Millions to Spare. Barbara Dunlop
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paced alongside the animal, trying to keep up without looking conspicuous. She scanned its head, its shoulders, its withers and legs, desperately searching her brain for something definitive, something that would tell her whether this was an animal worth investigating. She wished her eye was as keen as Melanie’s or Robbie’s.
Then, she remembered her cell phone. Perfect. She’d e-mail a picture to Melanie and take it from there.
All but trotting along under the warmth of a waning desert sun, she dug into her small purse, tugging out her cell phone. Then she ran a couple of steps to get the angle right, and held up the phone.
Instantly, a white, brass-buttoned, uniformed chest stepped between her and the fence, blocking her view.
“I am very sorry, madam,” the man said, not looking sorry at all.
Julia had no choice but to stop. She tipped her head to blink into a dark, bearded face, shaded by a peaked cap.
“No pictures,” he informed her, his lips clamped in a stern line.
“I don’t understand,” she lied, glancing around, cursing the fact that the horse was getting away.
The No Photos signs were posted conspicuously around the racetrack in at least six languages—three of which Julia spoke.
“No pictures,” the man repeated. “And this is not a public area.”
She maintained her facade of confusion, still keeping an eye on the retreating dun. “But—”
“I must ask you to return to the stands.” The man gestured back the way she’d come.
She peeked around him one last time, scrambling for a solution before the horse and groom disappeared. “Do you know who owns that horse?” she asked.
“This is not a public area,” the man repeated.
“I just need to know—”
Suddenly, a rugged-looking man in a white head scarf and a flowing, white robe materialized beside them. “Do we have a problem?”
Julia instinctively took a step back, shaking her head in denial that she was causing any kind of a problem. This did not look like the kind of man she wanted to annoy. His beard was scraggly, the tip of his nose was missing, and one eyebrow was markedly shorter than the other. Truly, she had no desire to run afoul of somebody who looked like a bar-fight veteran.
“I was only…” She took another step back, taking note of the primal urge that told her to put some distance between the two of them. “Curious about a horse.”
His eyes narrowed. “Which horse?”
“The dun. I…” She hesitated, then screwed up her courage. If she walked away now, she might never find out about the horse, and she might lose a real opportunity to help the Prestons.
She gave her eyelashes a determined flutter and offered a bright, ingenuous grin. “It’s pretty. When’s it racing?”
His thin lips curved into a cold smile. “You wish to bet?”
“No. No, of course I don’t want to bet.” Betting was illegal in Dubai.
“He is Millions to Spare. The third race.”
A name. She had a name. Julia mentally congratulated herself.
She turned to leave, but the man’s hand closed around her upper arm. She glanced down, spotting a tiny tattoo on his inner wrist. It was square, red and gold, with a diagonal line cut through the center.
“You talk to Al Amine,” the man said.
She struggled not to panic.
But then he released her. “For a bet. You talk to Al Amine.”
She reflexively glanced at the uniformed man. Either his English was weak, or they didn’t take the no-betting law particularly seriously around here.
In either event, Julia had the Thoroughbred’s name. A little more sleuthing, and she’d have the name of the stable. If luck was with her, she could end up with more than a fluff piece from this trip. Imagine if she was able to solve the mystery, identify Leopold’s Legacy’s true sire? The Prestons would be in the clear, and her name would be on a byline.
Since earning her journalism degree at Cal State, she’d dreamed of breaking significant news stories, of bringing insights and information to millions of readers around the world. So far, she’d only managed to bring insights on horse racing to a limited audience through Equine Earth.
Not that Equine Earth was a bad employer; they had brought a lower middle-class Seattle girl all the way to Dubai. And soon she’d have enough experience and credentials to branch out to harder news, maybe with a mainstream publication.
As the crowds closed in behind her, she took one last glance at the mystery stallion.
“Come on, Leopold’s Legacy connection,” she muttered under her breath. For the first time in her career, a racehorse story had the potential to move beyond the business and into the mainstream.
Through the speakers above her, the announcer switched from English to Arabic to Spanish, reciting some of the more prominent horses’ names and the time left to the first parade to the post.
Julia ignored the growing excitement in the audience. Her goal was information on Millions to Spare. If she could find a program, she could look up the name of his stable and potentially be on her way to a significant story.
Cadair Racing.
The lettering on the side of the eight-horse trailer was in both English and Arabic. There was a phone number beneath, but a telephone call was the last thing on Julia’s mind. Millions to Spare was in that trailer. And Julia was in the middle of an honest-to-God covert operation here.
She’d figured out the one thing, the one little thing that would tell her for certain if Millions to Spare was a lead in the Leopold’s Legacy parentage mystery, or just another dead end. And that little thing was his DNA.
She’d watched men load the stallion into the eight-horse trailer just a few minutes ago. Now, the last groom was walking away, leaving it unattended, and providing Julia with her golden chance.
Carter Phillips had run into nothing but resistance when he’d checked out the DNA of the other Leopold’s Legacy look-alike in California. His experience had taught Julia it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Considering her DNA test might result in Millions to Spare being disqualified from the Thoroughbred registry, she wasn’t about to call Cadair in advance. She was going to gather the facts first, then deal with the implications—if there were any—later.
All she needed was a tiny sample. Millions to Spare wouldn’t even miss it. Then Carter Phillips could run the test, and she’d know if she had a live investigation on her hands, or if she was switching back to the straight fluff piece about the Prestons’ two-year-old Something to Talk About racing in Dubai.
She took a final glance around the parking lot. Seeing no one who appeared interested in the Cadair Racing trailer, she scooted out in high-heeled sandals, a sleeveless white blouse and a straight, linen skirt. It was hardly the right outfit to go sleuthing around a horse trailer, but she couldn’t let that slow her down.
She tested the handle on the small side door. The silver metal was smooth and warm on her palm. To her relief, the door opened easily.
Heart pounding, she swung it wide and slipped into the cloying dimness, quickly clicking the door shut behind her. She took a deep breath, then sneezed out a gulp of hay dust, startling the closest horse.
There were five of them in the trailer. There were also three empty stalls, and she realized the grooms could be back at any moment with more horses. She couldn’t waste any time. She took shallow breaths to keep from sneezing as she wound her way between oiled saddles, hanging bridles, black water buckets and prickly hay bales.
It