how much he had admired Shorty, how his daughter had worked for him and was now, in fact, Khan’s trainer, information that clearly surprised Khan. “Ah, Miss Young,” he said. “Of course. I knew that Shorty was the nephew of the old gentleman next door”—and here he waved his hand in the general direction of Morley’s property—“but I would never have made the connection between Miss Young and yourself. It’s a small world, my friend. What is it they say about six degrees of separation?”

Khan showed Young the rose garden, the pool, a drive shed behind the house with a brand new John Deere tractor in it as well as a baling machine and a hay wagon.

“How many horses do you own, Mr. Khan?” Young asked.

Khan said, “Well, there are the two in training with your daughter, and here at the farm I’ve got two brood-mares, both with spring foals at their sides, and a young stallion.”

“A stallion? Do you breed him commercially?”

Khan frowned. “I’ve been trying to attract outside mares, but so far I’ve not been very successful. When I bought him, I was assured he would be attractive to breeders.”

“What’s his pedigree?”

“He’s by Mr. Prospector out of a stakes-winning, stakes-producing Northern Dancer mare.”

Young raised his eyebrows. “In the purple. What was he like on the track?”

“He never raced. He bowed a tendon before his first start and never recovered his action. But he’s half-brother to two graded stakes winners.”

“What’s his stud fee?”

“Five thousand.”

Young nodded. Pretty steep for an unraced, unproven sire, he thought. No wonder nobody’s knocking at the door.

“I paid a hundred thousand for him at a breeding stock sale in Kentucky last September. He’s a beauty. Would you like to see him?”

“Very much. How old is he?”

“I bought him when he was five. He’s six now.”

Khan led Young into the stable. Out of the sunshine, it took a few seconds for Young’s eyes to adjust. He could smell fresh hay and manure. “This is Angel Band,” Khan said, nodding his head towards a stall, “and her colt by Promethean.” Young looked through the bars and saw a dark bay mare looking straight at him. Her legs were black right down to the hoof. Her foal was hiding behind her, but he could see the foal’s legs were black, too.

“And this,” Khan said, moving along to the next stall, “is Top of the Morning and her filly, also by Promethean.”

A beautiful chestnut mare with a bay foal. Not a stocking between them.

Young looked into the next stall, which contained a small black Shetland pony. “Who’s this guy?”

“Ah, that’s Max,” said Khan, smiling. “He came with the farm when I bought it. My daughters love him. They’re too big to ride him, but they treat him like a pet. And he actually performs a useful function. He acts as teaser for the stallion.”

“Teaser?”

“We use him to determine whether or not the mare is in season before we bring in the stallion.”

“In season means, like ... ”

“Um, receptive, I guess you might say. Willing.” Khan indicated an empty stall. “The stallion’s not here. I guess Pat’s already turned him out.”

“Who’s Pat?”

“Pat’s the stud groom.”

As they walked through the open doors at the other end of the stable, Young asked, “What’s his name?”

“The stallion? Sam McGee.”

As if on cue, the morning quiet and the birdsong were shattered by a piercing whinny, and Young looked up to see the stallion standing at the corner of his pasture, thirty feet away. Young walked towards him, and the horse sniffed the air. He was a rich blood bay, almost red. He held his head in regal hauteur, then snorted. When Young was only a few feet from him, Sam McGee turned and bolted away towards the far end of the pasture, neck bowed, head tucked under towards his chest, thick black mane and tail streaming behind him, the blinding white of his knee-high off-rear stocking punctuating his flight.

“Bingo,” said Young.

“I beg your pardon,” said Khan.

“He’s fantastic.”

“Yes,” Khan agreed, “but he’s also a money pit.”

Young fingered the nail scissors in his pants pocket.

“Come on,” said Khan, “I’ll show you the breeding shed.” He headed off in the direction of the building shaped like a school portable. “Both mares are bred to him for next year. It’s too early yet to tell if they’ve caught, but he certainly seems spunky enough. In fact, we’re breeding Angel Band back to him this morning.”

“Mind if I hang around? I’ve never seen how it’s done.”

Khan stopped. “Well, it’s different. Not like humans.” He laughed, embarrassed. “The stallion is all business, savage almost.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. No foreplay, for one thing. And it’s over very quickly.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Young.

Young drove straight from Dot Com Acres to a phone booth in the little strip mall across the road. The phone booth was in front of an adult video store. While he waited for Desk Sergeant Gallagher to connect him with Wheeler, he read the blurb on a poster advertising a film called Pussies Aplenty: “Little did L’il Abner know when he planted those mysterious seeds he’d found in his uncle’s tool shed what a bumper crop he was in store for—”

“Wheeler here.”

“I got the hairs.”

“What?”

“I got about a dozen hairs off the only stockinged horse at Dot Com Acres. And it wasn’t just any horse, it was a stallion. And he’d just bred a mare. It was quite a show.”

“Slow down, Sarge.”

“I watched them breed him. It was something to see.”

“I’ll bet. All that nature.”

“One of Mahmoud Khan’s daughters, a very beautiful young woman named Cheyenne, brought the mare in one door of the breeding shed, and another daughter, not so beautiful, named Tiffany, brought a Shetland pony named Max in the other door. There’s this wall about four feet high in the middle of the shed. The mare and the pony looked each other over for a while, and when the mare showed she was interested, the pony was led out of the shed, and then the stud groom, an old Irishman named Pat, brought the stallion in.”

“How did the mare show she was interested?”

“It’s called ‘winking.’”

“She winked at the pony?”

“Not with her eyes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Never mind.”

“Oh, I think maybe I do understand.”

“Good, because I’m not going to explain it to you.”

“So the pony got the mare all excited, then they took the pony away?”

“Right.”

“Poor pony.”

“He’s what they call gelded, Wheeler. He’s got no nuts. He couldn’t bang her even if he wanted to. Besides, he’s not tall enough. He could barely see over the wall in the breeding shed. He’s just there to help them figure out if the mare’s keen on the idea. He’s called a ‘teaser.’”

“Why can’t the stallion figure out for himself if she’s keen?”

“Well, he could, of course, but if she’s not keen, she’ll try to kick him, and he’s too valuable to risk getting injured. Hence the teaser.”

“Who’s clearly not valuable.”

“What can I say, it’s a business.”

“It’s no life being a teaser. You’ve learned a lot today, Sarge.”

“So then Pat, who’s got these dentures he clicks all the time, brings the stallion into the shed, and up he goes—the stallion, that is—and Pat makes sure the plug hits the socket, if you know what I mean—”

“He does what?”

“I’m not kidding. He gets right in there and makes sure everything’s the way it’s supposed to be. Like I say, it’s a business.”

“If you say so.”

“So then when the stallion’s finished his business and dismounts, old Pat throws a bucket of cold water on his privates, and he shrinks up like a little boy.”

“Serves him right. Is that when you got the hairs?”

“Damn straight. Old Pat led him back to his stall, so I tagged along, and when Pat went off to get some oats, I slipped into the stall and did a little clipping.”

“Weren’t you scared? My God, clipping hairs off a stallion!”

“Nah, nothing to it. Gentle as a lamb. That’s the way us guys are after we get some.”

“Right. So what happens now?”

“So now I give the hairs to Cronish, he ships them off to his friend in Guelph, and the friend in Guelph tells us whether the horsehairs that came off Shorty Rogers’ wound came from Khan’s stallion. If they did, then we’re getting warm.”

“And if they didn’t?”

“Then we keep looking.”

“Where?”

“The other horses in Barn 7, I guess.”

“Aren’t there like a hundred horses in each barn?”

“Hundred twenty.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah, well, they won’t all have stockings.”

Inside McCully’s, the wide-screen TV beside the karaoke stage was showing a strong man competition. A giant blond man was hauling on a rope, one step at a time. Behind him, the other end of the rope was attached to the front bumper of a school bus filled with screaming children.

Young and Priam Harvey settled themselves on stools at the bar. Harvey always sat on the stool at the end of the bar, on the corner. There were two stools and an Infinity video card game machine between him and the wall to his left; straight ahead of him, the rest of the bar extended towards the kitchen like homestretch would if you were horse and rider coming out of the far turn and heading into the lane. All the regulars knew that the corner stool belonged to Priam Harvey, and if one of them was sitting on it when he walked into the bar, whoever it was would quickly relinquish it. If a stranger was sitting on the corner stool when Harvey walked in, he would tap the stranger on the shoulder and tell him it was his stool he was sitting on and to get the hell off it. If the stranger protested, Harvey would summon Dexter. Dexter would approach the stranger and say, “Get the fuck off Mr. Harvey’s stool,” which, given Dexter’s menacing demeanor and imposing physique, always did the job.

After Dexter had brought a pint of Creemore for Harvey and two bottles of Labatt’s Blue for Young, their eyes were drawn upwards to the bank of television sets mounted above the bar. TV #1, as usual, was tuned to the afternoon card of thoroughbred racing at Caledonia Downs—post time for the first race was in twenty minutes; TV #2 showed a man demonstrating a golf swing; TV #3 showed a nubile young woman in workout gear doing stride jumps; TV #4, like the wide-screen TV, was tuned to the strong man competition: the same blond muscleman who had been pulling the school bus only minutes earlier was now carrying in his bare arms a boulder the size of a doghouse. The volume on all four bar TVs and the wide-screen TV was turned down. The music on the jukebox, which was located beside the exit to the lobby of the small chain hotel that housed McCully’s Tavern, was ambient and unobtrusive. The only time the volume on the jukebox was turned down was when a horse race was being broadcast. Right now on the jukebox the Eagles were urging a desperado to come down from his fences.

Harvey raised his pint glass to his mouth, and fifteen seconds later it was empty.

Young said, “Remember that conversation we had about why Shorty Rogers is called Shorty, and you thought he was named after some jazz guy, and I figured it was just because he was short?”

Harvey let go a long, sotto voce belch. “Yes, of course I remember. You were right and I was wrong. Why must you bring it up again, unless it’s to humiliate me further?”

“No, it’s not that. I just wondered where you got your name?”

Harvey looked up at him.

“Hey, if it’s something pretty personal, forget it. I was just curious.”

Harvey eyed his empty beer glass. “No, it’s all right. It’s only natural you’d be curious. People have been asking me that question all my life. My mother’s to blame.”

“Who said anything about blame? I think it’s a great name.”

“My mother was a professor of mythologies at a small liberal arts college in upstate New York.”

“You’re an American?”

Harvey smiled. “I was an American. I grew up in Corning, New York. When I was twenty, I dodged the draft. I came up here. Now I’m a Canadian. I’m one of you!” He patted Young on the shoulder. “Anyway, my mother named me after the king of Troy.” He motioned to Dexter down the bar, and Dexter nodded. “There are certain ironies you may be unaware of. King Priam was beloved by his people. He was kind, judicious, respectful of the gods. He sired fifty sons—Paris and Hector among them—and fifty daughters. I, on the other hand, am beloved by no one, man or woman, I am far from kind or judicious, I laugh uproariously at the notion of even one god, let alone many, and I have no issue. Oh, and I am also not a king. My mother loved stories about kings and heroes. She loved stories about brave knights who risked their lives to save damsels in distress. The rope of hair out the tower window. The sword in the stone. The sword laid on the grass between knight and maid when they’re forced to sleep in the forest. I guess she was hoping I’d be like King Priam, but, as it turned out, I couldn’t be less like him. Just another of life’s little ironies.” Harvey shook a cigarette loose from his pack and lit it. “King Priam was respected, even idolized; Priam Harvey—if you’ll excuse my crass use of the third person—is merely mortal.”

“Well,” Young said, “at least she didn’t name you Dwayne or something.”

Dexter set a fresh pint of Creemore on the bar. “There you go, Mr. Harvey.”

“Thank you, Dexter. Dexter, do you believe in God?”

Dexter frowned. “I guess I do most of the time, but when something awful happens, like an earthquake kills a whole pile of people, or some little kid gets murdered, then I’m not so sure.” He stopped. “Ready for a couple more, Sarge?”

“No, I’m good,” Young said, and after Dexter moved back down the bar, he said, “See, you’re wrong, Mr. Harvey. You are respected. Dexter calls you Mr. Harvey. Jessy does, too. Even I call you Mr. Harvey. Everybody calls you Mr. Harvey.”

“Big deal,” Harvey said. “I’m respected by barflies and members of the service industry.”

“And you’ve got your own barstool, for fucksake. How do you explain that?”

“It’s not charisma, I can tell you that. It’s not even my somewhat seedy, down-at-the-heels, philosopher-prince persona. It’s quite simply that I win more than I lose on the ponies and I’m better than anyone else at the trivia game. I’m smarter than them, that’s all.”

Young nodded and smiled, then glanced at the Blue Light clock above the bar. “So,” he said, “excuse me if I cut to the chase, but what have you got on Percy Ball?”

Harvey almost choked on his beer. “There’s a non sequitur if I ever met one.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I do know that yesterday you told me, and I quote, ‘I’ll have something for you tomorrow.’”

Harvey shrugged. “I’ll need another couple of days on that one. It’s turning out to be more difficult than I anticipated.”

Young said, “Look at me, Mr. Harvey,” and when Harvey wouldn’t look at him, Young said, “You’re a pretty interesting guy, and I know you’re smart and all, but how difficult can it be to get the goods on a smalltime crook who drinks all the time in the same place and who talks too much? You haven’t done anything, have you? You haven’t even begun. That offer I made you—fifty dollars a day—that only applies to those days when you actually do something. I hope you understand that. So far you haven’t earned a cent.”

Harvey was looking into his glass. “Why don’t you talk to him?”

Young shook his head. “I’ve already talked to him. Twice. He’s leery of me. That’s why I want you to do it. He won’t have his guard up with you.”

“Fine,” Harvey said. “I’ll have a full report for you tomorrow.”

“I find that a little hard to believe,” Young said, standing up from his stool, “seeing as how you’re settling in so nicely here. When exactly, between now and tomorrow, do you plan to talk to him?”

Harvey’s hand shook as he reached for his pint.

Young put his hand on Harvey’s wrist. “You said you’d help, but you haven’t done fuck all. If you won’t help me—or can’t help me—I’ll find someone who can.”

Harvey nodded.

“Tomorrow,” Young said. “I’ll give you till seven in the evening. I’ll meet you here. Me and Trick are stopping by for a drink.” He rattled his car keys in his trousers pocket, then turned and headed for the door.

Harvey waited until Young was gone, then lifted his head. “Dexter, my good man,” he said, “a shot of Bushmills, please.”