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paused. “I wish his new owner well. That’s a hell of a horse. Almost makes me wish I was still racing them.”
    â€œI got the impression you never raced your own horses, sir,” I said.
    â€œI got into this decades ago with some cheap claiming horses,” he replied. “Even moved one of them up to stakes competition. It was when I learned where the real money was that I gave it up to be a market breeder. I hope to hell Tyrone goes out and wins some major races for his new owner . . . but if he doesn’t, I’ve still got my three and a quarter million.”
    â€œMakes sense to me,” I said, and then paused for a moment. “Now, getting back to Tony . . .”
    â€œLike I said, I don’t know the young man, but far be it from me to hinder you in the pursuit of justice or truth or whatever the hell it is you’re pursuing.”
    â€œRight now what I’m pursuing is Tony Sanders,” I said.
    â€œOkay, Mr. Packard . . .”
    â€œPaxton,” I corrected him.
    â€œMr. Paxton,” he said. “You have free run of the farm. Frank, he can look anywhere he wants, interview anyone he wants.” He turned to me. “Will that be satisfactory?”
    â€œI couldn’t ask for anything more,” I replied. Well, maybe your house and three and a quarter million, but what the hell.
    â€œThen I think our conversation is over,” he said, extending his hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Paxton, and I hope you find the young man.”
    â€œEli, go on out,” said Standish. “I’ll join you in just a minute.”
    I left the study and began walking to the front door. They closed the study door, but it was warped along the top, and I could hear Standish’s voice saying, “Are we going to get our paychecks today, sir?”
    â€œYes,” said Bigelow. “I’ll have Marvin write them out and deliver them this afternoon. I’m sorry, Frank; he and I were both tied up all day at the bank.”
    I couldn’t hear anything further without coming to a complete stop, and Hector the guard was standing by the open front door staring at me, so I went outside and waited for Standish there.
    As I tripped over a loose brick in the doorway, I found myself thinking that if Tony had had any money, I could well believe Bigelow had murdered him for it, just to help repair the once-proud and now-dilapidated Mill Creek Farm.

I spent an hour nosing around the barns, escorted by Frank Standish. I spoke to some of the grooms and the other hired help. Everyone liked Tony, no one had a bad word to say about him, and no one was surprised that he had left. Kids were doing that all the time, and even at nineteen or twenty he was still a kid in this industry.
    I figured the next stop was the local police station. I hate cooling my heels while the cops check my credentials at their usual snail’s pace, so I called ahead, gave them my name, told them to check with Jim Simmons of the Cincinnati police, then went out for lunch (or maybe it was a late breakfast, since I hadn’t eaten since I got up), smoked a cigarette when my conscience wasn’t looking, and finally drove over to the station.
    I introduced myself to the desk clerk (or maybe she was the desk clerkess, a redhead in her forties), and she led me to the office I wanted. A uniformed cop sat behind a desk, and when I entered he stood up and extended his hand.
    â€œLou Berger,” he said.
    â€œAnd I’m Eli Paxton,” I replied, taking his hand.
    â€œJim Simmons has nice things to say about you,” said Berger. “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”
    â€œI’m trying to track down a young man who went missing yesterday,” I said, sitting down opposite him.
    â€œJust since yesterday?” he said, frowning. “That hardly qualifies as missing. Has he got a girl or maybe a habit?”
    I