Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

I showed him how to get down under the six-foot-wide drags that they pull over the dirt track after every race to smooth out the surface. We had to feel all the way to the bottom of each of the dozens of tynes that dig into the dirt.

I was nearly finished checking one of the drags when Mike yelled over from the one he was checking.

“Bingo!”

I looked over at a picture I’ll remember forever. He was up on his knees, crystal white shirt and Brooks Brothers pants so full of dirt he looked like he’d been planted, grin on his face, and holding a stirrup strap over his head. I checked the length.

“That’s the one that killed Bobby Pastore, Mike.”

He hauled himself up and caught his breath.

“Now tell me how you knew it was there.”

“I didn’t, but it was a fair hunch. I wondered why someone would plant evidence on Mr. Fitz that wasn’t the real strap. It had to be because they didn’t have the real one. I figured that was because it probably fell off the saddle when it broke and got ground into the track. It was either still out there, and we’d never find it, or it got caught in the tynes of the drag after the race. We lucked out, Mike. You’re a mess. You’ve got to take better care of your clothes.”

On the ride back I had time to think. I’d been so focused on Bobby’s death and the charges against Mr. Fitz that I’d blocked out everything else. Now I began thinking that if someone was fixing the race by eliminating Bobby and Fair Dawn, they’d have had to fix Trumpeter Swan, too. A bet on one part of the entry is a bet on both. If either part of an entry wins, it pays off.

That got me to thinking about how Trumpeter Swan had faded in the homestretch. It was one more odd circumstance that caused the stable to lose a race. I’m no vet, but Swan felt like a sound horse up to the moment he faded. Maybe it wasn’t just racing luck. Maybe it all tied together. That gave birth to an exploding thought that led to a quick U-turn and a heavy foot on the gas back to the track.

I drove up to the room at the end of the track stables where the exercise riders sleep. We came in the back door and saw a group of them playing cards at the far end of the room. Manny Vasquez was the regular exercise boy for Trumpeter Swan. I only needed a second to check his boots under his bunk.

I called Manny over and told him we needed a word with him outside. Manny got a little itchy by the time we walked over to the outside rail of the track.

“Been doing a little night riding, Manny?”

“Whatcha mean, Billy?”

He was looking back and forth between us. I doubt that he could read an expression in the dark, which made it more ominous. I left a pause.

“You know it rained last night, Manny. Long about two in the morning the track must have been pretty muddy. The rain stopped at midnight, so it was dry around six when you and the boys exercise the horses, right?”

“I guess so.” He wasn’t sure what he was admitting to.

“So sometime last night before the track dried out, probably around two in the morning when no one was around, you took Trumpeter Swan out to the track. You galloped the lungs out of him, cleaned him up, and put him back. No one would know in the morning. Except during the race in the afternoon, when he hit the homestretch, his energy gave out. He was running on dead legs. That’s a neat way to fix a race, Manny.”

“You out of your mind, Billy.” He started back to the barracks.

“Hey, Manny. I’ve got your boots. They’re the only ones in there with mud in the seams. You want to talk to me or the district attorney?”

That stopped him, but it didn’t get anything out of him.

“Only we’re not talking about race fixing here, Manny. We’re talking about murder. Bobby Pastore was killed so that race could be fixed.”

I could sense the panic setting in.

“I don’t know nothin’ about Bobby. I had nothin’ to do with any of that.”

Mike added his contribution. “See, Manny, it doesn’t matter. You were in on the fix. If someone gets killed in the course of it, which Bobby did, you’re up to your ears. The charge could be murder. In for a penny is in for a pound, as they say.”

He was stone silent. I walked over to him.

“We’re not after you, Manny. We want whoever killed Bobby and laid the blame on Mr. Fitz. But so help me, if you don’t open up, I’ll turn you over.”

He was shaking now.

“Who gave you your orders, Manny?”

He was scared, confused, and frozen in silence. I thought he needed a little heat to unfreeze him. I said to Michael, “Make the call.”

Mike took the cue. He flipped open his cell phone and started punching in numbers. I have no idea whom he was calling. Mike probably didn’t either. But I’m sure it registered with Manny as the police, the D.A., or maybe immigration — whichever topped his list of fears.

Manny bolted over close to us and said in a low voice, “Mr. Trait.”

“Marty Trait, the trainer?” I wanted to be sure Michael heard it.

“Yeah.”

“Did he ever have you do that before?” I didn’t know because I wasn’t the regular jockey on Swan.

“Yeah, a few times.”