Kit Ehrman - At Risk

"Makes sense."

"Yeah," Ralston said. "He swore up and down that he hadn't been there for at least three months, but ultimately, that claim was his downfall because, while they were waiting to go to the trial, this forensics guy vacuumed his house every day with one of the special vacuums they use at crime scenes-"

"The murder scene?"

"No. His house."

"I bet his wife loved that," I said.

"Yeah, I imagine so." Ralston yawned. "Anyway, he demonstrated how hair deteriorates over time but is still identifiable. So, from any given sample, he could show which hairs had been in the environment for an extended period of time and which hairs had been newly shed. He proved that some of the defendant's hairs found at the crime scene were fresh."

Ralston took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look at it the other way around. We can prove that any older hairs of yours have been in the trailer long enough to substantiate the claim that you were in that trailer two months ago as well as the other day."

"And if they find fibers from my coat, which I obviously didn't wear Tuesday, that'll help."

Ralston nodded.

I thought about the condition of the trailer and the fact that it had been forked out at least once since the theft. "What are the chances of forensics finding anything?"

"Not as bad as you might think. The overall lack of cleanliness might actually work in our favor. It's when the bad guys get out a hose and vacuum that it gets tough."

"What about James Peters?"

"I'm hoping we'll get something there, too. It's a crap shoot. You just hope you get something good." Ralston looked at me a little longer than was prudent for the narrow back road we were traveling. "Kind of an unusual job for someone with your background, isn't it?" he said.

I shrugged.

"I'd've figured you for Notre Dame or Harvard or Yale." He paused for emphasis. "Or even Johns Hopkins."

I shifted in my seat. "Done your homework, I see." When he didn't respond, I said, "I took a break from school and got a job here because I thought the idea of working with horses would be fun."

What I hadn't counted on was the old man kicking me out. Out of his house and out of his life, each of us waiting for the other to change his mind.

I sighed. "For a while, anyway."

Ralston accelerated into a curve. "But you stayed."

I adjusted the sun visor. "I kind of got caught up in it. I don't know. I like it a hell of a lot more than sitting in some lecture hall." I rubbed my eyes and said, "Do you think whoever stole the horses has someone inside Foxdale?"

"Hard to tell. Why?"

"Just wondered. One of our trainers got fired Friday. Whitcombe. The one I told you about before, who showed up with an expensive saddle right after the tack theft. He has a brand new Mustang convertible, too." And a baldheaded friend who resembled a eunuch, but I didn't tell him that.

"He inherited a chunk of change a while back, from an aunt," Ralston said, "but some family members contested the will. The ruling went in his favor. He received a check sometime in February. More than enough to cover that new saddle and a Mustang."

"Well then, that explains that. And maybe it explains his mood, too. He's always been… difficult, but in the last three or four months, he's been downright obnoxious."

"Money or love. Does it every time," Ralston said. "Know anything about his love life?"

"No," I said, "I do not."

The detective grinned, and I realized he must have known about, or at least suspected, Whitcombe's sexual preference.

"One of the other employees," I said, "Brian Denning. There's something up with him, isn't there?"

"He's in the system."

"What for?"

"Residential burglary, theft from a motor vehicle, DUI. He's on probation for another eight months.

"What's that entail?"

"Besides keeping his nose clean, staying off the booze, and holding a job, he's gotta attend A.A. and submit to drug testing. And he can't miss a meeting with his PO."

I pointed to a mailbox up ahead. "Turn in there."

I retrieved my coat, and Ralston lowered it into a plastic trash bag and sealed it shut with tape. He then rested a pad on the hood of his car and filled out a label which he pressed down across the bag's seam like a seal. "What about a hat? Gloves?"

I shook my head. I hadn't seen them since that night. Ralston handed me a receipt for the coat and dropped me off at Foxdale. I watched him back down the lane and hoped that something good would come from my screw-up.

After lunch, I fell asleep on the sofa in the lounge. When I next became aware of noises, someone was working at the computer keyboard in the office.

I hadn't slept for thirty hours, and lying down, even for a moment, had been a mistake. My legs and arms were felt heavy, as if they were weighted down.

The lounge door opened.

My entire body felt as if it were sunk into the cushions.

Whoever had opened the door, hadn't walked on through to the office.

I opened my eyes.

Mr. Harrison was standing alongside the sofa with a clipboard in his hand. His face was stiff, and I had the distinct impression he was clenching his teeth.

I checked my watch. Lunch time had ended without my knowledge. The crew was back at work, and no one had bothered to wake me.

When I pulled myself into a sitting position, Harrison handed me the paperwork. I glanced at his figures and saw that Marty had already initialed the invoice. I scrawled my name across the bottom of the sheet just the same and held out the clipboard. Harrison stared at me for a second, his eyes flat and expressionless, then he snatched it out of my hand and walked into the office.

Nick had described him as creepy. He wasn't far off.

Harrison could have left by the office door, but he chose to cut through the lounge on his way out. I was still sitting on the sofa when he stepped outside. He turned back around as the door swung shut and stared at me through the glass with that tight, expressionless face of his before he headed for his truck.

What a jerk. He was the one who had tried his stinking little scam. It was his damn luck he'd gotten caught.

I opened the lounge door as the flatbed lumbered down the lane. Harrison sat motionless in the passenger's seat. I glanced at the drive and realized I didn't know him and wondered if Harrison had fired the other guy. Harrison had seen me check. He scowled at me through the glass as the truck jostled past.

I rubbed my forehead and felt an overwhelming tiredness deep within my bones. And to top it off, it was going to be a late night. After the last lesson, the school horses had to be turned out and their stalls cleaned because we would be leasing the space to the clinic participants. If Rachel wanted to hang around, she'd have to watch me muck stalls.

There had to be a better way to impress your girlfriend.

I took the rest of the afternoon off, went home, and took a nap. Just before four o'clock, someone knocked on the kitchen door. I squinted through the glass.

Rachel was standing on the other side of my door.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. My jeans were on the floor halfway across the room, and the gray cat had curled into a ball on top of them. When I grabbed a pant leg, the cat dug her claws into the denim. I dragged her across the carpet until she gave it up and abandoned ship. When I straightened, I saw that Rachel was laughing.

"Ha, ha," I mouthed.

I zipped up my jeans, didn't bother with the snap, and opened the door.

Rachel was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt and along with skin-tight riding breeches and boots. Very sexy. She'd pulled her silky dark hair into a loose pony tail. Wisps of hair had worked free and hung along the side of her face and down the back of her neck. She stepped inside, and I reached behind her and clicked the door shut.