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.
A secret life, I mused. I knew all about that sort of thing. As did Pellini, with his Kadir connection and, on a smaller scale, his costuming sideline.
Two horses and riders rounded the turn on the track and thundered down the straight, neck and neck. Lenny went up to the rail, leaned on it and put a foot on a battered crate that seemed to be placed for that very purpose. “Miss Catherine will be clear in a minute.” He gestured to our right at a dark-haired woman in jeans, boots, and a blue t-shirt, who leaned against the rail in a similar pose by the gate about a hundred yards away. She divided her attention between a stopwatch in her hand and the two horses as they galloped by.
“How long has she worked here?” I asked.
“She grew up here just like Boo,” he said. “Pops, her dad, used to be head trainer. She worked her way up and has been head now for close to ten years.”
I caught Pellini’s eye. “We should go introduce ourselves,” I said to Lenny. “Would you excuse us for a few minutes?”
A flicker of worry passed over his face, but he simply gave a nod and went back to watching the horses.
Pellini and I strolled down the rail. “Boudreaux’s family has been here for generations,” I said. “No wonder he’s so messed up about Farouche’s death.”
He nodded, grim.
We waited for the horses to slow before approaching. “Mrs. McDunn?” I said when she looked over. “I’m Kara Gillian. I used to work with your son. This is Vince Pellini, his partner.”
“What do you want?” she asked, sounding more tired than defensive.
“I’m sorry, I know this is hard on you,” I said. “I’m sure various investigators have already spoken to you, but I was hoping you’d answer a few questions about your husband, Angus.”
To my relief, she gave me a firm nod. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she said, mouth tightening in undisguised anger as she slid the stopwatch into the front pocket of her jeans. “I can’t believe that man lied to me for all these years. All those terrible things he did! I hope they track him down and put him away for the rest of his life.”
“You believe the accusations?” Pellini asked.