The Sea Horse Trade: Nikki Latrelle Racing Mysteries, #3

PRAISE FOR THE NIKKI LATRELLE TRILOGY

S asscer, 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

The Sea Horse Trade

A Nikki Latrelle Racing Mystery

Copyright 2013 by Sasscer Hill

All Rights Reserved

Wild Spirit Press

ISBN-13: 978-1515265795

ISBN-10: 151526579X

Dedication

For my husband, Daniel Filippelli, and my family– Lillian, Alidia, and Bartholt Clagget.

The Sea Horse Trade

Chapter 1

Iheard the SUV before I saw it. The deep thump of subwoofers rumbled in the deserted street as I headed away from the sea, moving west on the sidewalk. Pausing, I glanced back. The vehicle cruised slowly toward me, chrome and glossy black beneath the bright streetlights. At four a.m., it was the only car on Hallandale Beach Boulevard.

I quickened my pace, stepping around a pile of crushed beer cans and dirty party streamers, probably left over from New Year’s Eve. Overhead, the palm trees shimmered, and their stiff fronds rattled in the humid breeze blowing along the boulevard from the Atlantic Ocean.  I didn’t need to be at Gulfstream Park racetrack this early, but sleep had evaded me, nervous energy driving me into these predawn hours. Again, I glanced behind me. The pounding music grew louder as the black SUV loomed closer, its chrome grill gleaming like shark’s teeth.

Ahead, an abandoned shopping cart lay against a small bus-stop shelter. Instinct drove me to step behind the shelter’s solid rear wall, and from there, I peered around the edge, my senses heightened. Inside the vehicle the music seemed to crescendo into a scream as the glistening metal drew even with the bus stop.

The rear door that faced me jerked open. A girl, her dark hair streaming, pushed herself away from the door frame, flinging herself into space. Her feet hit the pavement, she lost her balance, and went down. Tumbling across the concrete, she landed on her side near the curb. She was almost naked, dressed in a tiny sequined outfit.

The vehicle’s transmission slammed into reverse as the girl struggled to get to her feet. She cried out as one leg gave way and she fell back to the pavement. The SUV stopped, and I waited for someone to get out, to help her. The passenger window lowered, and loud Spanish rap poured into the street. I glimpsed a stubbled face behind dark-glasses.

You stupid bitch, his Latino accented voice yelled over the music. You break your leg?  What good are you now?

The girl tried to crawl away and I almost rushed to her, but a glint of metal shone from the car’s window. A gun.

No! I screamed. God, no!

Two hot flames. Gunfire shattered my ears. The girl screamed, jerked twice. A geyser sprang from her chest, spilling blood over little strips of sparkling cloth. The SUV sped away.

Frantically, I searched the boulevard for help. We were on our own.

I ran into the street and squatted next to the girl. I thrust a hand out to steady myself, my palm skidding on her blood. Ripping off my hoodie, I wadded it and tried to compress her chest wound. A second hole darkened the skin above her collar bone.

The girl’s eyes were open, fixed on me as her heart pumped a well of blood beneath my hand.

They’re gone.  My voice cracked. Did they hear me scream?  God, don’t let them come back.

Carefully, I removed my cell phone from my blood-soaked hoodie. I’m getting an ambulance.  I thumbed 911. You’re gonna be fine, I nodded like I believed it, my left hand pushing harder against the makeshift compress.

She coughed horribly. Blood dribbled from her mouth.

No, I whispered. Don’t die.

A girl’s been shot, I said, when the 911 dispatcher came on the line. Hallandale Beach Boulevard at –  I looked around wildly. There’s something called a Publix, next to a Walgreens. What?  Nikki Latrelle, my name is Nikki Latrelle.

Beneath me, the girl shuddered. Her eyes became fixed and unseeing.

I slumped to the pavement, the girl’s blood soaking into my jeans. I stared at her. Beneath the blood, the tops of her small breasts were pushed up by a tight glittering bra. Lower down, a G-string hid almost nothing. God, she didn’t look more than thirteen.    I could hear the dispatcher’s voice calling me from the phone. I set it on the curb, turned back to the girl.

Then I saw the dark turquoise sea horse on the flawless skin of her forearm.

Chapter 2

Tattooed on the delicate area between her palm and elbow, the two-inch sea horse was almost lace like. Designed by an artistic hand, the creature’s one green eye seemed to stare and glimmer with energy, as if it had stolen the girl’s spirit.

In the distance a siren wailed. Blue-and-red lights flashed up the boulevard. These Hallandale Beach cops sure hit the scene fast. The patrol car slowed as it approached, and a spotlight played across us from the passenger window. A police radio squawked as the cruiser rolled to a stop.

Two uniformed officers climbed out, a small man and a blond woman. They wore dark clothes and thick-soled boots. Radios and other equipment were clipped onto their wide belts. Their guns, holstered like muzzled dogs, made me shudder.

Look at their faces. Not at their guns.

The woman officer grimaced. Stepping around the pool of blood, she squatted next to the dead girl and checked for a pulse. She’s gone. 

The man pulled his radio and spoke. Behind them, a siren’s shriek quieted to a moan as an ambulance pulled up and stopped. Two EMTs rushed toward us with medical kits.

The male cop made a slow-down movement with his hand. You guys are a little late. I already radioed the ME.

Not your call, said a grim-faced medic. And we still have to examine her.

Were they going to get into a turf fight?

Sure, said the male cop. I was just saying.

The medic pushed past the officer, glanced at me. Miss, are you all right?

Yes.  I barely recognized my voice. This –  I stared at the blood everywhere. It’s – it’s her blood.

The medic crouched next to the dead girl, while the woman officer bent one knee to the pavement next to me. A lot of miles on her face, but her eyes were kind.

I’m officer Hayes, Hallandale Beach Police Department. Are you Nikki Latrelle, the one who called this in?

Yes. I—was walking from my motel, the Sand Castle.

Did you see what happened when this woman was shot?  Hayes studied my face.

"She’s just a girl!"

Yes, Ma’am, I can see she’s young. Can you tell me what happened?

Yes, I whispered.

Do you know who she is?

"No. She – she jumped out of a car, a black SUV, like she was trying to escape. But they wouldn’t let her. They shot her!"

A sympathetic light warmed Hayes’s eyes, but she was all business. Probably afraid I was about to lose it.

Can I see some ID, please?

I started. Where was my tote?

That your bag on the sidewalk, Miss?  She gestured to where it lay next to the bus stop.

Yes.

When I didn’t move, she retrieved and handed it to me. I wiped a bloody hand on my thigh before digging out my Maryland driving and racing commission licenses.

I’ll be working at Gulfstream Park racetrack. Haven’t had time to get a Florida trainer’s license yet.

She nodded, studying the plastic cards.

A van labeled Broward County Medical Examiner eased up next to the patrol cruiser. An unmarked car, bristling with antennas, sped up from the direction of my by-the-week motel, sliding to a halt at a haphazard angle that blocked the center of the street. Another vehicle pulled up behind it.

Strangers closed in after that, with their dark boots, instruments, cameras, and yellow  tape. A woman in a skirt and pumps approached. Her jacket was black, her hair short and spiky like mine, only red.

Detective Bailey, HBPD homicide.  She flipped a badge, then crowded me. I need you to step away from here. Answer a few more questions.

I turned from Bailey and gazed at the lifeless girl next to me. The unseeing eyes were no longer pretty. Blood matted her hair. Her legs were long and athletic. A decade-old memory surfaced. Alone, at night, in Baltimore. A runaway at thirteen. I could have been this girl. 

No. I can’t leave her.

Bailey leaned over, clamped a hand on my shoulder. There’s nothing you can do here.

A short bark of laughter drew my attention. Beyond Hayes and an officer holding a camera case, a female cop made a shame-on-you wag with her finger and grinned at a male officer. Of its own volition, my hand stretched to the girl. I touched the sea horse.

Don’t do that, Miss,  Bailey said.

Officer Hayes crouched next to me again. Nikki, right?

I nodded.

She pointed at my cell phone where I’d left it on the curb. This yours?

Yes.

I’ll take that.  Bailey motioned to a uniform, who whisked the phone into a baggie.

What was I supposed to do without a phone?

With an almost imperceptible eye roll at Bailey, Hayes sighed. She grasped my hand. Come on, sweetheart, you better come with me. 

I stood and followed her onto the sidewalk.

Detective Bailey stepped past the dead girl, then scraped blood off her pumps onto the cement curb. The air grew heavier, the scent of gasoline-engines, rubber, and blood stifling.

My stomach flipped and I clamped a hand over my mouth. Officer Hayes moved away from me as Bailey approached.

You’re not going to be sick are you? Bailey asked. When I shook my head, she said, You need to come to the station.  She latched onto my elbow and steered me toward her unmarked car.

I took a last look at the girl. On her arm, the green eye glittered. The sea horse still watched me.

Chapter 3

Iwasn’t happy when Detective Bailey put me in her unmarked. At least she hadn’t stuffed me in the backseat cage of a cruiser. She didn’t talk as the car rolled up the boulevard toward the Hallandale Beach Police Department. Didn’t introduce me to the squat, powerfully built guy who drove, either. Probably a detective, and a junior one at that, since he was driving.

Way to go, Nikki. You haven’t been here a day and you’re already being taken in for questioning.

As we passed an entrance to the racetrack, I tried to peer through the dark, but the car moved too quickly to see anything. Some first trip to Florida. I had horses shipping in, a million details to take care of. People were depending on me.

I thought I saw the outline of a grandstand silhouetted by the first glimmer of dawn over the sea, to the east. To our left, Gulfstream Park stretched along a seemingly endless tract of ground. Bailey’s partner drove several more blocks, then turned left.

I wanted to squirm right out of the cruiser. Instead, I studied the back of Bailey’s red hair with its precisely scissored layers. Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

When we get you to the station, you can clean up in the ladies room. It’s got soap and paper towels.

I stared at her reflection, confused.

Bailey shifted around in the passenger seat. You’ve got blood all over you, Ms. Latrelle. You don’t need to leave our department looking like that.

BAILEY TOOK ME TO A small room with a metal table and two chairs. She turned on a digital recorder and talked me through what had happened several times, probably hoping to trip me up. Then she stood and left the room without shutting off the recorder. Did she think I’d confess to myself?

I glanced in the one-way mirror on the opposite wall. Bailey was right, I looked like hell, like I’d been using cosmetics and hair products for vampires. Was someone watching me through the glass?  I resisted an urge to fidget, forced myself to sit quietly in the metal chair.

They’d taken my hoodie back on Hallandale Boulevard, leaving me in my black sleeveless tee. I felt chilled by the air-conditioning. After an eternity, a guy came in to test me for gunshot residue. He had a humorless expression and a shaved head.

Shaved Head removed some sticky-backed papers from a test kit and after peeling off the smooth covers, he worked the tacky material over my hands. I’d done this before and felt like a pro.

I still have to get your fingerprints. You’re going to have to wash your hands first. You should do something about your face, too.

He should do something about his head stubble.

We walked down the hall to a ladies room. He gave me a hard look. I’ll be right outside.

I got the warm water going and soaped up my hands and face, rinsed. My black tee shirt camouflaged the red bloodstains and didn’t look too bad. Further inspection in the mirror revealed red-brown smears on my neck. I’d obviously run those sticky fingers through my hair, too. 

Screw it.  I filled the sink and dunked my head. When I straightened and looked at my reflection, I started giggling. If only my friend, the always perfect Carla Ruben, could see me now. The one who’d dragged me kicking and screaming into the world of makeup and fashionable hair. She should have been there. We could have had a good laugh.

Are you all right in there Ms. Latrelle?  Shaved Head, speaking from the hall.

I’ll be right out, I said.

Grabbing paper towels, I dried off as much as I could, fluffed my short hair and returned to the hallway. Shaved Head stared at me a moment too long, before leading me to a different room where he used a machine resembling a copier to get a digital record of my prints. He ushered me back to the interrogation room, then left.

Sometime later, Bailey showed up with a typed statement, which I signed.

Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Latrelle.

Sure.  Like I‘d had a choice.

Would you like a ride to your motel. she asked. You said it was the Sand Castle?"

No, thanks, I said. It’s not like I don’t want a shower, but I have to get to the track. Did I see an entrance to Gulfstream across the street outside?

Yes, she said. You can walk over if you want.  She pulled a card from her suit pocket and handed it to me. Anything comes to mind, call me.

I said I would and she told me I was free to go, pointing to the elevator, which I rode to the lobby. I stepped outside the building’s chilly air-conditioning into a warm, sunny morning. I paused on the sidewalk, letting the heat sink into my skin. Could it really be January?

Just after eight a.m., rush-hour traffic streamed up and down South Federal Highway. Less than a block away, Hallandale ran perpendicular to South Federal. No wonder the cops had gotten there so fast. Had it been only four hours since the girl died?

I stared across the street. Construction cranes, a bulldozer and other equipment crowded Gulfstream’s parking lot, blocking my view of the racetrack. The meet would open January fourth, still two days away.

Waiting for a light at the crosswalk, I noticed where leftover goop from the residue test was stuck on my jeans. I picked it off, and rolling the stuff into a little gum ball, I smeared it onto the back of Detective Bailey’s business card. When the light turned green, I crossed Federal, following Gulfstream’s drive through the construction mess until the grandstand came into view.

The words Colosseum and Mediterranean popped into my head. A terra cotta roof covered a large building the color of desert sand. Two ornamental towers rose near either end. Between them a concave half-moon of columned arches drew my eyes to one of the prettiest paddocks I’d ever seen. A fountain sprayed in its center and stately palm trees lined its edges. Tropical plants and flowers added to my sense of stumbling upon an oasis.

No time for gawking. In the distance, a building rose just beyond the backstretch fence. The location indicated housing for stable help, the appearance suggested upscale condominium. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but I could see the stable gate nearby and that was the place I needed to reach.

After a long march through parked vans, trucks and cars, I reached the gate, where I saw a gray-haired, paunchy man in a security uniform. Good, I could ask him about getting a license and admission to the backstretch.

A shorter, long-haired guy with a lot of moustache spoke to the guard. As I got closer, I heard them arguing.

I tell you, I have a job working for Mr. Ravinsee. From the side view I had, the smaller guy looked younger than thirty. He flipped his dark hair back to reveal two gold earrings in one ear. I supposed to meet some woman here today.

If you mean Mr. Ravinsky’s gal, she ain’t showed up yet. You wanna use the phone?

The handles of the long black moustache twitched up and down in irritation. "I don’ wan’ call nobody. Her phone turned off. I need to go to barn tres!"

Ravinsky?  That was my boss. Barn three was my barn. Oh my God. I’d forgotten Ramon’s cousin, Orlando. I was supposed to meet him at 7:00 a.m., see if he’d work out as an exercise rider and groom. His bling might be a bit over the top, but our Maryland groom, Ramon, had said Orlando was okay.

I stepped forward, glancing at the guard’s badge. It  read Binecourt.  I smiled at him.

Excuse me. I’m Nikki Latrelle, Jim Ravinsky’s assistant. 

Binecourt’s eyes widened and his body straightened into a defensive, military-like posture. I’ll need to see some ID, Miss.

I followed Binecourt’s downward gaze. I might have washed from the neck up, but my black jeans were stiff with dried blood. The white laces on my Nikes looked like they’d been injured and tried to scab over.

I was involved in a . . . car accident earlier.  I fished out my Maryland racing license and handed it to him.

He compared my face to the picture and relaxed slightly. You get hurt?

I’m fine.  I glanced at the younger man. Are you Orlando Castellano? 

When he turned to face me, a second set of double earrings flashed into view. He looked me up and down, then he folded his arms across his chest.

I work for Mr. Ravinsee. Where is Mr. Ravinsee?  

Forcing a smile, I put out my hand. He’s put me in charge for the meet. It’s nice to meet you, Orlando.

He ignored my hand. "In mi familia, the men, they don’ work for girls."

Great, just what I needed. I’d be twenty-four in March. How old did I need to be for this jerk?

No problem, I can hire somebody else.

He pasted on a quick smile, white teeth gleaming beneath the moustache. Is okay. I ride for you.

That’s big of you, Orlando.

The guard cleared his throat.  I got a call a few minutes ago. There’s a van on the way with Ravinsky’s horses.

He must be mistaken. They weren’t supposed to ship from Maryland until tomorrow.  I wasn’t ready for horses. I hadn’t even seen our barn yet.

It’s not Ravinsky’s van. This was a Mr. . . . He picked up a clip board. "A Mr. Mal . . .