High Stakes (11 page)

Rexroth's plump hand tightened on the plastic bottle of water he was holding. He gritted his teeth as he muttered, “That fuckin' Doyle. The Feebs caught on to a little scheme I was running. It involved some of my heavily insured but badly under-performing stallions. They sent Doyle to infiltrate my operation on my farm in Kentucky. Bastard fooled me good. He's the reason I'm here. That's why I want him dead.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Doyle, irritated because his cell phone buzz was interrupting his morning pushup routine on his condo's bedroom floor, said, “Yeah, Karen. What's up?”

Karen Engel said, “And good morning to you, Jack. Do I hear some huffing and puffing besides the sound of being pissed off?”

“I was at my one-hundred mark in pushups, my dear. That gives me a right to wheeze a bit. Hold on, I've got to grab a towel.” There was a pause before he said, “To repeat myself, what's up? Have you captured the horse killer?”

She sighed. “We wish. No, the reason I'm calling is to invite you to Damon's annual Fourth of July cookout. He told me to ask you to come. Also, for you to invite Ingrid McGuire, since she's been trying to help you on this case.”

“Why didn't Damon invite me himself instead of having you call?” He really didn't expect an answer. “Ingrid and me? This is pretty short notice considering that the holiday's tomorrow.”

Karen said, “Damon asked me to call because he's busy. This is a big deal for him. He shops for days before the party. What's the difference, anyway? I think he's trying to make nice with you for the efforts you've made for us, as disappointing as they've been so far. You're invited.”

“‘As disappointing as they are.' You've got to get that zinger in?”

She laughed. “Maybe it's a being-from-Kenosha thing.”

“Where is this gathering?”

“Damon lives in Skokie. Take Dempster west off the Edens to Crawford, turn right, it's a couple of blocks up on the right side. You'll see a big American flag next to a good-sized Italian flag. He said parking is tough, so he'll hold a spot for you in his driveway. Do you think Ingrid would come? I know Damon would like to meet her.”

Doyle said, “I'll give her a call. She's probably already planning to do something with Bobby Bork. He's a racing official she's been going with.”

“I'm sure Damon wouldn't mind in the least if Ingrid brought her friend. There's going to be a bunch of people there anyway.”

“What time?”

Karen said, “Anytime after two. See you there.”

***

Doyle parked in Tirabassi's driveway. He saw Ingrid and Bork walking around the corner from where they had parked. She was dressed casually in tee-shirt and jeans, the hefty Bork bulging out of a gray short-sleeved sweat shirt and a pair of well worn black Bermuda shorts. As Doyle waited for them, he listened to the sound of excited children's voices and the strains of a recorded Italian opera he could not identify, smelled meat being cooked. He greeted them and the three walked into the crowded backyard together.

Dozens of men and women were seated along the flowered borders of the yard in lawn chairs, or at picnic tables, or standing in groups talking, or watching their kids cavort in the large, above-ground swimming pool. Other youngsters were concentrating on booting soccer balls into a net at the rear of the long yard. A half-dozen of the older boys concentrated on the basketball backboard and hoop on the nearby garage. The music was louder here. “I think that's Pavarotti,” Doyle said. “I guess Damon's an opera buff.”

“Is that what that racket is?” Bork said. Ingrid, scowling, gave him an elbow nudge. Looking at the vocal and enthusiastic crowd on hand, she said, “This is quite a scene. I had no idea it would be this large of a gathering.”

“Neither did I,” Doyle said. “Let's say hello.”

They sidled their way past a group of males around a half-barrel of beer arguing about the comparative talents of the Cubs and White Sox pitching staffs before approaching the outdoor cooking headquarters at the back of the beige brick ranch house. Visible amid the clouds of smoke emanating from three Weber grills lined up in a row was Damon Tirabassi, apron-clad, sunglasses steamed, spatula in one hand, Miller Lite in the other, slightly sweating in the afternoon combination of July and cooking heat.

“Mein host,” Doyle said. “Happy Fourth.”

“Jack. Hi. Thanks for coming.” With a slight bow, he said, “And you must be Ingrid. Welcome.”

She said, “Thanks for inviting us, Mr. Tirabassi. This is my friend Bobby Bork.” They shook hands as the agent said, “Please, make it Damon.” A short, stocky, smiling woman appeared at his side balancing two trays of fruits and cheeses. She placed them on one of the long tables nearby that already held huge bowls of salad, plates of Italian cookies, and several sheet cakes. Damon said, “This is my wife Angela.” He completed the introductions before again concentrating on the grills he was managing. Doyle said, “Bobby, you want a beer? Ingrid?” Ingrid declined. Bork said loudly, “Then bring me a pair, okay?” Jack gave him a look before picking up one red plastic cup. “Bobby, you want two, get 'em yourself.” He went to the end of the line leading to the beer spigot. A little man wearing a “Fergie Jenkins Forever” tee-shirt said, “Hey, man, where do you stand on this? You know, comparing our Chicago teams' pitchers.”

“I stand aside.”

When Doyle returned to the grilling area, Damon waved him to where a burly, friendly-looking man wearing a white chef's hat and smoking a large cigar was tending to slabs of ribs and seasoned chicken breasts and thighs on two adjacent flat grills. “Jack, meet my brother-in-law, Greg Luongo. My right-hand man at these gatherings. Makes ribs that'll make you beg for more.”

Doyle smiled as he watched Tirabassi so relaxed and enjoying himself. He had never envisioned the veteran FBI agent, a man dedicated to by-the-book in all their previous dealings, to be capable of relaxed fun.
I'll be damned
, Doyle thought,
the man actually looks happy.

Bobby Bork emerged from the half-barrel area, carrying a beer in each hand. Not looking at Doyle, he pointed at the contents of the grill. “Great-looking Italian sausages, Damon. It's Damon, right? What kind are they?”

Damon turned over some of the meat and pushed the rest to the side before placing them in a warming pan. “Both sweet and regular. We get them from my cousin in Melrose Park. Homemade. The best.” He looked over Doyle's shoulder to say, “Hey, partner. Happy Fourth.”

“And happy holiday to all of you,” answered Karen Engel, who was toting a laundry basket filled with packaged sausage buns. Next to her came a short, trim, blue-eyed, blond woman who grinned as she said, “Hello, Angela. And Damon.”

Karen introduced “Cynthia, my companion,” to Doyle, Ingrid, and Bork. The Tirabassis obviously knew her. They greeted her warmly. Doyle said, “Karen, what's with the bakery goods in the basket?”

“Products of Paeilli's Bakery in my home town, Jack. Cynthia and I drove up to Kenosha this morning to pick them up fresh. They're the best. Wait till you plunk one of those fabulous sausages in one.”

With a nod to Karen and Greg Luongo, Doyle said, “Damon, you've got a hell of a good supply chain here.”

Damon smiled. “No question about that.”

Doyle went to get beers for Karen and Cynthia, refilling his own cup as well. “Cold beer on a hot day,” he said as he handed Cynthia her cup, “hard to beat.”

“Thanks, Jack.” She took a big swallow before saying, “I've heard a lot about you from Karen. I understand you've been a big help to her and Damon on more than one occasion.”

“Modesty prevents me from anything more than a subdued acknowledgement.”

“Karen also says you can be a major pain in the posterior at certain times,” Cynthia smiled.

“Honesty precludes me from arguing with that assessment.”

Cynthia looked up at him, starting to laugh, then caught herself.

“What's so amusing?” Doyle said.

“Just the accuracy of Karen's description of you.” She thrust her beer cup forward for a toast. Doyle brought his to meet it, carefully avoiding spillage.

Their conversation was interrupted when Karen, next to Damon at the grill, called out, “Jack, could you come here for a minute?”

He excused himself. Cynthia put her beer cup down and trotted over to join the group of youngsters kicking the soccer ball around. The Tirabassi children hailed her arrival, their youngest daughter running up for a quick hug.

“Some big news today, men, “Karen said. “Just got a call saying that a fifty-thousand-dollar reward has been offered for the capture of the vet school horse killer. Or killers.”

Doyle said, “Who is putting up that money?”

“A woman named Esther Ness.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Doyle said. “She was kind of on my suspect list. How did this come about?”

Karen said, “Ms. Ness called our boss and told him what she wanted to do. He checked her out. I understand she's a horse owner and an heiress. He said she wired the money to the Bureau early this morning. She called from Costa Rica where she's gone to visit friends, she said. I guess she does a lot of traveling. But, Jack, why was she on your list of suspects?”

“I didn't have a strong feeling about Ness. There were just some interesting things about her. An eccentric, super rich, headstrong woman with a great love for horses.” Ingrid and Bork joined their little group and Doyle informed them of the new reward offer. “That could help,” Ingrid enthused. She was about to say more when Damon began enthusiastically ringing a hand-held dinner bell. “Time to
mangiare
, people, come and get it,” he shouted. The crowd surged to the serving tables. Doyle politely ushered Karen forward, where she was slightly brushed aside by the impatient Bork who had Ingrid in tow. Ingrid looked back over her shoulder apologetically as she was tugged close to the front of the line.

“Amazing,” Doyle said. Karen gave him a quizzical look. “I mean,” Doyle continued, “it is amazing to me how that nice woman continues her history of hooking up with jerks.”

***

Ingrid and Bobby bade their farewells just after six. She was due back at Heartland Downs to check on the condition of trainer Buck Norman's beloved stable pony Irene.

“That was a nice time,” she said, as Bork gunned his red Corvette convertible away from the curb. He just nodded, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel and barreled toward Dempster.

“What's wrong?” she said.

Bork snarled, “Your friend Doyle, that's what. Guy put me down in front of people there about three times.”

Ingrid turned away and looked out her window. “Well,” she said softly, “you were kind of rude to him to start off, you know.”

“Bullshit. I should have knocked him on his ass.” He blasted his horn before zooming around a slow-moving old green Ford station wagon. Behind its wheel was a small, white-haired woman peering worriedly ahead. A large black Labrador was sitting up on the front seat next to her, looking equally concerned.

In the ensuing silence, Ingrid thought about her relationship with her angry companion. There was no doubt that Bobby was loudly opinionated, self-confident nearly to the point of arrogance. But she enjoyed his company. He was a good-looking guy. For the most part, he had the kind of sense of humor she enjoyed. And he was an experienced and rewarding sexual partner.

Head still turned to the window, she smiled ruefully as she considered Bobby's threat to physically take on Jack Doyle. Someday she should probably gently let Bobby know about Doyle's amateur boxing career, describe the recent example of his prowess when he so efficiently decked the woman-threatening groom outside the Heartland Downs track kitchen. But she wouldn't go into all that this evening.

Bork accelerated onto the ramp leading to the Edens Expressway. With the Corvette straightened away and pointed north, Ingrid reached over and patted Bobby's knee. He took a deep breath and put his hand over hers. “I'm cool, babe,” he said. “Want to rent a movie tonight?”

Chapter Twenty-eight

Back at his condo early that evening, Doyle was a well-fed, well-treated man. Even Damon's parting admonition to “Keep looking, Jack. You know what I mean,” couldn't infringe upon his good mood. He had very much enjoyed the holiday at the FBI agent's backyard cookout.

He turned on his television and began a search of cable channels for a movie. This quest was immediately interrupted by one of the numerous commercials for male sexual dysfunctional remedies. He swore at the screen that was showing a succession of goopy-looking baby boomer couples making eyes at each other before an announcer read off the possible dangerous reactions (“Call your doctor if the condition persists for four hours”) to the magic remedy. Doyle, to his dismay, had noticed an increasing number of these artificial enactment scenes in recent months. They so irritated him that he had dashed off an e-mail to one of the major manufacturers of this romantic revival elixir, suggesting “
WHY
, I ask you, do you not just show a couple of these couples in simulated copulating? Why fuck around with foreplay?” The pharmaceutical company's reply had thanked him “for your interest.”

Venting about these commercials to Moe during one of their recent Fat City workout mornings, Doyle mentioned that he'd heard the pharmaceutical industry was particularly targeting one segment of the middle-aged male population—golfers. “I understand they run ads in all the golf magazines. Why would that be? Why are they pushing this stuff toward guys that play that particular sport?”

Moe grunted from the floor where he was doing sit-ups, “First, let me correct you about golf. It is not a sport. It is a skill.”

Stepping to the side of the heavy bag he had been indenting with rapid punches, Doyle said, “What do you mean, ‘golf is not a sport'? How do you define a sport?”

“Very simply. A sport is something that causes you to sweat when you're doing it. Golf doesn't. Neither does bowling, billiards, or bridge, for that matter.” The little man sprang to his feet, grabbed a towel to wipe his face. “And as to why those ads you're talking about appear in golf magazines, I have a theory.”

Doyle smiled. “I'd be shocked if you didn't.”

“There was a great golfer back in what my old man's generation called the ‘Golden Age of Sport.' They meant Babe Ruth, Man o' War, Bobby Jones in golf, a guy named Tilden in tennis. Besides Jones, the other leading golfer of that era was a guy named Walter Hagen. He had a famous bit of advice for people who are about to putt the ball. Counseling them not to leave their ball short of the cup, he said they should remember the motto ‘Never up, never in.'”

Kellman tossed his towel aside and picked up a jump rope. “Wouldn't manufacturers of products to improve a man's sex life advise just that?”

***

He turned off the television, picked up his cell phone, and rang Ralph Tenuta. He assumed the trainer would be home from the Heartland races by then. “Ralph, Jack here. Happy Fourth.” He could hear a great deal of background noise. “Got a minute?”

Tenuta said, “Bad time, Jack. We've got a house full of noisy grandchildren. Their folks are in a holiday mood, too. Anyway, we're just about to leave here to watch the big fireworks display at Heartland Downs. Can't it wait until tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Look, Jack, I'm running that pretty nice colt for the first time tomorrow afternoon. Fourth race. Mr. Rhinelander, owned by some new clients of mine, Wisconsin people. Remember, I told you about this colt last time you were at the track with me? Why don't you meet me at the barn around three o'clock? You can come with me to the paddock and I'll saddle him, then we'll watch the race from my box. Hey, Jack! This little guy can run! Bring money.”

Well aware that the extremely conservative Tenuta very rarely touted one of his starters, Doyle felt a small surge of excitement. “Will do,” he said.

“The family is about to leave here without me, Jack. Quick, give me an idea what you want to talk to me about.”

Doyle said, “Does the name Esther Ness ring a bell?”

There was a pause.

“A bell?” Tenuta said. “It rings a gong. I'll see you tomorrow.”

***

The next afternoon, Doyle waited in the doorway of Tenuta's Heartland Downs backstretch office while the trainer talked on his phone. He raised an index finger, signaling he'd just be a minute. Doyle was in no hurry. It was a gently warm July afternoon. He had eaten a leisurely late breakfast, ignoring Petros' gibe about “Some pipple, you know, have to get to work like the early worm.”

Petros' frequent re-shaping of his second language reminded Doyle of his second ex-wife's loopy Aunt Edith, who had a similar predilection. She was famous in her family for describing various clouds as being “seraphim” or “Stradivarius” or “cunnilingus,” labeling books she'd read as “faction” or “non-faction,” calling her favorite dill pickles “cashier” rather than kosher. He'd always liked Aunt Edith. She turned out to be a lot nicer to him than her divorce-seeking niece.

As he waited, Doyle glanced around the small office. Not much had changed since his season there working as Tenuta's stable agent. As usual, the place smelled of horses, and equipment for horses, some of which was stored in an old wooden trunk in one corner across from the corner that housed what to Doyle looked like one of the earliest manufactured small refrigerators. The desk was at least as old as its middle-aged owner. Tuxedo, the black-with-white-markings super imperious cat, lay in the middle of the scarred old leather couch, glaring at Doyle. Early in their association, Doyle had remarked to Tenuta that he was “allergic to cats. Not their fur. Their personalities.” Tenuta replied, “Tuxedo is a fixture here. Learn to live with her.”

His summer with Tenuta had seen Doyle mastering how to prepare daily work schedules for the men and women in Tenuta's employ as grooms and hot walkers; how to enter Tenuta's trainees into races with the Heartland Downs racing secretary for upcoming events; how to occasionally field a call from an owner of a Tenuta trainee, assuring that person that “Ralph will call you back right after training hours.” Which was true.

The only new item in this work space was the Toshiba laptop computer Doyle had, with tremendous effort, convinced Tenuta to purchase and learn to use. It had not been easy, but Doyle eventually got the reluctant trainer to the point where he could manage spread sheets of his roster of two dozen employees and the thirty horses they tended almost as well as Doyle.

***

In the paddock, Doyle waited in front of Mr. Rhinelander's stall as Tenuta chatted with the filly's owners, an older married couple named Burkhardt. The man was calm. Mrs. Burkhardt was fidgeting with her track program, her purse, and her emotions. She said to Doyle, “This is what we think—hope, that is—is our best horse. His first race. I usually only get this nervous and excited before a Packers game.”

“I completely understand,” Doyle said gently. “Best of luck this afternoon.” He followed the Burkhardts and Tenuta into the Heartland clubhouse and up to the trainer's box overlooking the finish line. On their way, Doyle peeled off and went to the windows to bet fifty dollars across the board on Mr. Rhinelander, whose odds were twelve-to-one. When he walked out of the building back toward the box seat area, he felt a welcome, familiar, nervous ripple through his gut. He knew that many bettors in England referred to making a wager as “having a flutter.” On the few occasions Doyle made a major bet, he felt that flutter behind his belt.

Out on the track, Mr. Rhinelander warmed up to Tenuta's satisfaction. The trainer lowered his binoculars as the field approached the starting gate far across the Heartland Downs infield. “I see you're riding that apprentice, Ramon Montoya,” Doyle said.

“Yeah, he's been doing good for me. Quiet, now. They're all in the gate.”

The next minute and ten seconds was packed with unwelcome thrills for the Tenuta party. Through no fault of jockey Montoya, his eager mount was boxed behind horses almost throughout the six-furlong event. First in the middle of the pack, then down toward the rail, and even when the young rider finally attempted to steer Mr. Rhinelander to the outside of the field at the head of the stretch. Every time Montoya made a move away from trouble, more developed. Mr. Rhinelander finally got racing room inside the sixteenth pole and closed powerfully to finish second, beaten just over a neck. As he was slowly ridden back to be unsaddled, Mr. Rhinelander tossed his head. With his binoculars trained on the colt, Tenuta observed, “Look at him flaring his nostrils. He's mad as hell about that outcome. He
knows
he was the best horse.”

But the Wisconsites were ecstatic. “Didn't he run just great?” Ms. Burkhardt enthused. “Once he got going, our little fella ran like, well, like Aaron Rodgers getting away from a Chicago Bears pass rush!”

Doyle was disappointed in the race outcome. He took solace, however, in Mr. Rhinelander's place and show prices of $13 and $5.80, respectively. His fifty-dollar across-the-board bet brought back four hundred seventy dollars, giving him a profit of three hundred twenty dollars.

In contrast, Mr. Rhinelander's trainer was equal parts disgusted, disappointed, and encouraged. “Jesus, Jack, what a terrible trip he had,” Tenuta said. “Mr. Rhinelander was in everybody's pocket but mine. And he
still
almost got there, God bless him. He's a hard trier. That's what we hope for in a horse.”

Jack remained in the box as Tenuta took the Burkhardts back to the barn to see their colt. When the trainer returned a half-hour later, he said, “I hope I can win some races with that colt for those nice people. Now, what do you want to know about Esther Ness?”

“Did you train for her?”

Tenuta said, “Yes. I was one of many men who were very briefly employed by Ms. Esther, the dog food heiress. Her late father, you know, was Ernest Ness. I'm told that people who didn't like him used to refer to him, behind his back of course, as Ernest ‘Woof Woof' Ness. Why are you asking?”

“You know I'm trying to help find out who's killing the horses at those vet schools, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, Ms. Ness' name came up in connection with that, and I've been trying to get in touch with her for weeks. She's been traveling, her mother told me. Then, yesterday, she calls the FBI and offers a big reward for the capture of the horse killer. I still haven't talked to this woman. I'd like to hear what you know about her. Would she on the up and up with this reward thing? Or could she be blowing smoke?”

Tenuta scratched his head before answering. “Oh, I think Esther's word would be fairly good.”

“Just fairly? What, is she a promise-breaker?”

“She broke a promise to me about how long I would be training her horses. Same thing with a bunch of other trainers. She's the most interfering client I have ever had, or heard of, for that matter. Other than that, she seemed to be honest. And very fair. Always paid her training and vet bills right on time.”

Doyle said, “When did you have her horses?

“A couple of years ago. I trained for Ms. Esther, as she demanded to be called, for a little under three weeks. A very trying time. That woman could give a meditating monk the twitches. She's demanding, and there's nothing wrong with that, but her demands were goofy. Unreasonable. I was one of eight, that's
eight
mind you, trainers that Esther had just that
one
year!

“Esther about drove me nuts,” Tenuta continued. “She'd come to the barn every morning to see every one of the six horses she had with me. I'd have to drop everything else and take her on her little tour. The third or fourth day of that, I said to her, ‘Ms. Ness, I don't have time to spend all this time with you every day.'

“She didn't say anything, just gave me a real icy look. Then she just stomped off and got back in her chauffeur-driven limo. On Wednesday of that week, against my better judgment, which I made clear to her, she insisted I run one of her horses in a race I knew the knock-kneed son of a bitch had no business being in. He finished up the track. She was furious and stalked off, wouldn't even look at me. Next morning, she's back at the barn, bright and early, never mentions what had happened the day before. Hey, by now, she's got me shaking my head. What's going on with this woman?

“One of those mornings, she had her chauffeur, a big lug named Hugo, haul in two big bags of what she said was a new product she'd discovered. Some kind of ‘organic horse feed,' as she put it. As if the hay and oats I was using weren't organic! She insisted I feed her horses with this. I did. The second day, they all starting shitting in their stalls on a regular basis. Never saw anything like it. They were sicker than hell. I had what was left of her ‘new organic feed' thrown away. When I called to tell her that, she hung up on me.

“Next morning, here comes Esther with bottles of some kind of new ‘natural liniment.' By now, I had just about had it with her. I told Hugo, ‘Take that junk back to your trunk. I'm going to keep using the liniment I've put on my horses for the last twenty-five years.' Esther stalked off after she heard that, too.

“Finally, the following morning, here comes her big Lincoln but with only Hugo the chauffeur in it. He says, ‘Ms. Ness sent this for you.' In the envelope is a check for three months' worth of training bills, even though only about three weeks have gone by. He says, ‘Ms. Ness said to tell you that Buck Norman will be by this morning so he can transfer her horses from your barn to his barn.' And off goes Hugo.

“Sure enough, an hour later, here comes my pal Buck, guy I've known for years. He's real shame-faced. But he knows
I
know what's going on with this demanding woman. I told him, ‘Buck, get ready to suffer. At least you'll be well paid for it.'”