Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (40 page)

Her smile turned to a pout. She swiveled her chair, crossing her legs. “I told you before, I don’t know that man.”

“Did you issue any visitor passes this morning?” Kurt asked.

“Sounds like you want special favors again.” She leaned back, her thin blouse tightening in an attractive poise he was sure she’d practiced.

“Tiffany, please. Did you issue any passes?”

Her eyes widened at the snap in his voice and she turned, tight-lipped, to the computer. “Otto Laing picked up his horse's papers this morning.” She didn’t look up, and her painted nails clicked over the keyboard with brusque finality. “But he didn't request a pass.”

“Anyone with him?”

“No, just him.”

“Thank you.”

She inclined her head in a regal nod, but clearly he’d used up all his favors from the race office.

“Thanks, Tiffany,” he repeated as he wheeled away.

He stalked across the walkway, weighing scenarios. No pass had been issued so Otto's companion must have his own credentials. Probably Friedman then, not the stock buyer. But the two men weren't supposed to meet until this afternoon.

He checked his phone. Some mundane text messages, one e-mail about an allowance win at Gulfstream, but nothing from Archer. And surely Archer would know of any change in Otto's schedule. The surveillance people had looked unconcerned, but if Otto had met Friedman on the backside they might not even be aware the two men were together.

Kurt rubbed the back of his neck, chilled at the idea of Friedman and Otto skulking around. His instincts clamored, and he itched for his Sig. From this side of the track, it'd be a short walk to his motel. He could pick up his gun and be back in less than ten minutes. Breakfast with Julie would have to wait, at least until he’d checked on Otto’s activity.

He jogged out the grandstand entrance and cut across the meridian, weaving through the blaring horns and exhaust from impatient commuters. Traffic sounds dulled as he followed the walkway to his motel room. The air turned quiet, almost subdued.

Julie hadn’t locked the door, had even left it slightly ajar. He smiled as he glimpsed her erect in a chair, hair still damp from the shower. Tendrils framed her beautiful face, but her expression was odd. She looked lifeless, blank as a store mannequin.

He charged in.

“Close the door,” an accented voice said behind him.

The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign swayed on the inner knob as Kurt’s hand jerked in shock. He turned and pushed the door shut, trying to breathe, trying to control that first jolt of fear.

Marcus Friedman studied him from the corner chair. In an elegant charcoal suit, Friedman could have been on his way to a business meeting. The thin leather gloves were out of place though.

So was the gun.

Kurt stared down the barrel. Looked like a Walther with a business-like silencer. A gloating Otto leaned by the corner of the door, but Kurt centered his attention on Friedman.

“What the hell?” He strained to inject the appropriate amount of bewilderment.

“Interesting picture.” Friedman gestured at the newspaper spread on the bed. The winner's circle was grainy, but Kurt's face was clear enough, smiling beside Lazer, Julie and the rest.

“Nice picture. Kind of you to drop it off.” Kurt raised an eyebrow at the gun. “What’s the problem? Did you think we wouldn’t like it?”

Friedman’s expression darkened. “No jokes,” he hissed.

Kurt shrugged, as nonchalant as he could be with that dark barrel leveled on his chest. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” Friedman’s words were squeezed through pinched lips. “But when a trainer moves. And claims my cheap horse. And visits my shop. And when a car starts following Otto—” His voice roughened. “Are you with the police?”

“I’m a private trainer,” Kurt said, “and I work for whoever pays me. And that girl needs to get back to the barn. Everyone's looking for her. Go on, Julie.” He motioned at the door.

“Not yet,” Friedman snapped. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Kurt’s chest kicked in raw fear. “No.” He shook his head emphatically, his mind scrambling. “We won a race, celebrated together, a one-night thing. Nothing important.”

He ignored her gasp.

Friedman sneered. “She stays until we check your briefcase. Unlock it.”

“That’s not mine.” Kurt tilted his watch and made a show of checking the time. “One of my owners left it. He’s dropping by soon to pick it up.”

Friedman’s smile turned ugly. “Open it,” he said.

“Maybe Jollymore left it unlocked.” Kurt masked his eagerness as he stepped toward the briefcase. And his gun.

“Stop.” Friedman, no fool, waved him back and nodded at Otto. “You open it.”

Otto thumped forward. His beefy fingers rammed at the catch, jarring the room with futile clicking. “It’s locked,” Otto said. “We’ll have to bust it open.”

“Doubt that’s necessary.” Friedman’s narrowed eyes settled on Kurt, the gun steady in his gloved hand. “You can visit with the girl now,” Friedman said.

Otto dropped the briefcase. The tip of his thick tongue protruded between his lips, shiny with saliva and eagerness. He lumbered across the room. The air clotted with the smell of tobacco, sweat and Julie’s fear.

She cringed as Otto hauled her from the chair. He hooked a big hand over the front of her shirt and ripped. Buttons scattered, Friedman laughed and Kurt’s breath shredded.

He jerked his head away, opening and closing his mouth, but his chest was caught in a vise, and simple breathing hurt. A button careened across the floor, a white, pristine button stark against the stained carpet. He tried to swallow his bile, tried to play the bluff.

Clothing tore. A scream. Silence.

His chest twisted in agony, and he couldn’t not look.

One of Otto's hands plugged her mouth while the other mauled her breast. Her bra dangled in strips, and a piece of tattered lace drifted to the floor.

Otto turned Julie toward Friedman, showing her like a prize. “I always wanted to get my hands on these tits.”

She bit at his hand, but Otto only sniggered and yanked at her pants, jerking until the snap ripped. The tearing sound was louder than her muffled whimpers.

“Can I fuck her now?”

“That’s up to our friend.” Friedman brushed a languid hand over the knee of his pants, but his perceptive stare locked on Kurt.

“4-6-11-22-12,” Kurt said.

Friedman’s mouth curved in satisfaction. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to take it. You’re not the type. Enough, Otto. Come open the case.”

Otto shot Kurt a glare but reluctantly dropped Julie back in the chair. He dragged an insolent hand over her breasts before swaggering across the room. She yanked her arms and knees to her chest, wheezing in shock, but couldn’t cover her nudity or the ugly handprints that blotched her skin.

Spots jumbled Kurt’s vision. He jerked his head away, knowing he had to control his rage if there were any chance of getting her out. He steadied his breathing and worked on unclenching every rigid muscle in his body while Otto fumbled with the combination.

A familiar click.

“Open the case, Otto. Put it on the bed beside me.” Friedman's thin nostrils flared as he shuffled through the contents. “Unusual items for a horse trainer,” he said. “A gun, handcuffs.” He pulled out Kurt's laptop and dumped some papers on the bed. A moment later he sighed with discovery. “Otto,” he said, “move our
cop
friend to the chair. Cuff him beside the girl.”

Kurt stiffened. Otto was strong but slow. This was his chance. Friedman stared then turned and deliberately pointed his gun at Julie. Goddammit!

Kurt walked across the room and sat.

Otto yanked his arms behind the chair and snapped the cuffs together. The man’s fist blurred, and Kurt’s head smashed against the wall.

Pain ripped through his jaw, scalding the back of his head. His vision blurred, but he heard Julie’s gasp, Otto's triumphant grunt, Friedman's chuckle.

He straightened the chair, corralling his pain, and Julie slowly came back into focus. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it burned the bottom of his face and felt more like a snarl.

She managed a shaky smile through a mouth framed with finger-shaped bruises, and his teeth clenched as he fought his primal need to kick Otto's head in. Yet clearly Friedman and the gun were the real danger.

Kurt turned to him, forcing his jaw to move. “Let her go. She isn't involved in this.”

“She is now,” Friedman said, not looking up. He bent over Kurt’s laptop, pressed a button and the computer whirred to life. “What's your password?”

Kurt’s hopes plunged. Pretending he didn’t care about Julie hadn’t gained a thing. Friedman didn’t intend to let her go, and now his hands were cuffed.

“Password?” Friedman's eyes were flat as a shark’s as they flickered over Julie. “We can always watch. Otto does give enthusiastic service.”

Otto’s belt clinked. He jerked down his zipper, his eyes glazing as he cupped his bulging crotch. Julie shrank with revulsion, her body trembling as she pressed against Kurt.

“2-9-4-rebel,” Kurt said.

“Wise choice.” Friedman's fingers swooped over the keys, and the laptop beeped in acceptance. “Not much here except horse files.” He shot Kurt a look of consternation.

A muscle pulsed in Kurt’s jaw, a sliver of hope. But Friedman bent over the laptop and continued his search. “Ah, but this is interesting,” he said.

Sweat tickled Kurt’s forehead. His shirt stuck to the back of the wooden chair yet he was oddly cold, every nerve chilled. Friedman wouldn’t do it here. Connor had been found in his car. There’d be another chance. Had to be.

Friedman’s voice lowered with satisfaction as he recited from the screen. “Julie West and Otto Laing are persons of interest in the death of Corporal Connor O'Neil.” He looked at Kurt and shrugged. “It couldn’t be avoided. The man was kind enough to help Otto with a flat tire. Unfortunately he noticed a loose shoe and spotted the diamonds. I had to…dispose of him.” His voice hardened. “He shouldn’t have followed Otto to my shop. Shouldn’t have been sneaking around my alley.”

His tone turned malicious as he looked at Julie. “My dear, did you know you’re a murder suspect?” His dispassionate gaze flickered over her broken necklace, one end now twisted around the lace of her bra. “That necklace was made in my shop but the stone's a fake, just like Mr. MacKinnon. How convenient he can claim
all
your services as expenses.”

Kurt ignored her choke. Friedman’s ominous confessions chilled him. He had to get her out.

“You're right. She’s an expense,” Kurt said. “Means nothing, knows nothing. Let her go. No need to make things worse.”

“There's no mention of my involvement,” Friedman said. His gaze swung to Otto whose belt dangled around his open jeans as he stroked himself and stared, slack jawed, at Julie.

“I’ve been reporting over the phone,” Kurt said. “We know the diamonds are hidden in the shoes. That they’re shipped into Canada so they’re harder to trace. That you're sending them to Antwerp as costume jewelry.”

“But there's no proof.” Friedman leaned over the computer and scanned the files again. Muttered in German.

Kurt groped at the cuffs linked through the back of the chair. Tight. And fifteen endless feet to the gun.

Ring. Ring
. The mundane sound of his cell sounded odd in the taut room. Julie straightened, staring hopefully at the bump in his pocket, and a rush of optimism flooded him. Clearly she hadn't given up.

Kurt looked at Friedman; their eyes clamped. No one spoke or seemed to breathe except for Otto, who panted like a rutting bull.

Six rings, and the phone silenced.

Friedman tightened his lips and rose. Adjusted his gloves, picked up a remote and pointed it at the television. A cooking show bubbled to life. Plump tomatoes were lined on a cutting board, and two men bantered about the sharpness of their knives.

He turned the volume up.

Jesus Christ! Kurt glanced at Julie, trying to grab her attention, but she stared, wide-eyed, at Friedman. He fought a rush of despair. Her courage was unquestionable, but this was asking a lot. She looked almost comatose and no wonder. He jabbed her with his foot.

“Sit, Otto.” Friedman nodded at the desk. “Let’s make a note for Mr. MacKinnon to copy.”

“But when can I fuck the girl? You said I could—”

“After,” Friedman said, his voice strangely gentle.

Otto squeezed in the chair by the desk. He picked up a pen, the tip barely visible in his hammy fist.

“Write, ‘I am sorry. Everything went wrong and I killed them all.’ You misspelled ‘killed.’ No, never mind,” Friedman said. “Actually that's perfect. Don’t change it.” His voice hardened as he watched Otto struggle to copy the words. “Now sign your name.”

Comprehension jerked Kurt upright. The chair clunked behind him. “No, Otto!”

Friedman pressed the barrel above Otto’s eyes. The gun coughed, and Otto slumped back. A neat hole, blue around the edges, stained the middle of his forehead.

Julie gagged.

Friedman jerked the gun around, stopping Kurt's rush. “Get back,” he snapped, motioning with the gun.

Kurt’s jaw twitched spasmodically. He backed the chair up and sat.

“Move to the bed, girl, and take off the rest of your clothes,” Friedman snapped. “Quickly now.”

Julie stared, disbelieving, a cold numbness settling into her limbs. Otto looked smaller. His head lolled back like he was asleep but there was an acrid odor: urine, feces and the coppery smell of blood. Her gaze scrabbled around the room. This couldn't be real. Friedman’s mouth moved. He was looking at her, but his voice was an incomprehensible drone.

Kurt elbowed her in the ribs. Someone in the room whimpered. Oh, God, had that helpless sound come from her?

“Take some deep breaths. It’ll be okay,” Kurt said as he watched her suck in uneven breaths. He turned to Friedman, grimacing and rolling his eyes. “Typical female. She always falls apart. We ran into a bear, and she reacted this same way. Utterly useless. Give her a minute, and she’ll do whatever you tell her.”

Julie felt Kurt’s elbow dig in her ribs. Something hard squashed the top of her foot. His words made no sense, no sense at all. But his jabs were sharp, the pain an anchor in her fog.