The Last Private Eye (12 page)

“Duke can be quite charming.”

“I'll bet.” Rhineheart lit a cigarette. “What kind of a job?”

Jessica Kingston shook her head. “I have no idea. Something in your line. I should think. Maybe he wants you to spy on me. That'd be quite a task, Mr. Rhineheart. You'd have to follow me around, go where I go, see who I see. You'd have to stick close to me.”

“Sounds pretty good.”

“What a nice thing to say. Are you flirting with me, Mr. Rhineheart?”

“I guess I am. Do you mind?”

Jessica Kingston shook her head. “I'm rather enjoying it.”

Be cool, Rhineheart told himself. Remember who she is and who you are. Don't make any dumb moves.

“Actually,” he said, “what your husband's probably looking for is another security consultant. Like Mr. Borchek.”

Jessica Kingston laughed merrily. “Perhaps you're right.”

“And I've already got a job.”

“Duke thinks he can buy everybody who walks in the door,” she said. “Apparently, he was wrong about you.”

“What did you want to see me about, Mrs. Kingston?”

She raised an eyebrow. “As always, you get straight to the point, don't you?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

She said, “Why not, indeed. I asked you here, Mr. Rhineheart, because I have some information for you. It concerns Cresthill Farms and possibly Carl Walsh. It may be of some help to you in your investigation.” She paused. “How much do you know about thoroughbreds, Mr. Rhineheart?”

“Not much.”

“Do you know what foal papers are?”

“No.”

Jessica Kingston removed a manila envelope from her purse and withdrew from it a neatly folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper and handed it to Rhineheart. “This is the foal registration certificate on a Cresthill mare who died a few years back. I brought it with me to show you what foal papers look like.”

It was an official-looking document with scrolled borders, approximately the same size and shape (9 by 9, rectangular) as a share of IBM he had once caught a fleeting glimpse of. The front side of the document read:

THE JOCKEY CLUB CERTIFICATE OF FOAL REGISTRATION

This is to certify that the bay filly named SEA PRINCESS

Rhineheart turned the paper over. The reverse side was divided into two sections, an official record of races won on the North American continent, and a space for recording all transfers and sales of the registered animal.

While he looked it over Jessica Kingston filled him in on the significance of foal certificates. Every thoroughbred in North America had one. They were issued by the Jockey Club in New York. Racetracks used foal papers to identify the different horses stabled on the grounds. Foal papers had to be on file in the racing secretary's office before a horse could run at a particular track. This rule applied to all horses and all races. If a horse's foal papers were missing he would not be allowed to race.

Rhineheart looked up from the document.

She nodded. “Royal Dancer's foal certificate is missing, Mr. Rhineheart. It was discovered missing last Wednesday, the same day that Carl Walsh disappeared.”

“This mean that Royal Dancer's not going to be allowed to run in the Derby?”

She shook her head. No, she said, fortunately there was a procedure for getting copies of missing foal papers. It was complicated and expensive and somewhat time-consuming. It involved long-distance communication between the Jockey Club in New York, and the racing secretary's office here, and thank God, that was being taken care of. Nevertheless, the original certificate was missing, and she had decided to tell Rhineheart about it on one condition. He had to promise not to tell anyone about the missing certificate, and above all not let her husband know that he knew about it.

“He wants to keep it a secret?”

She nodded. “From everyone he can. He's afraid that the press might find out about it, and that Cresthill could receive some adverse publicity.”

“How would a missing foal certificate result in bad publicity?”

“In Duke's view any publicity about the racing stable that isn't favorable, is adverse.”

“You said the paper's been gone since Wednesday. You think Walsh took it?”

“I don't know. I
do
know that Carl Walsh had access to it. The paper was in John Hughes's car on Wednesday. He was getting ready to bring it over to the racing secretary's office. The car was parked by the barn. Walsh was in the vicinity.”

Walsh, Rhineheart remembered, had been seen talking to Howard Taggert the day before. Did that mean that Taggert might have something to do with the missing paper?

“Any chance that Howard Taggert's involved?”

Jessica Kingston looked surprised. “Howard Taggert?”

“He and your husband are enemies, aren't they?”

She nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose so, but—”

“Tell me why they hate each other.”

“It's a long complicated story, and even I don't know all the details. Duke and Howard Taggert were partners once. They owned a broodmare together: Somethinglovely. She's the dam of Royal Dancer. She also happens to be the foundation mare on which Cresthill Farms has built its racing stable. Taggert claims Duke swindled him out of the mare. Duke says it was an honest transaction. They don't speak to each other anymore. Taggert hates Duke and everything connected to Cresthill Farms, including me, I suppose. But I have no idea if he would stoop to stealing foal papers.” She signaled the waitress. “Perhaps when you find Mr. Walsh you might ask him.”

If I find him, Rhineheart thought.

The waitress came over to the table. Jessica Kingston ordered a second martini. The waitress, who had red hair, asked Rhineheart if he wanted another drink, or anything else. He said no thanks. She asked Rhineheart if he was sure. When he said he was, she looked disappointed. After she left, Jessica Kingston said, “The waitress seems quite interested in you, Mr. Rhineheart.”

He shrugged. “She's probably wondering what I'm doing in here. This place is a little too nice for private-eye types.” In truth, Rhineheart was pretty much wondering the same thing. What was he doing here on a spring afternoon in the plush bar of a grand old hotel sitting across the table from a rich and beautiful woman? He had a case to solve, and he should have been out in the streets, detecting, running down leads, taking care of business.

“I haven't asked you about the investigation yet. Are you any closer to finding Carl Walsh?”

Rhineheart shrugged. “That's hard to say. I've been followed. I got shot at the other night, and everyone's been lying to me. So I must be doing something right.”

“You got shot at?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you do when they shot at you?”

“Shot back.”

“You carry a gun then?”

Rhineheart nodded.

“May I see it?”

“I guess so,” Rhineheart said. He took the weapon out of his shoulder holster and handed it to her. Her slim well-manicured fingers encircled the grip.

“It's big, isn't it?” she said. “What kind of a gun is it?”

“Colt Python. Six shots.”

“Is it powerful?”

He shrugged. “It's a .357 Magnum. It does the job.”

“I bet it does,” she said. She handed it back to him carefully. Their eyes met. She smiled.

He put the gun back in his holster. I better get the hell out of here, he thought, before I make a bad move. He stood up.

“One more thing, Mr. Rhineheart.” Jessica Kingston took a white envelope out of her purse and handed it to Rhineheart. “It's an invitation to my party,” she said. “Thursday at nine. At Cresthill. I'd very much like you to come.”

“Sure,” Rhineheart said. “It'd be a pleasure. Can I bring someone?”

“Of course.”

“Her name is McGraw.”

“Bring anyone you like, Mr. Rhineheart.”

“If I run across those foal papers, Mrs. Kingston, I'll let you know.”

“I'd be grateful, Mr. Rhineheart.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Take care, Mr. Rhineheart.”

This is ridiculous, Rhineheart thought, as he turned and walked out of the place. He was supposed to be the tough, sophisticated private eye, and his heart was booming in his chest like a goddamn kid on his first day at school.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was midafternoon when Rhineheart got back to his office. McGraw had lunch—hamburger, fries, milk shake—spread across her desk.

“I thought you were into health food,” Rhineheart said.

“Big Macs aren't healthy?”

“That shit'll rot your gut.”

“How nicely put.”

“How was your date last night?”

McGraw made a face. “Don't ask.”

“That bad, huh?”

McGraw nodded. “It's the reason I'm stuffing myself with this junk. I'm a tragedy eater. I eat when I'm depressed.”

“I get any calls?”

“One. From someone named Farnsworth. He said he'd call back. He called me ‘girlie.”'

“Be nice to him,” Rhineheart said. “He's the guy I told you about from the old days. He's working for us.”

“How was lunch with Jessica Kingston?”

“It wasn't bad.”

McGraw gave Rhineheart a look. “You really go for her, don't you?”

He shrugged. “She's okay.”

Rhineheart sorted through the mail on his desk. There was a check from Channel 6. He gave it to McGraw. “Deposit that when you get a chance, and write yourself a check for last week's pay.”

“What about this week's pay?”

“Next week.”

“Of course. I should have known.” She looked him over. “You get shot at, or beat up recently? I'm talking about the last twelve hours or so.”

Rhineheart headed for the door. “I'll be back.”

“I'll be in my martial arts class,” McGraw said. “You going to be at O'Brien's later?”

“Maybe.”

“Guess what's playing at the Vogue tonight?”

“McGraw, I'm a busy man. I got to find a missing person and now it turns out there's some missing papers.”

“What papers?”

“I'll tell you about it later. I don't have time now. And I don't have time to be going to the movies.” Rhineheart pulled open the door, then stopped. “What's playing?”

“The Sea Wolf.”

God damn. Edward G. and John Garfield. Ida Lupino. Directed by Michael Curtiz. From a script by Robert Rossen.

“What time?”

“Starts at nine-thirty.”

“If I can make it,” he said, “I'll call you.”

The County Tax Assessor's office was located on Fifth Street south of Market. Business and corporation files were kept on the second floor. The office was spacious and well lit. Neat rows of filing cabinets stood behind a long wooden counter.

A sallow middle-aged man in a brown bow tie brought Rhineheart the Capitol Holding file. Capitol Investment was incorporated on June 9, 1979. Its principal business was real estate and stock market investment. Its corporate offices were located at 312 Broadway. The president of Capitol Investment was Howard Taggert. The vice president was Harrison Gilmore. They were the principal officers of the company that leased the car that had been tailing him.

It was almost five when Rhineheart got back to the office. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Two people were there, waiting for him.

One was Angelo Corrati. All three hundred and fifty pounds of him was seated on the couch, leafing through a magazine. He was dressed in a camel-hair sport coat that looked to Rhineheart like a size sixty. Corrati had curly black hair and a face as round and as smooth as a summer moon. His eyes, little black buttons, were covered by a pair of lightly tinted glasses with thick, steel frames. Corrati glanced up from the magazine with a bored look on his face.

The other guy was muscle, a big black guy who was seated in Rhineheart's chair with his feet up on Rhineheart's desk. He considered telling the guy to get his feet off the desk, but he decided it wasn't a good idea to get nasty with someone who was pointing a Walther PK .38 in your direction.

Maybe humor was the right approach. “For a minute I thought you two were Dean and Sammy.”

In a flat humorless voice, the black guy said, “Ha. Ha. The man's a comedian.”

Corrati said, “You're Rhineheart.”

Rhineheart nodded.

Corrati pointed to a chair.

“Sit.”

What the hell. Rhineheart sat down.

Corrati said, “You know me, you know I'm a man who doesn't fuck around with a lot of bullshit small talk. I heard about you. You're a private cop. I hear you been around some places looking for somebody. I hear you stop in my club the other night, talk to an employee, ask her some questions, show her a picture of somebody. That right?”

“Yeah.”

“Couple days later you go see a friend of mine, an associate. You ask him a lot of fucking questions ain't none of your business. So what's the deal? What's going on? Who you looking for? Who you working for? Why you doing it in my places of business?”

“You got me mixed up with someone else,” Rhineheart said. “Some loose-mouthed snitch you know, or something. My name is Rhineheart. I thought you said you'd heard about me.”

The corners of Corrati's mouth tightened in what Rhineheart decided was a smile. “I heard that about you. People tell me you're a stand-up guy. Don't take no shit. That's admirable. That's truly fucking admirable. I admire balls in a person. On the other hand, I can get your knees broken for you in five seconds. You see what I'm saying? Basically, I mean?”