“I represent Opaline Drucker.” Schrader’s vowels outsugared anything Charleston had to offer. “Mrs. Drucker requested that I meet your flight.”
“The town car was the giveaway.”
“Of course. Where might we take you?”
“The closest Target or Walmart, whichever is open.”
Schrader relayed my request. Leach, now behind the wheel, tapped icons on a dashboard screen, then shifted into gear.
We drove past a terminal and down a driveway in an airstrip resembling the one in North Charleston. Schrader spoke as Leach merged into traffic. Which was substantial.
“My goodness.” Refined chuckle. “I expected someone a bit fiercer than yourself.”
“Yeah,” I said, clearly sharing in his disappointment. “Maybe the Walmart can sell me some war paint.”
Reflex smile but no comment.
The trip took less than ten minutes. The parking lot outside the big box held surprisingly few cars. Leach informed us that the store wouldn’t open for another quarter of an hour.
“Shall we take you elsewhere in the meantime? A restaurant or coffee shop?” Schrader sounded less than enthused.
“I’ll hang here.” I levered the handle with one hand and grabbed my pack with the other. Leach was at the door like a shot.
“Shall we wait?” Schrader asked.
“No.” I wondered if Drucker had tasked him with spying on me.
“You’re certain?”
“I am.”
“Y’all have a fine day.”
Leach closed the door, circled the car, and off they went.
Ten minutes later an employee flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN. I entered, purchased and activated a new throwaway mobile. Then I called Gus to report my location.
“New phone?”
“Yes.” I gave him the number. Which I’d blocked from appearing at his end.
“On my way.”
As I waited, two women parked, got out, and opened the back of their Volvo XC90. Inside was an astounding inventory of hats, each flamboyantly repurposed for Derby week. As I watched, the women draped the SUV’s side panel with a banner stating that all proceeds would go to a shelter for battered women.
I walked over and, after a brief exchange, chose a red metal equestrian helmet outfitted with a lime-green band sprouting Day-Glo orange magnolias. I figured the look was all mine, the thing too hideous to be purchased by anyone else. At least anyone with color vision. And that Gus could easily track it. As an afterthought, I grabbed a feathery white cap for Kerr.
The gaudy red helmet would prove a lifesaver.
Gus swooped up in the understated red Maxima. Kerr was in back. While he drove, we discussed strategy. Kerr said nothing, but her stillness suggested interest in the conversation.
Gus and Kerr had spent the previous day at Churchill Downs. Since no one was galloping for any goodies, and the weather was lousy, access had been easy.
“Thurby.” Gus clearly liked the way the word rolled off his tongue. “On Thurby, twenty bucks gets you into the paddock, the plaza, and the first floor of the grandstand.”
“I’m sure you restricted yourself to those areas.”
Gus flicked me a mischievous wink.
“Any sign of Bronco or his goons?”
“No.” Before I could ask: “Or the kid. And yes, we were very discreet.”
“Did you talk to Beau about tickets?”
“We’re all set.”
“How’s security?”
“Involves everyone but the colonel himself—Kentucky State Police, Louisville Metro Police, Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, Kentucky National Guard. The track’s interior, exterior, and all entrances are covered. The Louisville PD has the biggest presence, and only they work the outside.”
“What numbers are we talking?”
“Six to seven hundred uniforms, fifty to a hundred plainclothes.”
“Any chance of Bronco or one of his crew slipping an IED through?”
“Every gate has a cop, and dogs are plentiful. Post–Boston Marathon, coolers and backpacks are banned, and bags have to measure less than twelve inches. All belongings are checked, and at intervals more rigorous random searches are done.”
“Cue the hounds.”
“Yes.”
“Impressive.”
“It is.”
“That you learned so much.”
“Cruised for hours. Then I bought a brew for an off-duty cop.”
“He shared all that over a casual beer?”
“She. Okay. Maybe I bankrolled several rounds. A lowly mall cop from Akron fanboying over one of Louisville’s finest. The eighty bucks will appear on my bill.”
“Where was Kerr?”
“At a corner table fangirling over me.”
“I’m getting pukey,” Kerr said.
“We’ll be at the hotel soon,” Gus said.
“No.” Petulant. “We won’t. I’m going to die in this car.”
Kerr had a point. Traffic was moving at the speed of a dial-up download.
“There’s good news and bad news.” Gus braked to queue for a red light. “Tickets don’t allow reentry. You leave, you’re out. So a hundred and seventy thousand people won’t be coming and going all day.”
Three cycles, then we finally crossed the intersection.
“And the bad news?”
“Churchill Downs is lousy with gates.”
“How many?” Though the diagrams I’d printed showed only a handful, I knew online information was for public consumption.
“Better I demo.”
Thirty minutes later, Gus parked behind the hotel and we rode up to the room. Kerr beelined to the floor mattress and slipped into catatonia mode. She really had it mastered.
I pulled the facility map from my pack and laid it on the desk. Gus and I leaned in.
“You’re kidding. There are twenty gates. This piece of crap shows four.”
“Cut the commentary and brief me on the layout.”
Using a hotel pen, Gus worked his way around the colored shapes representing Churchill Downs’s track, seating sections, outbuildings, and parking lots.
“Number one is the main entrance, specifically for the grandstand and clubhouse areas.” He drew a small circle at that gate, one of the four marked on my piece of crap. “Gate two, used for deliveries to the Derby Museum, is closed and guarded on race days. No access there.” He drew a circle with a 2 inside. “Two-b is a fire gate for the grandstand.” Circle, 2b. “Three, the Central Avenue gate, allows access to the infield.”
“The cheap seats.” I knew that from my cybersurfing.
“Except there are no seats. Ticket holders aren’t even promised a view of the track. But they’re allowed to bring chairs through gate three, blankets or tarps through gates one and three. Most general admission spectators use three. A tunnel under the track gets them across to the infield.” Pointing out the location.
“One tunnel?”
“Three. Two small, one large, which is closed to the public. Two lanes wide and twelve feet high, the big boy’s used by semis to get rigging into the infield.”
“Scenario one.” My mind was already firing possibilities. “Bronco gets an IED through gate one or three rolled in a blanket or tarp. Or elsewhere, concealed in some permissible item.”
Gus waggled a hand. Maybe yes, maybe no. “Four is a fire gate for the barn area.” He drew another circled digit. “Five is a backside gate for workers and vendors. It’s also used throughout the week for delivering horses, feed, straw, and other supplies.”
“I assume anyone using a vendor or delivery gate has to be vetted,” I said.
“Entry requires a license, which is a photo ID issued by the track. Clearance involves fingerprinting and a database search to see if an applicant has had issues at other racetracks, felony convictions, the usual. Actually, all track workers undergo a background check.”
“I’m sure credentials are little challenge for Bronco. The asshat buys
passports like I buy soap.”
“My beer buddy said it wouldn’t take a genius to forge a track license. Making the badge involves entering the person’s info into a computer, shooting a pic, and printing hard copy.”
“The old DMV method.”
“Exactly. Credentials are delivered early in the week, so there’s plenty of time for copying and retooling.”
“Scenario two.” I traced a route from gate five to the grandstand. “Bronco gets his bomb through in a beer keg or hidden in a case of pickles or popcorn.”
“Or embedded in a feed sack or bale of hay.”
Elbow nudge from my lower centers. What?
Gus resumed pinpointing entrances. “Six is an exit gate for vendors servicing the backside. Seven, eight, and nine are fire gates for the barn area.” Four circles, then the pen came down on the numeral 10 inside a small red circle. “The Longfield gate allows direct access to the clubhouse.”
“High rollers.”
“Higher than the mopes in the infield. Eleven and thirteen are locked. Twelve is a bus and limo gate.”
“Used by whom?”
“For the Derby and Oaks, only the governor and his party, the queen, ex-presidents, yada yada. Tradition.”
“Not likely Bronco would try that.”
“Not likely. All the media trucks set up at gate fourteen.” Circle. “Fifteen is another entrance for vendor deliveries. Sixteen is an access point for the clubhouse and paddock. On Derby weekend, so is seventeen. Eighteen is another fire gate. Nineteen is for EMS and corrections vans.” Five more circles. Churchill Downs was now looking like Swiss cheese.
“So five patron gates—one, three, ten, sixteen, and seventeen.” I tapped each. “What’s the story on the fire gates?”
“During my perimeter sweep, I asked about that. They’re all locked, and only the fire department and track fire personnel have keys. One geezer said entry through a fire gate would be rare without an actual emergency. All his geezer cronies agreed.”
“What are these?” Indicating a row of odd shapes rimming the grandstand side of the infield.
“Corporate tents. Visa, Budweiser, Lockheed Martin, etc. Some are three stories high. Eyesores in my opinion, but I’m not tallying the profits.”
Again the elbow. What?
“Tell me about the barns.” I pointed to a cluster of gray rectangles behind the green and brown oval representing the track.
“Folks in the barn area weren’t as willing to chat.”
“You got back there?”
Mouth hitched into a lopsided grin, Gus tugged a plastic rectangle from the pocket of his chinos. Encased in the plastic was a white card. A man with dark eyes and ragged black hair stared from a little square in its upper right corner.
Reading the name below the photo. “Hector Martinez could lose his job.”
“Hector Martinez shouldn’t leave his license lying around,” Gus said.
“We’ll send him something.”
“We will.”
“The barns?”
“They’re all numbered, so are the stalls, and assigned to specific trainers. A trainer may work for one owner if it’s a big operation, like WinStar or Phipps. More commonly, a trainer works with several owners and fills a barn with horses from different farms. Because of extra security, everyone backside knows the location of the horses running for the roses.”
“Why extra security?”
“Can’t have Joe Public messing with Whirlaway. Or Geraldo or Anderson Cooper. Apparently it’s crazy backside during the Derby.”
“You said the media trucks park at gate fourteen?”
Gus nodded.
“Scenario three. Instead of a track license, Bronco scores phony press credentials and drives a bomb through in the trunk of a car.”
I began pacing, mind running the table with possibilities.
“Journalists, vendors, drivers, janitors, restaurant personnel, trainers, valets, hot-walkers, the guys who shovel shit from the stalls. The place is a sieve. Ticket entrances are the least of our worries.”
“Hot-walkers?”
“Bronco could already have an IED inside. He could be taking one through as we speak.”
Gus said nothing.
“Maybe camouflaged as a box lunch.” I’d read about those online.
“Box lunches can be only eighteen inches square. And they have to be in clear plastic containers.”
“Built into a stroller. Concealed in a diaper bag.”
“To take either through you have to have a kid.”
“Maybe he borrowed one.”
No response.
“Or, forget forgery. Maybe he or one of his pals stole a track license. You managed. How hard can it be?”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Stop pacing.”
“When?” Rounding on Gus so fast he started. “When would you strike? Today? Tomorrow?”
“You kidding? The Derby, no question. Maximum crowd, maximum media presence.”
“But when?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. He could hit during saddling up. The jockeys are mounting, the cameras are rolling, the world is watching. And logistics would be easier in the barn or paddock area than out on the track.”
“Say Bronco has gotten a bomb in via a backside gate. Or he gets one in today.” Darting back to the desk, I traced a route with one finger. “Through the tunnel to the infield and across to the tunnel under the grandstand. He plants it there. The bomb goes off, the tunnel collapses, people are packed shoulder to ass on the infield with no way out.”
“First responders would direct survivors through the large tunnel.”
Again the subliminal nudge. What was I forgetting? Missing?
The sheikh and his party?
“Show me where the Godolphin horses are stabled.”
Gus tapped a gray rectangle on the right side of the cluster of gray rectangles. Made an odd noise in his throat.
“Say it,” I said.
“Bronco’s been planning this attack for a year. Maybe longer. I doubt he’ll settle for some workers and a bunch of dead horses.”
“Where do the Godolphin folks sit during the race?”
“Jockey Club, second-level suite. Should his horse win, his sheikhness has to haul cheeks fast to the track.”
“Thus a low floor.”
“Yes. He brings his own security, so they’d be tough to target.”
“But not impossible, with a plant on the inside. Say a waiter or a bartender. Someone who could roll a cart into the suite. Or leave one outside the door.”
“Not bad. But think about it. Bronco wants breaking news. CBS, ABC, CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera. To grab that kind of attention I’d hit as the horses cross the finish line. Cameras are rolling, fans are cheering, hooves are thundering. Ka-boom! Bloodbath on the track and infield, panic in the grandstand.”
“What did you say about dead horses?”
We both turned.
Kerr was sitting up, expression that of a terrified child.
“Your boyfriend plans to bomb the Derby, Hotpants. To kill and maim as many horses and people as he can.” Knowing we’d hit a nerve, I hammered hard, playing on her fear for the one thing that seemed to matter to her. “You know what happens to an injured Thoroughbred?” I pantomimed shooting myself in the temple.
“He can’t do that!” Frightened eyes jumping between Gus and me.
I pulled the trigger again. “Poom!”
“Don’t! That’s so mean! Horses are innocent creatures. They have thoughts and feelings like we do.”
I just looked at her.
“You have to stop him!”
“How?”
“Are you a witch?” Eyes locked on my ebony nails.
“Never felt the calling.”
“Gus said you’re a cop.”
“I was.” Gus? First names?
“Why?”
“Why what?” Letting my arm drift do
wn, my fingers uncurl from the make-believe gun.
“Why were you a cop?”
I slinked a glance at Gus. He nodded, encouraging me to humor her.
“I was a grunt. Coming back civvie, law enforcement felt like a fit.”
“Why’d you quit the military?”
“Long story.”
“Why’d you quit being a cop?”
“I was injured.”
“That how your eye got messed up?”
“What is this, Truth or Dare?” Out of patience, hearing a ticking clock in my head.
Kerr’s head dropped. Her fingers raked her hair like bony white claws. A full minute, then her chin leveled.
“My name is Denise Scranton.” Answering the question she’d been stonewalling for days. “I’m from Winnetka, Illinois.”
“Any relation to John Scranton?” I’d forgotten all about him. About the stabbing.
“John’s my brother.”
It was Opaline Drucker with a twist. Dead sibling, missing mother. Christ almighty, do I tell her?
For a long moment I could only stare at Kerr. Scranton. No, I was used to calling her Kerr. For now I’d stick with that. Her grieving, if that’s what she’d do, would have to wait. I needed her functional. And I needed to get to the track.
“Give it up, Hotpants. What’s Bronco’s plan?”
“I don’t know. I swear.”
“Don’t dance me around.”
“He bought tickets for the race. If I knew anything else I’d tell you. Cross my heart.” She made the sign on her chest. “I would never do anything to hurt an animal.”
Her anguish seemed so genuine, the gesture so childlike, I believed her. I was also struck by a sudden realization.
“How old are you?”
Her lips parted to answer. Too quick.
“Don’t lie to me. I’ll find out anyway.”
“Twenty.” Mumbled.
Nineteen when Bnos Aliza was bombed. Fuck a duck.
I looked at my watch. 9:25. Churchill Downs had been open since eight.
I turned to Gus. “The first race goes off in thirty-five minutes.”
“We taking Hotpants?” he asked.
“I still have the cuffs.” A bluff. Gus knew I wouldn’t leave her. Kerr could recognize members of Bronco’s group that we didn’t know. It was the main reason we’d kept her with us.