Death at the Downs

By Derek Alexander

Insecure, handicapped and virtually friendless, Cathy Vega just wants to find her missing friend. But when her search lands her in the middle of a multi-billion dollar political inferno between two gambling syndicates the powerful horseman’s association and the management at Churchill Downs things start to heat up. At stake? Securing the gambling contract at Churchill Downs worth billions to the winner, and these ruthless groups will stop at nothing to win. Attacked, abducted and suspected of murder, Cathy relentlessly fights powerful players in a cat and mouse game only to find that her missing friend was into a lot more than she first thought. Her only hope is to unravel the mystery of her friend’s disappearance if she has any chance of clearing her name – and staying alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Alexander
• Release date: Jul 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301819812

Derek Alexander

I generally write something every day, I'll not pretend that it is always good but sometimes it's not bad. I have just published my first book on Kindle and would appreciate it if you would take a look at it (it's a steal at only 99 cents). Frankly I'd give it away if I could but after talking it over with my creditors we mutually decided that I should charge something. I guess I should say something about me, although I can't imagine why anyone would care, but my agent says that it's the "right and proper" thing to do, so here it goes. I spent most of my life determining exactly what I didn't want to do for the rest of my life. Some would say that's a waste of time but I like to think I learned a lot when I moved on if I wasn't happy. For example I was a cowhand at ranches in both Texas and Wyoming. I have also worked on underground nuclear missiles aimed at the Soviet Union. Strange bed fellows I know but it gave me stuff to talk about at job interviews. Anyway, along the way I got a bunch of college degrees that helped me get a job. Traveled the world doing that job and learned a bit more along the way and I found out more stuff I didn't want to do for the rest of my life. I will probably get there in the end, but honestly, I hope not. If for some reason you feel compelled to contact me I can be reached at [e-mail].

Book preview

Death at the Downs

A Cathy Vega Mystery

By

Derek Alexander

SMASHWORD EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

DAC Publishers on Smashwords

Death at the Downs

A Cathy Vega Mystery

Copyright © 2011 by Derek Alexander

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For Kathryn, you know why.

PROLOGUE

I never wanted this, she thought. She heard him somewhere behind her, relentless, never ceasing, constantly moving.

Please, she heard herself say feebly, but she knew it was no good. Blood from the deep cut on her head ran into her eyes giving everything a hazy pink glow. She couldn’t see where she was going. Her knees and thighs kept knocking into the furniture, adding to her pain and frustration and ultimately her growing sense of panic.

The pain, she thought, concentrate on the pain, stay conscious Barb, for God’s sake stay conscious.

I am sorry Barb, I truly am, she heard him say from her left. He was close.

No, I will not die like this, she thought. He’ll have to face me to do it. The son of a bitch will have to look me in the eyes.

Taking a deep breath, she heaved herself off the wall flailing her arms wildly as she went. He blocked her attack easily, knocking her in the again head with something metal. She saw stars and landed hard on her hands and knees. She stayed there, her breath coming in deep ragged gasps, blood dripping freely from her limp hair and forming a scarlet pool on the floor.

That’s a lot of blood, she thought distantly, trying to focus her mind.

I mean it Barb, I truly am sorry, he said casually, but it’s really your fault if you stop and think about it.

Raw hatred boiled up inside of her at his casual tone. She hated this man with more intensity than she had ever hated anyone or anything in her life, but as her anger permeated her body, the man’s words seeped through the crevices of pain and anger in her mind and she knew that he was right. It was her fault, all of it from beginning to end, and at that realization, she gave in, and was mildly surprised when the deathblow inevitably struck. It was completely void of pain. All that remained was relief and blissful silence.

CHAPTER 1--Barb’s Place Part 1

It was never my intention to get involved in a missing person case, not really my style. My only concern was the whereabouts of a friend who had gone missing. If I had known that my search for her would land me in the hospital with six deaths in my wake in less than three days I might have stayed in Henderson, KY minding my own business. But minding my own business is not my style either.

At that time, I didn’t know if she was dead or alive. All I knew for sure was that she was missing, and not for just a day or two. Barb had her quirks, like everybody, else but she was fairly reliable when it came to keeping in touch, or at least returning phone calls. For her to be incommunicado for more than a week though meant something was wrong.

I tried calling her several times, my anxiety growing every time the answering machine picked up after six rings. Maybe she saw it was me on her caller ID and chose not to pick up, unlikely, but certainly a possibility. We had had some issues of late, but nothing to justify this nonsense. I tried to call her at work as well, without success. I even tried to get a hold of some of her co-workers, but again, either they were out, or didn’t know where she was. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking about the mountain and the molehill and which one was more likely.

Passing a sign indicating I was nearing Louisville, I began to doubt my intentions. The last time I talked to Barb we didn’t exactly part on good terms. Now that I’ve had three hours and one hundred and sixty plus miles to reflect on it, I think I read her wrong. She seemed as if she wanted to tell me something when we talked two weeks ago. Then her tone unexpectedly changed and she became distant and hung up without explanation.

Did I imagine it? Possibly. At the time, I felt certain she had something important on her mind, but for some reason she got cold feet at the last second and decided not to tell me.

Crossing the bridge that spanned the Ohio River separating the state of Indiana from the Commonwealth of Kentucky, I looked uneasily at the Louisville skyline. The red-roofed Galt House Hotel with its remarkably ugly twin towers stood in stark relief against the pending low hanging purple clouds to the West. My mood traveled the same direction as my car – South.

It seemed like every time I saw the city where I once made my home it always made me uneasy, as if I were an escaped convict and every time I returned, someone would recognize me and have me locked up. I had some regrets to be sure, most people do, but it was the lost opportunities that I dwelled on.

What are you doing here, Cathy? I said out loud. It was then that I decided to turn around and go home.

Nearing the 22nd street exit, I began to maneuver my car into the right hand lane to take the exit ramp so I could loop back around to the highway and head back to Henderson. It was then that my cell phone rang.

Startled, I searched for the phone lost among the travel litter of empty Doritos bags and candy bar wrappers in the passenger seat. As I flipped the phone open, I noticed the 22nd street exit ramp rush by the passenger window.

Dammit, I said.

Whoa, that’s no way to answer the phone.

Double Dammit, I thought hearing my father’s baritone voice. No matter how old I was, he always made me feel like a little girl.

Hi dad, I was just coming to see you, I lied.

He paused, almost imperceptibly. Needless to say, my mood was not buoyed.

Uh, hey that’s great princess, are you on your way here now? he said, trying to sound delighted but not quite pulling it off.

Just getting off the highway, got a run a quick errand first. If you like I can meet you for dinner, say about six at Equus?

It would seem my streak of bad luck knew no limit. To be honest all I wanted to do was see Barb, make sure she was all right, and then head back to Henderson. I did not intend to stay in Louisville longer than I had to.

Ok sweetheart, I’ll see you there but make it around seven, there’s a couple of things I want to tell you.

Dad always ‘told’ me things, never ‘talked over’ or ‘got my opinion’. Glancing at my watch, I figured I had plenty of time to drop by Barb’s, make a complete ass of myself, and make it to dinner in time for my father to tell me all the things that are wrong with my life.

Can’t wait, I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

* * * * *

My name is Cathy Vega and I am the Race Steward at Ellis Park Racetrack in Henderson, Kentucky. My missing friend is Barbara Summers and she holds the same position at Churchill Downs. We grew up together in Lexington, where if you wanted to fit in, you either knew a lot about college basketball or thoroughbred horses. Being a shy girl from the sticks, it was understandable I took to the horses. Thoroughbreds are more reliable than men, and are a hell of a lot easier to deal with. Feed them, exercise them, and keep them warm, you got yourself a friend for life. Men are a lot more complicated. At least they are for me.

Barb and I shared a love, some would say obsession, of thoroughbreds. We started at the Sunshine Stables and Horse Farm in Lexington when we were 11, cleaning stalls, feeding, and working the horses. Both of us unpaid, unless you considered the countless hours we sweated under the harsh Kentucky sun doing what we loved.

We were there for each other when at 15 we both grew too tall to be jockeys. We found time for boys but it was always secondary to our true passion. We both attended the University of Kentucky and graduated with Business Management degrees specializing in Equine Studies, and started working at Churchill Downs almost immediately.

This was in the mid-nineties, when Churchill Downs embarked on a plan to become the world-class standard for what a horse track should be. Tom Peaks, president and CEO, took a property that was badly in need of repair and barely scraping out a profit and produced a monument to thoroughbred racing second to none.

After fighting the Friday afternoon traffic on the highway, I took the Central Avenue exit. There is a more direct route to Barb's house, but either consciously or unconsciously, I always went this way because it took me within a few blocks of Churchill Downs. I caught sight of the twin spires briefly above the autumn trees. I smiled at the sight of them and then scolded myself for being a sentimental idiot, but that didn’t keep me from trying to sneak a peek at them between the trees as I made the turn toward Barb’s house.

Barb lived about three blocks from Churchill Downs, not the best of neighborhoods, but she figured that since she spent most of her time at the track it didn’t matter where she hung her riding boots.

Her house looked like all the others on her narrow street, built in the 1920’s and 30’s by German immigrants looking for work in one of the foundries, breweries or textile plants that thrived in the city at that time. All of these businesses shuttered their doors years ago. The neighborhood is a former shadow of itself, what the real estate professionals call a 'transitional' neighborhood. It’s easy to see which way the transition is going. A few meticulously kept lawns and freshly painted houses stood in stark contrast to the unkempt lawns and peeling paint of others, the former being longtime owners who care and the latter being renters who don’t.

Turning onto Barb’s street, I noticed more of the homes fell into the unkempt and peeling paint category since my last visit.

The locals call these houses ‘shotgun’ houses and I’ve heard two reasons for this. The first is because the architecture of the long narrow house allows air to flow from the front to the back unobstructed during the hot summers before air conditioning was affordable. The other reason is that you could shoot a shotgun from the front of the house and hit someone trying to escape through the back without hitting the walls. For some reason I choose the latter. Maybe that says something about me.

The houses are set on narrow lots and stretch back giving the appearance of a relatively narrow front facing the street. The genius of this architecture is that the houses are surprisingly large on the inside because they run the depth of the lot, giving much more room inside than you would expect.

I picked her house out, only after I had passed it once, and had to make a U-turn in the confined street. Pulling to the curb in front of her house, I looked out the passenger window and my heart sank. The yard looked terrible. Clumps of grass and weeds grew haphazardly in the yard and there were several old newspapers in various states of decay lining the front porch. The small mailbox beside the front door looked like it couldn’t hold another thing.

I studied the house for a moment looking for any sign of life, but I found nothing to give me hope. Taking a deep breath, I opened the car door and reached awkwardly for my cherry handled Blackthorn cane propped against the passenger door.

The two and a half hour drive to Louisville did nothing for my reconstructed hip and my leg felt like hot pins were prickling up and down it. Leaning against my car for a moment, I massaged the offending appendage to get the pain and stiffness out. Feeling better, I gimped with effort up to the front of the house still looking almost desperately for something, anything, to indicate that someone still inhabited the house. The closed blinds radiated a sense of abandonment. Mounting the porch, I looked down at the newspapers. Nudging them with my foot, I found the earliest date was over a week ago.

I turned and scanned the street again for Barb’s truck, but knew if it were there, I would already have picked it out. Fighting off the anxiety growing in my chest, I turned and rang the doorbell. The muted chimes echoed inside the house and I could almost feel the empty house mocking me. I knocked. Nothing.

I had a key to her house she gave me years ago in my briefcase, or at least I thought I did. I gave my car a glance, debating on whether or not I should retrieve it or go around back first. I judged the distance to the car, decided it was too much for me to ask of my aching hip, and decided to go around back.

With slightly less pain, I gimped back down the three steps leading from the porch and made my way around the side. Weeds were growing randomly through the cracks in the sidewalk, increasing the impression of desertion.

The house next door was so close to Barb’s that I had to turn sideways and drag my bum hip behind me to get through the narrow gate. The backyard looked much like the front, only somehow even more desperate. Weeds were everywhere and while I knew that Barb was not big on yard work, she at least kept it from growing wild like this if only to keep the neighbors from complaining.

Before going to the backdoor, I checked the alley to make sure Barb’s truck wasn’t parked back there. It was nowhere to be seen and her garbage cans were empty and on their sides.

Moving a little faster now, I hurried up the walk to the backdoor and gave it a sound pounding as if the force of my blows would increase the chances that someone would open it. Apparently, I made enough noise to get someone’s attention; on my left, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

She’s not there, hasn’t been for days, a creaky, almost cartoonish, voice called out to me.

I turned and was surprised to see Barb’s octogenarian neighbor leaning out her backdoor with one foot inside, no doubt ready to grab the phone and dial 911 at the slightest hint of trouble. I remembered meeting her once while visiting Barb and I was racing through the card catalogue files in my brain trying to remember her name.

Franny... Francis... I thought furiously, and then it hit me, Frankie! That’s it Frankie.

Hello Frankie, I said with what I hoped was a casually familiar tone. I didn’t want to startle her and even at this distance, I could see uncertainty in her posture. I was certain that she’d bolt for the phone like a newborn colt if I gave her any provocation at all.

I don’t know if you remember me or not, I’m a friend of Barbara Summers, I said gesturing stupidly towards Barb’s empty house.

Her ancient eyes gave me a thorough cleaning through the thick-yellowed lenses of horn-rimmed glasses, purchased sometime in the Johnson administration, I guessed. After what felt like a good 30 seconds her left foot joined her right onto the small block of cement that constituted a back porch. However, she still held the old aluminum screen door open ready to dive back in if I gave her a reason.

Leaning heavily on my cane I made my way down the concrete steps. Showing my handicap had the desired effect; she almost immediately let the aluminum door slam shut and, walking stiffly, came down the steps in her own backyard.

I understood how easy it must be to take advantage of the old. The poor woman didn’t know me from Adam and yet because she thought I was handicapped I was no threat to her.

Watching her make her way to the chain link fence separating the two houses, I took in Frankie’s back yard. There were far too many flowers and shrubs crammed into such a small area but I had to admit they were well cared for. The contrast between Frankie's yard and Barb's was stark and mirrored the neighborhood as a whole.

The sunflowers that towered over the small metal shed in the corner of her lot seemed to watch us come together over the fence. I noticed there were no roses or other plants that required a higher level of care, probably due to the woman’s inability to put as much time into her gardening as she would like. I thought this might mean she lived alone but was still very proud of her independence.

Your yard is beautiful, I said, looking past her at the mediocre selection of plants and flowers. My comment, as I'd hoped, scored a big hit. Her eyes lit up and she turned to follow my gaze.

Oh, well thank you, thank you very much. I don’t get around as well as I used to but I try, I try... she trailed off and after a moment returned her attention to me.

My names Cathy, Cathy Vega, I said, moving my cane to my left hand so I could shake her right hand. Perhaps you remember me from my visits with Barb? I nodded over my shoulder at Barb’s house as if Frankie had no idea who lived next to her.

Such a nice girl, Frankie said dreamily. I stiffened at her tone because it gave me the impression she was speaking in the past tense. As if reading my thoughts she suddenly said, I hope nothing’s happened to her.

Shocked, I raised an eyebrow and asked, Happened to her, what do you mean?

I must have sounded too eager because she immediately took a quick step back from the fence, her face cringing slightly as if I were about to slap her.

She held up her hands defensively, Oh I didn’t mean that I thought something happened it’s just that I haven’t seen her for some time now and well...

I said nothing; her eyes looked anywhere but at me.

Finally, I prodded her. Frankie, did something happen? I tried to sound encouraging and not at all threatening and must have succeeded to some extent because she did answer me, but not in the way I expected.

Well, it’s just that I don’t want to get involved... She chanced a glance at me then looked at her backdoor.

I took a deep calming breath, before I said, Frankie, if you know something please tell me, I felt my heart racing for some reason.

Fear threatened to take hold of