Page 14 of No Rules
“Yeah. This case is more twisted than a pretzel in a tornado.”
Alex slapped a hand over his mouth, but a chuckle escaped nonetheless.
“What’s so funny?” Ryan quirked an eyebrow.
“Those expressions you always use. Who says that?”
Ryan laughed sheepishly. “My mom. She was born and raised in Texas, and her family has this weird thing about those kinds of sayings. I’ve grown so used to them they still pop out of my mouth on occasion.”
“I think it’s cute.” Alex promptly blushed.
“Cute? I’m not cute, baby boy.”
Alex raised his chin, looking all kinds of adorable with his red cheeks. “And I’m not your baby boy, but that hasn’t stopped you.”
“Touché.”
“Besides, I didn’t say you were cute. I said those expressions were cute. Not the same thing.”
“So you don’t think I’m cute?”
Alex held up his hands. “This is where I’m pleading the Fifth.”
Ryan grinned. He loved verbally sparring with Alex. “Smart.”
A jockey was walking a horse toward a stall. They waited until he’d stabled the horse, then approached him. He watched them with curious eyes.
“Hi,” Ryan said. “We’re investigating the death of Sam’s Promise. Could we ask you some questions?”
The jockey, a wiry man with sun-kissed skin and a cropped beard, nodded. “Anything I can do to help. One of the most awful things I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”
“Do you know Marilyn?”
“I sure do. I rode for her a few years ago. Best boss I ever had.”
“That so? Why?”
The jockey scratched his beard. “She’s always been good to us, you know? Respects the horses and treats everyone fairly. And jockeys get a share of the prize money they win. Can’t say that about everyone in this business.”
“You ever heard anything bad about her? Anything that could explain why someone would hate her?”
“Other than jealousy? No. No clue.”
“Okay, thanks.”
The jockey pointed at a tall guy who was hand-feeding a horse. “That’s Mike Durant, the owner I work for. He knew Marilyn well. You should talk to him.”
“We will. Thank you.”
They made their way over to Mike Durant, who assessed them with steely gray eyes. “Can I help you?”
“We’re investigating the death of Sam’s Promise,” Ryan said.
“You’re not a cop.”
He was smarter than his jockey, who hadn’t even asked who Ryan was. “No, I’m a PI. Marilyn hired me.”
“Ah, gotcha. What can I do for you?”