Читать книгу Ms. Longshot - Sylvie Kurtz - Страница 13

My next stop was the elevator hidden behind the rack of shoes and the rows of designer clothes in the closet in Renee’s office. I entered my code on the temperature control panel, followed the prompt for a palm print and an iris scan and waited patiently while the computer decided I was indeed who I claimed to be. The panel slid open and I stepped into the car. The glass elevator reminded me of a bullet and was just a little bit disconcerting in the way it blurred the concrete walls as it rushed to the basement level.

Kristi Burke, the undercover stylist, was waiting for me when I got off the elevator. She twisted her hands like a mad scientist facing a brand-new experiment. The lab coat didn’t help the effect.

“I had such fun shopping for this assignment,” Kristi said, leading me toward the dressing room. Two rolling racks of clothes waited beside a three-way mirror. She sat me in the hairdresser’s chair and stood behind me.

“Fun? For this assignment?”

Kristi’s nose wrinkled cutely as she smiled. “It’s not every day I get to dress down someone as gorgeous as you are. I thrive on a challenge.” She ran her fingers through strands of my long hair. “First, we need to tone down that beautiful mahogany into something more mousy.”

“Mousy?” I didn’t like the sound of that.

“I’m going to dye it a flat brown, then overdry it and butcher the ends so they split. Stable girls don’t have the money for designer haircuts.”

“Sounds absolutely splendid.” Oh, yeah, this was definitely a glamorous assignment. “I suppose you want me to bring back my acne and crooked front teeth.”

“Could you?” Kristi joked, then knuckled my chin. “Chin up, girl. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’ll be able to bring you back to your old self in a couple of hours when your assignment is through.”

Chewing on orange-flavored nicotine gum, Kristi chatted about her horrible Internet dating experiences as she dyed and shampooed and snipped and dried my hair into a dull brown frizz that nearly brought tears to my eyes. She took a raggedy scrunchie from one of the drawers by the mirrored table and twisted my hair into a messy bun. “This is the going stableyard style, I’m told. Or try a single braid down your back.”

I took in a long drag of air, hating my drab reflection in the mirror. “I think I can manage.”

“Good. Now makeup.” She showed me how to apply a concoction that dulled my skin and, voila, I was my mother’s worst fear come to life. Common. I wanted to treat that poor pasty girl in the mirror to a day at Bliss Spa. She deserved it.

Kristi swiveled the chair around until it was facing the racks of clothes. “Wardrobe’s up next. I had a hard time finding jeans that were long enough for you in the leg, but managed to unearth three pairs of Levi’s at the Goodwill store.”

Goodwill? That was a long way from Barney’s on Madison. Oh, this was getting worse by the second. Wearing other people’s clothes. I shuddered and scratched at imagined cooties jumping over my skin. Kristi went through the piles of underwear—cotton instead of my usual LaPerla silk—and T-shirts with advertising splashed across the front. She was especially proud of the faded red Barn Goddess one. By the time she closed the zipper on the scuffed L.L. Bean duffel bag, I was near tears. I wasn’t vain. Not really. But this was, well, so beneath my station. “If you need anything more, let me know and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

I hoped to identify the Horse Ripper within a week. I could survive a week in itchy clothes, forking manure. I could. Really. “I think I’m set. Thanks.”

Kristi beamed. “My pleasure.”

Alan Burke, Kristi’s brother, poked his head, dark-brown hair perfectly coiffed, through the dressing room door. “All done?”

“If she was, she’d be with you already, now wouldn’t she?” Kristi snapped. Since Kristi had started her smoke-cessation program, she tended to take out her frustrations on her brother. Poor thing.

Ignoring Alan, Kristi reached for a box on top of the dressing table. “I had some darker contacts made with your prescription. Your eyes are such a distinct warm sienna that I figured they might attract attention.”

I stashed Kristi’s Goodwill-filled duffel bag by the elevator door and made my way to Alan’s tech room. The room was filled to the brim with computers, closed-circuit television screens and a wall full of electronic gadgets that would listen, see and record any kind of information you could imagine. I looked at them with envy, knowing a groom wasn’t likely to need any of those beauties.

“How’s Kyle?” I asked Alan as I took a seat beside him in one of his high-tech chairs. Kyle was a Versace model who lived in Venice. Alan had met him at a recent ball and fallen head over heels in love.

His chocolate-brown eyes drooped at the corners like a disappointed puppy’s. “He hasn’t called in a while.”

“He will. How could he resist a sweetie like you?”

Alan shrugged and got down to the business of going over the technical details of my mission as Ally Cross. “Here’s your driver’s license, credit card, ATM card, check book, car registration, insurance card. I’ve also taken the liberty of getting you some of those annoying frequent-shoppers cards. Blockbuster, Stop & Shop, Starbucks. I also found one for an on-line tack shop.”

“Impressive.” He handed me my new life story stuffed in a faded navy-blue ripcord wallet with Velcro tabs. Swell.

“Everything’s backstopped and will stand up to a fairly rigorous investigation.” He added a set of keys on a battered brass stirrup keychain to my booty. “Now, I’ve arranged to have an old Ford Focus modified with a steering wheel accelerator so you can drive it.”

Because my right foot was missing, making it difficult to feel the pedal, I had to have a special modification to drive. God, I hated driving, but a groom wasn’t likely to arrive at a minimum-wage job in a chauffeur-driven limousine. “You think of everything.”

“That’s what they pay me for, darling. I also have this.” He reached into a drawer and took out a cell phone and a silver locket. He dangled the locket from his index finger. “It doesn’t look like much so the risk of having it stolen is practically nil. If you press the front like so.” He demonstrated by pressing his thumb against the diamond chip in the middle of the rose scroll and set off an alarm on his computer. “We’ll get an SOS signal and be able to come to your rescue. Of course, that’ll work better once you’re back in the city, but we’ll be able to keep track of your movements in Connecticut. It’ll just take us longer to get to you.”

Somehow that didn’t sound as reassuring as it should.

He secured the locket around my neck, then flipped open the phone. “This is really a small computer in disguise. With this, you’ll be able to transmit pictures back to me, record conversations should you need to and, using the sliding keypad, record whatever information Renee needs. Plug it in the recharging base every night. At 2:00 a.m., it will automatically transfer whatever you’ve entered in the computer to our mainframe here. If you need to send something before, just dial Hal’s number and he’ll take it from there.”

Hal being the mainframe. Did I mention Alan loved movies?

“I have a cell phone that can do most of that.”

“This one encrypts communications. And this one is registered to Ally Cross.”

“Good point.”

Alan smiled at me as he handed me the gadget. I stuffed it in the knock-off Dooney & Bourke purse Kristi had given me as part of my disguise. “You can call me anytime by pressing the number one on the speed dial function.” He scooped up a plastic bag at his feet. “Here are a couple of videos from last year’s Grand Prix jumping events. That should bring you up-to-date as to who’s who in the jumping world. I’ve also included a book on horse care and grooming. You’re a quick study so getting the procedures down pat shouldn’t take you long.”

I clutched the bag to my chest. Although I’d never personally attempted the feat, cleaning stalls wasn’t rocket science. “Great. Thanks.”

My last stop was to see Jimmy “The Heartbreaker” Valentine, the agency’s personal trainer. I loved him. Of course, so did every other agent, even though “Backbreaker” would be a more apt title for him. He’d worked for the CIA and didn’t take any of the crap we dished out. And I can honestly say that none of us have made Jimmy’s job easy.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jimmy said as I walked into his gym. He stood in his black shorts and sweat-stained gray T-shirt in front of the mirror doing bicep curls with thirty-pound dumbbells. “How’s my girl?”

I fluffed my frizz. “As you can see from Kristi’s work of art, I’m going undercover.”

He broke out into a face-eating grin. “Congratulations, I know you’ve been waiting to lead a case for a long time.”

“Well, it’s not exactly what I had in mind.” I flopped onto a padded bench beside the neat rows of dumbbells on a rack.

“You can do it. I have faith in you.”

And his boat-wide smile made shoveling manure suddenly sound like a true opportunity rather than a punishment.

Jimmy was the only one who understood how hard I’d had to work to hide my condition and make my handicap look effortless. He understood because his older brother, Mario, had an arm ripped off above the elbow in a motorcycle accident when he was eighteen. Jimmy had grown up watching Mario endure the long process of fitting an artificial limb and the painful and frustrating hours of practice that went into rehabilitation.

“Hey, guess what?” he said.

“What?”

“Kara’s pregnant.”

For whatever reason, Jimmy tried to reassure me every time I came to the gym that if an ugly, one-armed, junkyard dog like his brother could find a beautiful woman to marry him, then my finding a partner was definitely in the cards. I’m not sure he understood how superficial men in my social circle could be. “When’s the baby due?”

“Right before Christmas.”

“Give him my congratulations.”

Jimmy put both hands up and backed away. “Heck, no, he’s already feeling too proud of himself.”

I laughed and picked nervously at a nail that Kristi had so thoughtfully stripped of polish and clipped nearly to the quick. “So, what do you think?”

He frowned and that meant I wouldn’t like the answer. “I think you should wear your workout leg.”

“Oh, no, please, Jimmy. It’s so ugly.”

He sat beside me on the bench and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “The pretty leg will crap out under the load and your residual limb won’t be as comfortable. You’re heading for hard work, sweetheart. You’ve gotta take care of yourself.”

Coming from Jimmy that didn’t feel like a reproach, but the straight truth. I leaned against his shoulder. “How will I hide it? No one’s supposed to know who I am.”

“Wear pants. Now that it’s getting warmer, that’s a bummer, but it’s the best option. I had Kristi find you a couple of pairs of boots and fitted them with Talux feet.”

I sighed. The carbon active heel would help me walk with a fluid, natural motion in a variety of terrains. Most of all, the unit could withstand moderate impact activities that my lifelike, silicone-covered cosmetic leg couldn’t—even with its computer controls. But none of that altered the fact that the metal workout leg was butt ugly.

Jimmy scrunched his bushy eyebrows and got all serious on me. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“You gotta promise me you’re gonna take care of yourself. Two of my three kids are down with some sort of spring flu, and Linda’s driving me crazy as it is. I don’t want to have to worry about you, too.”

Linda being his wife who only drove him crazy because he loved her so much. Sometimes I wished he wasn’t married because, with him, my leg would never be an issue.

“I promise.”

“You’ll be expending more energy than you’re used to, so you’re gonna have to increase your calorie intake. If you lose more than five pounds, your prosthesis won’t fit properly and you could end up with all sorts of problems.”

Keeping weight on wasn’t a new issue for me. “I promise I’ll eat.”

He glared at me with the ball-shrinking gaze that was said to have cowered more than one CIA recruit. He forgot that it didn’t work as well on women. “Three squares. No skipping.”

I nodded. “I’ll pack energy bars.”

“That’s my girl.” He stood up and clamped his hands to his hips. “Now get on the mat and let me take you through the exercises I want you to do every day to keep your core strong and balanced.”

He understood me, but that didn’t mean he cut me any slack. “Backbreaker,” I teased.

His chuckle negated his scowl. “Drop down and give me ten.”

The next morning I glanced at the ugly workout leg leaning against the wall next to my bed at my Darien estate and groaned. Suck it up, Alexa. There was no use complaining. The workout leg was the best tool for the job I had to do.

An hour after getting up, I used my Ally Cross frequent-buyer card at a Starbucks before getting onto I-95, treating myself to a grande Americano and choking down an energy bar to keep my promise to Jimmy. In Norwalk, Connecticut, I switched over to the Merritt Parkway because the ride was prettier. My grip on the steering wheel tightened and I belted out a tune at the top of my lungs along with Gwen Stefani on the radio to keep my thoughts from filling my mind with doubts.

In Hartford, I merged onto I-84 and dismissed my building jitters by concentrating on finding the Ashcroft signs. Make that singular. The town was farther and tinier than I’d expected, and the clock on the dashboard was inching closer to seven much too quickly. Showing up late on my first day wasn’t the best way to start.

Once I found Ashcroft, I followed the stone wall surrounding the farm for a mile before I turned into the red-bricked pillared entrance to the equestrian center.

To say the place was grand would be an understatement. The state-of-the-art equestrian facility was located on fifty-five rolling acres of woodlands, hills and pastures. Miles of fence made from the white PVC that imitated wood planks and would last forever without needing fresh paint lined the roadway. Definitely not cheap.

The stable was as impressive as the château-inspired mansion where Patrick Dunhill lived. Brick-red paint and white accents kept the color scheme of the main house going. The cupola in the center of the roof matched the mansion’s turret. And the covered entry was a nice touch. I left the Focus in the parking lot and, with a bit of trepidation swimming around my stomach—which I blamed on the large cup of coffee rather than nerves—I headed for the barn office.

I could do this. I could.

Bart Hind, the manager, sat behind a black metal desk, barking into the phone to what, I gathered, was the feed supplier. His skin looked slept in, the folds and wrinkles ironed in as if he’d stayed too long in one spot. His hair had once been brown, but now was so shot with white that it looked dusty. He wore navy work pants and a plaid work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Who are you?” he growled as he slammed down the phone.

“Ally Cross. You were expecting me this morning.”

He glanced at the large clock on the wall and grunted. I’d thankfully found the place and squeaked in a few minutes early. He sidestepped from behind the desk. With a hand gesture, he told me to follow him. His work boots thunked on the concrete floor as he made his way into the barn.

I’d always loved the smell of stables—hay, sweet feed and leather. But there was no time to admire the bouquet. I had to pay attention to Hind’s rapid-fire instructions.

“You’ll have six horses.” He chewed every word as if it were the toughest cut of meat, then spit it out like gristle. “You’re expected to muck out their stalls, feed, groom, rotate them into paddocks and get them ready for their owners according to schedule. You work five till whenever the job’s done. Horses don’t care about a clock. Mondays are off.”

“Where will I find this schedule?” I asked, head spinning just a little bit.

“In the tack room and feed room.”

He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. A head popped up from a stall up the aisle and he gestured the woman over. “This is the new girl. Show her around. She’s got the Siegel and all five Hardel horses.”

The girl’s gray eyes widened behind her water-spotted glasses. “Sure. No problem.”

And just like that Bart Hind was gone, leaving me standing there as if I were a cartoon character suspended above a canyon with nowhere to go but down.

“I’m Dawn Waller,” the girl said, offering her hand. Her head full of droopy caramel curls bounced with each of her steps. Kristi had hit the wardrobe right on the nose, judging by Dawn’s outfit—jeans, boots, faded navy T-shirt.

“Ally Cross.” The calluses at the base of each of Dawn’s fingers scratched at my too-soft palm. I let go of her hand as politely as I could.

“Don’t take it personally,” Dawn said, leading me down the wide roughened-concrete center aisle. “Bart’s a regular jackass. But he’s not here for his personality. Mr. Dunhill cares about the horses. Period. He couldn’t care less about the people. Unless they’re helping pay the bills, of course.”

She waved her arm at the stalls, whose varnished pine gleamed gold under the daylight overheads running the length of the barn. “We have thirty-six stalls. Two are empty at the moment. But they won’t stay that way for long. Mr. Dunhill has a waiting list a mile long. Other than Hind, there are six grooms—well, six now that you’re here—a maintenance assistant and two trainers. You’ll meet them later.”

Dawn introduced me to a couple of grooms, then moved on to the tack room. The pine-sided room had a utility counter and sink. A large white board listed each horse down the left-hand side and the horse’s training and turnout schedule on the right. A multipronged hook hung from the ceiling to clean bridles. Each station had a saddle rack, saddle pad rack and a bridle rack and a built-in tack trunk. Separating each station was a locker with each owner’s name printed by a label maker. I’d have to find time to inspect their contents and see if they turned up anything related to the Horse Ripper.

Dawn showed me a similar white board in the feed room delineating each horse’s rations. She pointed out the two wash stalls with hot water and heat lamps and the six grooming cross-tie areas with nonskid pads.

“These horses are quite pampered,” I said.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet! Some owners bring in an equine psychologist and a massage therapist. There’s even one who calls in a certified hypnotist to make sure her darling’s happy. Can you believe it?”

Well, yeah, I could. I got massage therapy for my horse Persephone every week now that she was growing old. “Amazing.”

“Some people definitely have too much money to burn.” As we reached another section of stalls, Dawn cupped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “Watch out for Erin.”

“Why?”

“The bitch is a professional suck-up. She thinks ratting on us is part of her job.”

Dawn gave the stall wall a quick jab. Erin popped up.

“Erin Mays,” Dawn said. “Meet the new girl. Ally Cross.”

Erin’s wide-set green eyes squinted at me through the open stall door with the feral intensity of a killer iguana. Her brown French braid started right at her forehead, giving it the look of a ruff on top of her head. I almost expected it to pop up and spread like it did on nature shows.

“Nice to meet you,” I said and smiled as cheerfully as I could.

“Same here,” she said with all the warmth of wet wood.

As we moved on, I couldn’t help rolling my shoulders to dislodge the spear of ill will shot in my direction.

Dawn was back to her conspiratorial voice. “Katelyn Tierney’s voice is all honey, but don’t let that fool you. She’s not going to be happy to see you.”

“Why not?”

“She’s been maneuvering to get herself assigned to Ross Hardel’s horses, and here you are a newbie taking over her coveted spot. They’re hers this morning, and she’s not going to give them up without a fight.” Dawn smirked. “She has a crush on him.”

“Who? Ross Hardel?”

Dawn nodded. “She’s sadly mistaken if she thinks a romp between the sheets is going to get her a ring on the finger.”

“Great.” Would Katelyn’s infatuation make getting close to Ross difficult? With two out of five grooms wanting to cut me to pieces before they’d even met me, gathering the underground gossip Renee wanted wasn’t going to be quite as easy as I’d imagined. But Dawn seemed open enough. I’d have to cultivate her friendship and see what I could unearth about the goings-on at the Ashcroft Equestrian Center.

“Katelyn?” Dawn said to the blonde spreading wood shavings on a freshly cleaned stall floor. “Here’s Ally. The new girl. I’ll let you show her what Waldo and the Hardel horses need.”

I had a bad feeling about Katelyn. Her smile reminded me of a shark—the type that knew the difference between a seal and a swimmer and went after the swimmer every time.

She handed me a pitchfork and said, “Sink or swim, honey. I haven’t got the time or the inclination to hold your hand.”

Welcome to the team, Ally.