Racing From Death: A Nikki Latrelle Mystery Read online

  RACING FROM DEATH

  A Nikki Latrelle Racing Mystery

  Sasscer Hill

  From the Agatha and Macavity Award-Nominated Author of Full Mortality

  PRAISE FOR THE NIKKI LATRELLE TRILOGY

  “Sasscer, the honor comes in your accomplishments and talent, and you should take great pride in such a magnificent trifecta. Congratulations!!! Well done. Dick Francis lives!”

  – Steve Haskin, Senior Correspondent, Blood-Horse. Former National Correspondent, Daily Racing Form, winner of eighteen awards for excellence in turf writing.

  “If you love Dick Francis, you’ll love Sasscer Hill. If you don’t love Dick Francis, you’ll still love Sasscer Hill! This twisty and fast-paced page turner is cleverly plotted and genuinely entertaining—Hill’s insider knowledge and love of the horse-racing world shines through on every page. Sasscer knows her stuff!”

  - Hank Phillippi Ryan. Agatha, Anthony, Mary Higgins Clark, and Macavity Award–winning author

  “If you miss the late Dick Francis’s racetrack thrillers, you’ll be intrigued by Sasscer Hill’s Racing From Death”

  – The Washington Post, August 29, 2012

  “Hill herself a Maryland horse breeder, is a genuine find, writing smooth and vivid descriptive prose about racetrac characters and backstretch ambeince that reeks authenticity.”

  – John L. Breen, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  "Sasscer Hill brings us another exciting racehorse mystery . . . an utterly unique take on racetrack thrillers." - Betty Webb, Mystery Scene Magazine, Summer Issue, 2012

  "New novel about a Laurel Park jockey is a wild ride. While compared to Dick Francis and Sue Grafton, Hill's work reflects her respect for horse racing and the influence of the late Walter Farley. A page-turner, the book's sentences are short and crisp. The action comes off as authentic."

  - Sandra McKee, Baltimore Sun, April, 2012

  “If you like the work of Dick Francis or Sue Grafton, you will like Sasscer Hill. With a true insider’s knowledge of horse racing, Hill brings us Nikki Latrelle, a young jockey placed in harm’s way who finds the courage to fight the odds and the heart to race for her dreams.”

  –Mike Batttaglia, NBC racing analyst and TV host.

  “This is a major new talent and the comparisons to Dick Francis are not hyperbole.”

  --Margaret Maron, New York Times Best selling author and winner of the Edgar, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards.

  “Facing potential death and long hidden secrets in her family, ‘Racing from Death’ is an exciting thriller set in the world of horse racing, very much recommended.”

  – Carl Logan, Midwest Book Review, February 8, 2013

  “Nikki is one of the most appealing fictional characters I’ve ever met. You are rooting for her every inch of the way. The descriptions of backstretch life are enchanting.”

  – Lucy Acton, Editor of Mid-Atlantic Thoroughbred

  “I thoroughly enjoyed Full Mortality–the pages fly by, the characters are vivid, and Hill captures life on the backstretch perfectly.”

  –Charlsie Cantey, racing analyst for ESPN, ABC, CBS and NBC.

  "Sasscer Hill has hit her stride with her second, and hopefully one of many more, race track mysteries, 'Racing from Death'. A page turner that does not disappoint."

  - Martha Barbone, Horse of the Delaware Valley, April, 2012

  “Anyone reading The Sea Horse Trade, needs to be sure to have plenty of time because it’s impossible to put it down.”

  – Martha Barbone, Horse of Delaware Valley, June 2013

  Racing From Death

  A Nikki Latrelle Racing Mystery

  Copyright 2012

  By Sasscer Hill

  All Rights Reserved

  Wild Spirit Press

  ISBN-13: 978-1515254317

  ISBN-10: 1515254313

  Cover art by R. L. Hayden

  For Donelson Christmas

  Racing From Death

  Chapter 1

  It was the worst ride I’d ever seen.

  A length ahead of me on the Laurel Park homestretch, eighteen-year-old Paco Martinez lurched wildly in the saddle every time he tried to whip his horse. He looked barely able to stay on, let alone achieve the explosive pump-and-drive essential to a strong finish.

  I wasn’t doing so well myself. I plodded behind in last place – hardly a surprise, as my longshot mount had earned the nickname Chokey Pokey. I waved my whip and pumped my arms, but mostly for show. Hitting Chokey was pointless, but a female jockey can’t afford the label, “weak finisher.”

  Paco, an apprentice rider on the two-to-one favorite, could afford it even less. As we closed in on the wire a good eight lengths behind the rest of the field, Paco swayed hard in the saddle. His left foot flew from the stirrup, and his arms clutched desperately at his horse’s neck. I was afraid he’d fall, and Chokey would run him down. Somehow, he held on until he crossed the finish line horse made it safely back to the groom waiting for Paco’s horse near the paddock.

  After dismounting, I got my saddle, stood in line behind Paco, and weighed in with the clerk of scales. Heading toward the building that housed the jockeys’ rooms, I winced when a group of irate bettors gathered on the concrete apron shouted verbal insults at Paco. Once inside, he stumbled in the hall ahead of me.

  “Paco, are you all right?” What was wrong with him?

  Without answering me, he shuffled away.

  Sometimes, people don’t want you to help them. I shook my head and took an abrupt right into the cramped rectangular area reserved for women.

  I didn’t feel that bad for Paco. He’d lost a race, but he’d bounce back. And unlike me, he had the more spacious guy’s section farther down the main hall. With a large professional sweatbox. We ladies had a tiny glassed-in booth with floor-mounted steam jets that burned our feet. The guys enjoyed an expert masseuse. We had to settle for Ben Gay.

  I stripped off my riding clothes and stepped into a shower, groaning when a stream of hot water hit my tight shoulder muscles. Paco’s bizarre ride had scared me. I didn’t want to see him hurt. I liked him.

  In a strange country, struggling with the language barrier, the kid had always been polite and friendly. After I was thrown from a horse one morning, he’d come by my barn to see if I was okay. He’d pulled a small silver-colored religious medal from his pocket and pressed it into my hand.

  “Is San Raphael,” he’d said, his smile shy. “Patron of healing. Is for you.”

  I couldn’t forget a kindness like that.

  While pulling on my street clothes, I heard a thump from the hall. A dull thud followed. What were the guys up to now? Curious, I buttoned my shirt, fluffed my short hair, and opened the door.

  Outside, Paco lay on his back, the fingers of one hand splayed against the baseboard as if he'd grabbed at the wall before falling.

  "Paco?" I knelt, staring at his flushed face, hearing his ragged breathing. A faint chemical smell drifted from his skin. His eyes fluttered open, then closed. I grabbed his wrist, felt a weak, uneven pulse, and scrambled to my feet.

  "Help!" I yelled, as I ran down the hall toward the men’s locker room, slowing before busting into the domain of half-naked men. Screw it, Paco needed help.

  “Hey!” I called and rushed inside, almost colliding with one of the Belgado brothers running toward me from the side with a towel around his skinny hips.

  I heard pounding footsteps from the back of the room. Mike Jones, the ex-jockey who managed the racing silks, ran toward me.

  "What's the matter, Nikki?" he said.

  “It’s Paco, he’s hurt.”

  I took off, and
the guys followed. Then Mike saw Paco.

  "Oh, man." He squatted next to Paco and cursed softly. "I told the boy to stop that diet crap. They won't listen, none of ‘em."

  Standing, he pulled his cell and tapped in numbers. "Is Doc there? Tell him to come to the jock’s room quick. We got a boy passed out."

  I sank to my knees next to Paco. His flush had faded to a gray pallor. Who should we call? Did he have family in the states, or was he on his own? I knew what that was like.

  Mike closed his phone and shot a look at Belgado who stood open mouthed, staring at Paco.

  "Put some clothes on,” Mike said.

  Muttering, Belgado trotted back toward the guy’s locker.

  "I watched him ride the ninth,” Mike said. “Looked like he had one foot in the grave, way he rode. That boy had the favorite, he should have won! Bettors was cursing ‘n throwing their tickets on the pavement.”

  “I know.” I said, glancing away. “I heard them.”

  Motion near the entrance caught my attention. Doc Johnson hurried toward us with a large medical bag in his big, capable hands. He set it down next to Paco, his dark face tightening as he examined the jockey.

  “Mike,” Doc said, “You'd better call an ambulance." His voice was low and steady, but his eyes held an edge of fear.

  Nervously, I twisted the horseshoe ring on my finger, remembering Mike’s reference to "that diet crap.” Paco had passed his weight check after our race, I’d seen the scales’ needle settling at 108 pounds. But the kid had stumbled and almost fallen when he stepped off the rubber plate.

  As an apprentice jockey, he was allowed a lower weight. This gave his horse an advantage and racehorse trainers a reason to hire him. At twenty-three, and blessed with a fast metabolism, I didn't obsess about calories. But Paco's sturdy build resembled a fireplug. How had he made 108 pounds?

  "Nikki, you need to move." Doc's words startled me.

  Rising, I scrambled back as Belgado and some other jockeys came up the hallway. Their faces were quiet and worried. We all stared at Paco.

  Will Marshall separated from the group and stood next to me.

  “You okay?” he asked, touching my shoulder.

  I nodded. Will had ridden against me a few times. He tended to be straightforward and fair, and I liked his green eyes. I found his closeness comforting.

  Doc removed his stethoscope from Paco's chest and unzipped a canvas bag. He whipped out small disks and wires connected to a machine with a monitor.

  Will leaned forward. "I used to work as an EMT. . . ."

  "In that case, here." Doc shoved a blue bottle with a tube and plastic mask into Will's hands, then pressed the disks against Paco's chest. His dark eyes focused on the monitor. With a sharp intake of breath, he pumped his hands frantically on Paco's chest.

  Will slipped the mask over Paco's face as a siren wailed in the distance.

  Doc's words to Will were almost a whisper. "No heartbeat."

  Paco couldn't die. I glanced at the faces of the other jockeys. Worry. Fear. We were the only athletes routinely followed by a moving ambulance whenever we competed. Racing was so dangerous, it could be any of us lying there. It could be me.

  Lights from the ambulance reflected off the floor by the entry door. Paramedics burst in with a stretcher, their heavy work shoes loud on the tile floor.

  Doc called to them, “We need a defibrillator.”

  A muscular, female medic gave the doctor a dismissive nod. "We'll take over," she said, and all but pushed Doc and Will aside before going to work on Paco with a piece of equipment that must have been the defibrillator. Another medic slid an IV needle into Paco’s arm.

  Doc scooped up his stuff, and he and Will moved out of the way.

  I felt like an intruder and walked closer to the entry door. By the time I glanced back, they were maneuvering the stretcher next to Paco. Then, they loaded him up and strapped him down.

  The glass door opened, and a tall figure blocked the autumn light. Damn – Maryland Racing Commission’s chief investigator, Offenbach. He walked toward us, frowning when he saw Paco's limp form on the stretcher.

  Everyone watched as the medics hoisted Paco up and rushed him out the glass doors to the ambulance.

  Offenbach stepped past me to Doc, leaving me to stare at the back of his buzz-cut head. No surprise he’d shown up, since his office was next door, but I was shaky enough and didn't need the investigator on my case again. He always seemed to have it in for me.

  I’d been falsely implicated in a crime a while back, and Offenbach had ruled me off the track. Though cleared, I was still uncomfortable around him. Maybe I could ease out of the building. I took a few slow steps sideways, but Offenbach turned, nailing me with those cop-eyes.

  "Latrelle," he said, "Don't leave. I want you in my office when I'm done here."

  Oh boy. I was too nervous to stand still, so I got a Diet Coke from the machine, then paced the hall. One word from Offenbach, and the stewards could pull my license, stripping me of job and income.

  Get a grip, Nikki, you haven't done anything wrong.

  I should get over to the backstretch where I worked a second job as exercise rider for trainer Jim Ravinsky. No doubt my racehorse, Hellish, was getting indignant that I was late with her evening feed. Jim didn't like her raising a ruckus, disturbing the other horses.

  Instead, I read some notices on the bulletin board, not absorbing the words. Damn. What had happened to Paco?

  Chapter 2

  Unreadable as a brick wall, the chief investigator made me want to squirm as I sat facing him in his corner office. Three desks and some filing cabinets crowded the small room. One wall had a cell-like window, and outside, the night was settling in. I felt Paco’s presence, as if he were nearby.

  Palms flat on his desk, silent, he just stared at me. I almost confessed, except I hadn't done anything.

  "What do you know about jockeys using weight loss drugs?" Offenbach asked.

  My face usually gives me away, so I tried for expressionless. "I don't know anything about it."

  Offenbach's manner shifted. He placed his elbows on the desk slouching his tall frame forward. "But you've heard something?"

  No way a one-time diet drug would make Paco so sick. More likely it was abuse over a period of time. I'd heard of jockeys who "flipped" their meals like a bulimic. I didn’t want to get involved in any of this.

  Offenbach had the patience of a barn cat at a mouse hole. I fidgeted on my wooden seat.

  "I don't know anything.” I hadn’t heard anything, and wouldn't snitch on my buddies if I had.

  "You're better than that, Latrelle."

  Was that a compliment? From Offenbach?

  The desk phone rang, and Offenbach’s face never altered as he answered and listened to a man's voice I could hear faintly through the receiver. He set the phone down.

  "Martinez is dead. DOA at Laurel Hospital." Offenbach's flat eyes assessed my reaction.

  A small, "Oh," escaped me. I swallowed. "Do they know what killed him?"

  "Not till the autopsy comes in. I suspect something to keep the weight off. You sure you don’t know anything about that?"

  "I told you, I don’t."

  "You might want to rethink your allegiance. Stopping substance abuse will only benefit you people as a group."

  "I don't know anything about substances." I abandoned my attempt at a poker-face and glared at him. "Maybe a few get carried away with diuretics or the hotbox, but mostly, we're the fittest people in the world." How else could we whip, pump, push, steer and stay balanced on thousand-pound animals for distances that stretched as far as a mile and a quarter? "Can I go now?"

  Offenbach nodded. I marched out his door through the empty lobby of the racing secretary's office. Outside, a little breeze scattered discarded bet-tickets, and a sickle moon overhead reflected dimly on the small white papers. I hugged my denim jacket tighter against the night's increasing chill. I'd told Offenbach the truth. Didn't know anyth
ing about substance abuse. Didn’t want to know.

  But someone once told me ignorance is the devil’s best friend.

  Chapter 3

  Eight in the morning, the day after Paco died. The track was closed for the half-hour morning break while three tractors dragged equipment around re-smoothing the dirt surface. I'd already galloped five horses and had a few more to get out between eight-thirty and the track’s final closing time at ten a.m.

  Lying low in Jim’s office, I avoided my fellow backstretch workers. They reminded me of paparazzi, hounding me for the story of Paco’s death.

  A headline caught my attention from the scattered sheets of the Daily Racing Form covering most of Jim’s desk: NEW JERSEY JOCKEYS QUESTIONED IN DRUG USE SCANDAL.

  I grabbed the article, sank into a chair, and braced for the barn’s fat tabby cat to pounce on my lap. He did, and once he'd curled in a heap, I studied the paper. Authorities had questioned two jockeys at Monmouth Park about drug abuse. A paragraph of speculation, careful avoidance of the jocks’ names. Not enough information to warrant the big headline.

  I wadded the page into a ball and tossed it to the floor of Jim's office. The cat was after it in a flash. The paper bounced off a gallon jug of Bigeloil liniment like a ping pong ball, rolled over a few leather lead shanks, and landed in an empty doughnut box.

  Jim stepped into the room as the tabby smacked the newspaper ball into the barn aisle. The cat disappeared after it in a blur of grey and brown fur. My boss didn't say anything, but something that might have been a smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. He sat behind his desk, shoulders stooped beneath his grey hair and blue "Myers Feed" cap.