Black Diamond (7 page)

I could feel the tumblers click. I figured by that time Erin had been taken. But Rick didn't know about Erin, and I couldn't tell him. Rick looked over at me for an explanation. I had no words.

“Damn, Mike. I think the race was fixed and maybe Danny knew it. I think he knew someone was going to get him during the race. If he'd told me, I'd have scratched the horse on the spot.”

“Not your fault. I guess Danny was right. How do you think they did it? Danny didn't just fall off that horse.”

Rick rubbed the random strands of his hair and shook his head. “I've watched that damn race on the film a hundred times. Two hundred in my mind. Whatever the hell they did, I can't see it. One thing's for damn sure. You're right. Danny doesn't just fall off a horse.”

He finished the coffee and tossed the paper cup in the basket to get back to work. I had one more nagging question. “You saw Black Diamond's workout times before the race. Pathetic. Where'd he get the speed he showed in that race?”

Rick wiped his leathery face with a hand that was more callous than skin. He looked back at the track. “Horses are like people. Some days they want to run. Some days they don't.”

“Yeah, Rick, and pigs are like dragonflies.”

I didn't actually say that. I didn't say anything, which probably meant to Rick just what I was thinking.
Bull
. I had checked the
Daily Racing Form
fractions for that race. The first three furlongs had been run in blazing speed, and Black Diamond was close to the pace. It was as if the Diamond had been reborn that day as an athlete.

About that time, the exercise riders began to ride their mounts out to the track. A fair number of the regular Suffolk Downs jockeys were there to exercise horses in the morning workouts. Some do it to make extra money, some to get the feel of a horse they're going to ride in an afternoon race, and some just to be where they'd rather be than anywhere else on earth—hanging with the real horse people.

I was there to find out who was pulling whose strings in that race that ended Danny's life. I wore jeans and boots and a denim jacket, the better to blend in like a piece of wallpaper. Given my early Puerto Rican upbringing, there were two doors open to me. I could approach the Anglo jockeys or the Latinos. I chose the latter for no better reason than that there are more of them.

By about seven thirty, a number of Latino riders had finished the first ride and were clustered with coffee by the rail. I spotted several who had ridden in Danny's race.

The trick, since I'd be walking on tender ground, was to break the seal of secrecy. I knew they'd be cordial to any stranger, friendly to anyone who spoke Spanish without an accent, and hopefully willing to open the store to one of their own who had taken on representation of a Dominican jockey as a client.

I exchanged
holas
and got a warm reception as anticipated. We coasted harmoniously through such sensitive topics as the weather, the track condition, and whether Big Papi Ortiz of the Red Sox would break his slump. With a bit of false confidence, I decided to wade into deeper waters before they disbanded for another ride-out.

“My name's Michael Knight. I'm a lawyer. I'm defending Hector Vasquez. He's charged with the murder of Danny Ryan.”

That's a translation from Spanish. Needless to say, I had their full attention. The translation continues, “I need your help. The D.A.'s going after Hector with all guns blazing. I think she's after a lot bigger fish than Hector, but she's going to use him as a weapon to get them. I think that puts Hector not only in trouble but also in danger. Do you hear me?”

I got nods all around, but also a lot of foot shuffling that I took as a desire to relocate quickly. I needed a hook.

“What I need is information. Right now, the D.A. knows a hell of a lot more about that race than I do. That could be a fatal disadvantage in defending Hector. I know that race was sour one way or another. I need you to tell me how.”

I looked from face to face. All I could see was tight lips and look-away head shakes.

“Just tell me this. Did Danny Ryan and Hector ever have any problems?”

One of the riders, the youngest by appearance, started to say something about an argument. The jockey beside him gave him a jolt with his fist behind his back. It stemmed the flow of words like shutting off a valve. I lost eye contact and a wall of silence slammed into place.

“Let me lay it out for you, gentlemen. If you stick together and
help, we stand a chance of pulling Hector out of the fire. If you stay in your shell, the D.A.'ll pick you off one at a time till she gets what she wants. Please tell me what you know about that race.”

The glow of collegiality I rode in on had drained to the last drop. One by one they had to “see a trainer about the next ride.”

The last one to walk away was Vinnie Hernandez. When he walked close to me to throw his cup in the basket, I barely heard the words, “Go down to the starting gate.”

I stayed by the rail for a few minutes in the unlikely event that anyone heard what Vinnie said. Then I walked the quarter of a mile to the left down the rail to where a starting gate had been set in position across the track. A few riders were taking their mounts to the gate for training in entering one of the narrow compartments and breaking smoothly when the steel doors swung open at the start of a race.

In about ten minutes, I saw Vinnie riding a dappled gray along the rail toward the gate. I stayed about thirty yards up from the gate to be out of earshot of the assistant starters on foot who guided, cajoled, or shoved recalcitrant starters into a compartment in the gate and held their bridles to keep their heads straight for the start.

Vinnie's horse was prancing sideways with a wide eye on that green steel monster that would soon swallow him up. I could see Vinnie working his left rein and right boot to have the gray pass me as close to the rail as he could. The rapid snorting breath of the colt all but covered up the words Vinnie forced through his unmoving lips.

“Alberto Ibanez. See him alone. Tell him I said this may be the time we talked about.”

I was surprised that he said it in English, but then I noticed three Latino riders twenty yards behind him. He never looked at me, but his last words were, “¿me
comprendes
?”

“
Sí,Vinnie
.”

“
Buena suerte, amigo
.”

It was a little before eleven when I pulled into Colleen's driveway. There was no need to play hide-and-seek. Scully and anyone he reported to knew I was in the game on Colleen's side. They apparently realized that we had still not gone to the police since nothing catastrophic seemed to have occurred since the previous day.

This time when I rang the bell, Colleen took my hand and led me into the house. It was dark and silent as a tomb without Danny's laugh and the constant jabber of little Erin. The wet droplets in each of Colleen's road-mapped eyes told me how much sleep she'd had.

“Anything new?”

She just shook her head, holding back the torrent that needed to escape. I took her by the arms and put her head on my shoulder. That did it. The floodgates burst. She sobbed until her entire body shook. I could feel the moisture seep through the shoulder of my shirt. She let it pour out of her until she had no more strength to sob.

I walked her back to a chair and just let her collapse.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

She just shook her head, almost too weak to say the word, “No.”

“Stay there, Colleen.”

I went into the kitchen and found the makings for what a physician friend of mine would have prescribed under the circumstances. I put four pieces of bread into the large toaster and turned the knob to “dark.” In a house with a child, it was no trick to find the peanut butter. Since one more cup of coffee would have eaten a hole
through my stomach lining, I made each of us a cup of double strength tea, black with a splash of sugar for energy.

When I came back to the living room with a tray, she gave it a glance that was less than eager.

“You are about to be treated to my mother's recipe for what's ailing both of us. Peanut butter on toast, tea, and commiserating company to share it with.”

She gave me a sidewise look.

“I know your mother, Michael. She'd serve fried tortillas and salsa.”

“This is the Irish equivalent. Danny would approve of the menu. In fact he'd insist that you eat. And you know it.”

I set the tray down and took the first piece of toast. Reluctantly, she followed suit.

I was glad to see her sit up straighter when she finished. It was approaching eleven thirty.

When the mantel clock struck the half hour and the phone rang, we both jumped, even though it was what we were waiting for.

“Let me take this one, Colleen.”

She was on her feet beside me at the phone.

“Okay, but I want to talk to Erin.”

I steadied my voice for a quick hello.

There was silence on the other end. All I could hear was slow breathing. In about four seconds I heard the sharp South Boston accent of Scully.

“I said you had a death wish, lawyer. Looks like you've got a death wish for the kid too.”

I wanted to go through the phone at him, but I wanted Erin's life more. Besides, I'd clearly lost round one of physical combat with Scully. I prayed for control.

“Nothing's changed, Scully. You knew yesterday that I knew you were in on it. There are no police involved. If there's any doubt, let me say it again. There's only one thing in this world I want from you.
I want Erin back unharmed. I'll follow your demands to the letter. We both walk away, and no looking back.”

Another four seconds before he spoke. I knew he was controlling an Irish temper that was aimed directly at me. He might also have realized that dealing with me was his best shot at avoiding a kidnapping charge, or God forbid, a murder charge in connection with Erin.

“Ten thousand dollars. Cash. In a briefcase. Park Street subway. Wait at the bottom of the escalator. Eleven o'clock tonight. Exactly. You got that?”

“I'll be there. I'll have it,”

“The hell you will, lawyer. You're out of it. The mother brings it. Alone. You hear me?”

Alarms were going off like fire bells. Every nerve was screaming,
Bad arrangement
.

“No. She's been through enough. I'll—”

“Watch the papers tomorrow morning, lawyer. The police will have discovered the body of a kid.”

“All right. All right. Whatever you want.”

“Alone. One hint that she's covered, and the deal's off. Can you guess what that means?”

“I know.”

“That's it. Eleven o'clock.”

“Whoa. The hell that's it. How do we get Erin back?”

“That depends on how smooth the delivery goes.”

“Scully, I've got two things you'd better hear. You're on thin ice with Boyle. I think you've also screwed up with whomever you pulled this kidnapping for, because it clearly wasn't Boyle. That ten thousand dollars is bullshit. You want that little girl off your hands as badly as I do. Get this. You have my absolute silence as long as we get Erin back unharmed. One small hint that it's otherwise, and you can check the front page of the
Globe
for some publicity you can't afford. That's a promise.”

“You make a lot of noise for someone who's not holding any cards, lawyer. Don't push me.”

“Give back the girl, Scully, and I'll have the pleasure of having nothing to do with you for the rest of my life. You have my word on that.”

Another three seconds.

“Eleven o'clock. Alone.”

Click.

Colleen was beside me trying to catch the conversation on both sides. I knew she caught the gist of it.

“What about Erin? Is she all right? You didn't ask to hear her.”

“I'm sure she's all right, Colleen. His life depends on it as much as hers. I don't think she was with him or he'd have let us hear her to keep us in line.”

What I didn't say was that I didn't press it because I didn't want Colleen—or me—to hear her crying. It would tell us nothing about her condition. It could even have been a recording. And we needed to keep our emotions under control.

“He wants you to deliver the money. I'll put it together. Do you think you can go through with the delivery?”

“Yes. Whatever it takes. How?”

“Park Street Station tonight at eleven. I'll pick you up here at ten.”

My first stop was the in-town branch of my bank to draw out ten thousand dollars in cash. I figured I could get it faster than Colleen.

I drew some comfort from the fact that Scully was clearly new to the business of kidnapping. He didn't know enough to specify small denominations, old currency, unbound, unmarked, random serial numbers, no exploding dye—any of the usual precautions to prevent tracing. I was not about to educate him. The downside was that his inexperience could lead him to panic with Erin's life if his plans went off track.

I had the afternoon and evening to ride herd on nerves that were eating little craters in my insides. The best antidote was to accomplish something positive.

I was at Suffolk Downs before post time for the third race. I checked the
Globe
and found that Alberto Ibanez, the jockey Vinnie Hernandez mentioned, was riding the favorite in that race. I watched the race from the rail as Alberto broke from the starting gate with his mount on top and went the six furlongs coast-to-coast, as they say, opening the lead steadily to win by four lengths.

While Alberto went through the winner's circle photo-taking with the trainer and the owners, I waited just beyond the weigh-in shed. I knew that as the winner, he'd be the last jockey to unsaddle. He'd also be the last to pass through the weigh-in scales to certify that the horse carried the right weight before the results of the race could be made official.