The Trojan Colt by Mike Resnick

way.”
    â€œHow did you know my name is Bernice?”
    â€œYou just look like a Bernice,” I said.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œGorgeous, redheaded, not a hair out of place, not a button unbuttoned. What could it be but Bernice?”
    She was still beaming when I walked down the hall and entered Lou Berger’s room. He was on the phone. He smiled and waved to me, pointed to a chair, and finished up his conversation in maybe half a minute.
    â€œGlad you could make it,” he said. “I didn’t really expect to see you until tomorrow.”
    â€œI got your call maybe ten minutes ago. It was nothing to drive over here before you’re off-duty.”
    â€œWant some coffee?”
    â€œNot right now,” I said, leaning forward. “What have you got on Tony Sanders?”
    â€œNot a damned thing.”
    â€œBut your call said—”
    â€œMy call said I did a little digging and came up with something interesting,” replied Berger. “And I did.”
    â€œSo what is it?”
    â€œThe other groom you mentioned—Billy Paulson?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œSeems he phoned us the day before he vanished,” said Berger. “I was on vacation that week, but I found the records. He thought someone might want to kill him. We asked him who and why, and he said he didn’t want to talk about it yet, that he might be wrong, but if he didn’t call in every day to go looking for him.”
    â€œAnd?” I asked.
    â€œNever heard from him again. Had a couple of officers spend a day or two looking for him, checking with friends, family, the farm. They finally concluded he just ran off for whatever reason, and there didn’t seem to be anyone chasing him.”
    â€œAnd this was about a month ago?”
    He checked his notes. “Thirty-seven days.”
    â€œAnd he’s the kid that Tony replaced.”
    â€œRight,” said Berger. “Sounded a little like Tony. Everything’s fine and then one day he’s all upset, he won’t talk about it, and then he’s gone.” He looked across the desk at me. “Does that mean anything to you, hint at anything at all?”
    â€œThey both worked for Bigelow,” I said. “Beyond that . . .”
    â€œWord has it that he’s fallen on hard times.”
    â€œThe place is falling apart,” I agreed. “But selling a three-million-dollar yearling that’s never set foot on a track has to help.”
    â€œMaybe,” he said.
    â€œMaybe?” I repeated.
    â€œYou know these multi-millionaires,” he said. “They can spend more in a day than you or I make in a decade.”
    â€œActually,” I said, “I don’t know these multi-millionaires, at least not as well as I’d like to—but I’ll take your word for it.
    â€œAnyway,” said Berger, “if I find that either kid has been harmed—or perhaps both of them—I figure maybe there’s a connection.”
    â€œLet’s hope they’re both having fun in the sun, but, yeah,” I agreed. “Is the guy who took the call around today?”
    He looked at the notes again. “Drew MacDonald,” he said. “Yeah, I think he’s just starting the night shift, and I’m pretty sure he’s on desk duty this week. Let me see.” He picked up his phone, punched in three numbers, and waited a minute. “Drew? Lou Berger here. Can you stop by my office for a minute? Thanks.”
    He turned to me. “He’s on his way.”
    A moment later the door opened, and a tall, slender man, graying at the sides and wearing thick glasses, entered the office.
    â€œDrew, say hello to Eli Paxton. He’s a detective from Cincinnati, here on a case.”
    â€œPublic?” asked MacDonald, extending his hand.
    â€œPrivate,” I replied, taking and shaking it.
    â€œSo what can I do for you, Mr. Paxton?”
    â€œCall me