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The suspicion dropped away to be replaced by a broad grin. “Vince Pellini, ’bout time you made it out this way!” He extended a hand to Pellini. “Lenny Brewster. Barn manager.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Pellini said gruffly, shaking the offered hand.
“Ain’t no sir,” he said with a snort. “Just Lenny.” He offered his hand to me next. “You also work with Boo?”
“Used to,” I said. He had a strong grip and the rough calluses of a man who got things done. “I’m Kara Gillian.”
“Ms. Gillian.” He gave a knowing nod. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Crap. That could span anything from the size of my tits to my role as a murder suspect in Farouche’s death. I did my best to act unfazed. “I bet you have,” I replied and faked a chuckle. “Though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that not all rumors are based in fact.”
“Boo always said you were a sharp cookie,” Lenny said with a friendly wink. “Never told me you were modest, too.”
The hell? Boudreaux talked nice about me? That was a new one. “I have my moments,” I said. Apparently Lenny didn’t know about my alleged connection to Farouche’s murder. “And please, call me Kara. Is Boudreaux around?”
Lenny waved a hand toward the woods and fields beyond one of the large barns. “He’s out on the trails with Psycho right now.”
Whew. With luck we’d be long gone before he returned.
“Psycho?” Pellini asked. “Is that a horse or a woman?”
Lenny laughed, from the belly and unashamed of it. “I gotta tell Boo that one! Nah, Psycho’s a horse—top of the line stud. Miss Catherine’s out by the track. Here, I’ll walk you down.”
With that he led the way along a path toward the breezeway of the small barn. Over the entrance “Copper to Gold” stood out in crisp white lettering, but above the name someone had painted “Psycho” in broad and deliberately crude crimson letters and allowed the paint to drip like blood.
“That’s Boo’s house there,” Lenny said with a nod toward the white Acadian with green shutters. “Mr. Farouche had it built for him after the accident so he could be close to Psycho.”
Accident? I started to ask what he meant, but my question fled my mind as we passed into the barn. Photos of a gorgeous chestnut horse lined the wall—in races, in winner’s circles, and as a foal. I didn’t know much about thoroughbreds, but I had to admire the fierce beauty of this horse.
I stopped dead in my tracks to stare at a large photo of Psycho. The jockey on his back had his helmet and goggles off, and a proud smile lit his face—
“Boudreaux was a jockey?” I blurted. Once again I had to adjust everything I thought I knew about him. I felt like the GPS in my car every time I ignored its instructions and it began to bleat, Recalculating . . . recalculating . . .
“Yes, ma’am,” Lenny said. “A damn fine one, too.” He peered over my shoulder at the picture. “Boo always had a way with that horse like no one else.” Pride softened his voice.
“You mentioned an accident,” I said. “Is that why he isn’t still a jockey?”
Lenny’s smile dropped away. “Near thirteen years ago now. Bad race spill with Psycho that ended both their careers. Boo’s femur got broke in three places. Psycho got a cannon bone fracture. Boo’s leg healed, and he could still exercise ride, but couldn’t hold up for racing.” He exhaled. “Another jockey died, and Boo got blamed. And with Copper to Gold,” he tapped the picture, “being an undefeated grade one stakes champion, the media took it and ran with it.” Anger deepened the lines around his eyes. “Didn’t matter that Boo got cleared of fault. Folks like having someone to blame.”
“People suck,” I said, more bitterly than I intended. Boudreaux’s smile in the pictures was one of pure joy. He loved riding and racing, and had lost it all in one tragic moment. It didn’t excuse his becoming a bitter, obnoxious asshole, but I valued the insight. “How’d he go from this,” I said, gesturing toward the photos, “to being a cop?”
Lenny tapped the picture. “Losing this lifestyle just about killed him,” he continued in a somber voice. “But Mr. Farouche never gave up on him. Not for a single minute. Stood by him through the accusations. Tried to keep him full time with the horses—training and exercise riding—but Boo shut it down. Had a bad spell with alcohol until Mr. Angus and Mr. Farouche shook him out of it. Boo took up policework thinking he could help protect kids.”
Protect kids. “Because of Farouche’s daughter,” I murmured.
“Boo was only twelve when Miss Madeleine went missing,” Lenny said, face long. “It hit him hard. He loved that kid. She used to follow him all over the farm, and he’d watch her like a hawk. I still remember him stapling flyers up all over town.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve without shame. “His dad started working for Mr. Farouche right after, and those two men made it their mission to do everything possible to keep kids safe. If Boo couldn’t race ride, he wanted to follow in their footsteps.” Lenny gave Pellini a sidelong glance. “I don’t think becoming a cop worked out like he’d expected.”
Pellini winced, nodded. Boudreaux’s romantic notions of policework had probably died after a few weeks of dealing with drunks and responding to loud music complaints. I had a feeling the closest he’d come to protecting kids was directing traffic in a school zone. As long as I’d been a cop I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been the target of department bullies and innocent jokesters.
Recalculating . . . recalculating . . .
Lenny continued through the breezeway and onto a pathway of spongy interlocking emerald green tiles. A dirt practice track lay a hundred yards ahead.
“Did you know any of this?” I asked Pellini under my breath.
“I looked him up right after we got put together as partners,” he replied, voice low. “Saw the news stories and knew about the accident, but he never talked about it. Not once. Didn’t feel right to push the issue.” His gaze swept over the fields and track and barns.
Made perfect sense to me. If the guys at the station ever got wind of his former profession, the teasing would be merciless.
