The Last Private Eye (9 page)

“Earlier, babe.”

“Oh,
earlier.
Yass. I called.”

“For any special reason?”

“No, no reason.” Ms. Simpson laughed. “I'm jes' kidding,” she said. “There
was
a reason. Remember I couldn't recall what color cab it was that picked up Mr. Walsh? Well, it came back to me. The color, that is: it was green. I thought maybe you'd like to come over and get a detailed eyewitness description, or something.”

It wasn't a bad idea, Rhineheart thought. “Listen,” he said, “you going to be home for a while?”

“I'm going to be home
all day long.
”

“I'll get back in touch with you,” he said, put down the phone, and swiveled around to find McGraw eyeing him.

Rhineheart cleared his throat. “Detective stuff,” he said.

McGraw nodded. “Sure.”

He stood up. “Anyone calls I'll be back,” he said on his way out the door.

Rhineheart took Karen Simpson to lunch at the Bristol Bar & Grille. After lunch they went back to Karen's apartment. Two hours later Rhineheart looked at his watch. It was past two. He got up and began to get dressed.

“I just thought of something,” Karen Simpson said. “The next day his car was gone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Walsh. He took a cab Wednesday night, but his car wasn't out front on Thursday. He must have come back and got it.”

“What kind of car did he have?”

“You know me and cars.”

“Was it American? Foreign?”

“It was one of those Beetles.”

“A Volkswagen? What color was it?”

“Black.” She handed Rhineheart his shirt. “You have to leave so early, Michael?”

“I got to go see somebody.”

“Who?”

“A guy named Taggert.”

Taggert's house sat on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River. It was a handsome three-story mansion surrounded by a large patch of lawn dotted with shade trees and landscaped shrubbery.

Rhineheart drove up the private road that led to the place, swung the Maverick into the wide circular drive, parked, and hoofed it over to the front door, feeling out of place and somehow outnumbered. The case kept bringing him into neighborhoods where he didn't belong.

A gray-haired housekeeper answered the door. She led him through a small foyer and along a wide hallway to a medium-sized oak-paneled room that seemed to be a combination den and office. The carpet was thick enough to mow. English hunt prints hung on the walls. The windows were covered by thick, pewter-colored drapes. A huge antique partners' desk sat in front of a marble fireplace. The chairs were leather and commodious.

Rhineheart was checking out one of the prints—Dapple Gray Fording the Creek—when Howard Taggert strode into the room. Taggert was a tall, gaunt man with bushy eyebrows, a long, leathery face, and a grizzled iron gray mustache. Sixty. Maybe sixty-five. And tough, Rhineheart decided.

Taggert was wearing a tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches, a turtleneck sweater, and khaki slacks tucked into a pair of dirty work boots. A pipe angled out from one corner of his mouth.

He gave Rhineheart's hand a brisk shake. “Good morning. I'm Howard Taggert. What can I do for you?”

“My name's Rhineheart. I'm a private investigator.”

Taggert raised one eyebrow skeptically.

Rhineheart took out his wallet and showed Taggert the license.

Taggert didn't look overly impressed. “You're a private investigator. What do you want with me?”

“I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“One of your employees was found dead in the Red Wind motel this weekend.”

Taggert nodded. “Felix Sanchez. He was an exercise rider. According to my stable foreman, he was a good hand. I talked to the detective assigned to the case yesterday. His name is Wilson. He interviewed a number of my people. He didn't say anything about any private investigator working on the case.”

“I don't work with the police,” Rhineheart said. “I operate on my own.”

Taggert's face seemed to lengthen.

“What's your interest in Sanchez?” he asked Rhineheart.

“It has to do with a case I'm working on,” Rhineheart said. “You happen to know if Felix Sanchez knew Carl Walsh?”

“Who?”

“Carl Walsh. You know who Carl Walsh is, don't you?”

Taggert frowned and nodded. “Yes, I know him. He used to work for me. I fired him a couple of years ago. He was responsible for ending the racing career of a filly of mine. Through sheer carelessness. He's lucky I didn't kill him. I understand he works for Cresthill Farms now. For”—Taggert spoke the words with evident distaste—“Duke Kingston. And no, I don't have any idea if Sanchez knew Walsh. Why? What does Walsh have to do with anything?”

“He's disappeared.”

Taggert took the pipe out of his mouth. “Disappeared?”

“Walsh left his apartment on Wednesday night. He didn't show up for work the next day. No one has seen him since.”

Taggert was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I don't understand why you've come to see me.”

Rhineheart shrugged. “I'm not sure why I came to you, myself. I guess I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about Walsh, something that might help me get some idea where he is.”

“The only thing I can tell you about Walsh is that he is like most other people I encounter these days—feckless and irresponsible. No discipline. No sense of responsibility. No standards. As far as where he might be, I have no idea. He worked for me for two years. That's the extent of my knowledge of the man.”

“You were seen talking to him on Tuesday, the day before he disappeared.”

Taggert's jaw clenched. “I was, huh?” His voice rose. “What do you mean, I was
seen?
”

“I mean someone saw you,” Rhineheart said.

“What someone?” Taggert fixed Rhineheart with a stern look. “Am I being spied upon by somebody?”

“Take it easy,” Rhineheart suggested.

“Don't tell me to take it easy,” Taggert declared. “Who in the hell are you to tell me to take it easy? I want to know who's spying on me.”

“As far as I know,” Rhineheart said, “no one's spying on you. Someone saw you talking to Carl Walsh on Wednesday. That's all.”

“That's all, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that's not all as far as I'm concerned,” Taggert said. He thrust his face close to Rhineheart's. “Who are you working for?” he demanded.

“I can't tell you that,” Rhineheart said.

“Is it
Duke Kingston?
” Taggert's voice grew shrill with anger. It didn't look as if he was a big fan of Duke Kingston.

“What difference does it make who I work for?”

“It makes a difference to me,” Taggert said. “Answer me, are you working for Duke Kingston?”

“None of your fucking business,” Rhineheart said. He was tired of messing with the temperamental old bastard. Taggert needed punching, but he was too old to hit. It was too bad Farnsworth wasn't along. Farnsworth was Taggert's age and same general build. Farnsworth might be able to handle the old dude, Rhineheart thought. Maybe.

“It's Duke Kingston, isn't it? You're working for him, aren't you? He hired you to come over here and harass me, didn't he?”

Rhineheart decided to give it one more shot. The old man was goofy, but maybe if he talked softly and politely and was nice . . .

“Look—” Rhineheart began.

Taggert's right arm shot out in the direction of the hallway, a long, trembling index finger extended. “Out,” he shouted in a loud, quavery voice. “Out!”

“I thought maybe we—”

“Out! Get out of my house now.”

The gray-haired housekeeper appeared in the doorway. She had a stolid look on her face, as if she was used to such outbursts. Rhineheart shrugged and walked over to her. As she escorted him toward the front door, he thought of a couple of smart-ass remarks he might have made.
I've been kicked out of better houses than this one,
for instance. While not strictly true—it was probably the nicest house he'd ever been kicked out of—it had a certain ring to it. The thing was, he doubted if he could have got it in over the sound of Taggert's voice.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rhineheart drove west on River Road. He was headed back downtown. Off to the right, the big Ohio streamed along placidly. Across the river thickets of trees lined the Indiana shoreline. He flipped on the radio and twisted the dial until he found something he could stand listening to. Aretha Franklin.

He had just passed the Water Tower, a tall white columnlike structure that was some kind of historic landmark, when he spotted the tail. A red Camaro. Three cars back. A big guy with a beard sat behind the wheel. A bald-headed guy rode shotgun.

Rhineheart stayed on River Road. As he drew closer to the city the landscape changed, turned ugly. Sand and gravel companies bordered the river. Gas and petroleum tanks squatted on both sides of the road.

He turned left onto Third Street, took another left on Market, a right on First, and swung up the ramp to the North–South Expressway. The Camaro stayed a couple of car lengths back. He maneuvered the Maverick into the center lane and hit the gas to open up a little daylight between his car and the Camaro. Traffic was fairly light. There were cars ahead and on both sides. Nothing directly behind him.

The Camaro was fifty yards back and in the same lane when Rhineheart stomped on the brakes. The Maverick came to a squealing, shuddering halt. Cars, horns bleating, rushed past on both sides. In the rearview mirror he watched the Camaro swerve into the right lane. As it slid past, tires squealing, Rhineheart leaned forward and got the license number. It was a Jefferson County plate—HJL 356.

He looked up—into the rearview mirror. A mammoth semi, an eighteen-wheeler, was bearing down on the Maverick, its horn bellowing loudly. He jacked the gearshift down into first and squealed away. He continued down the expressway for a few miles, but the Camaro was nowhere to be seen.

He got off the expressway at Lee and took Second Street back downtown. He parked in a lot at the corner of Third and Jefferson and walked across the street. It was a seedy, squalid block occupied by porno shops and massage parlors and topless bars. Rhineheart stepped into a narrow open doorway that adjoined the Peep Show movie theater. He climbed a rickety set of stairs to the second floor and pushed open a frosted door whose faded letters read F
RNS ORTH
D
TEC IV
A
G NCY.

Farnsworth was seated behind an old, beat-up desk. He had his feet up and was asleep in his chair, his head thrown back, mouth open, revealing a set of badly fitted dentures. He was wearing a shiny blue pinstripe suit and a white shirt with a frayed collar. A thin black tie was knotted tightly around his neck. On his feet he wore old-timey suede-on-leather, gray-on-black, two-tone shoes. There was a hole in each sole.

Rhineheart sat down on a hard wooden chair and cleared his throat loudly.

The old man came awake with a snort, dropped his feet to the floor, sat up straight, and tried to look alert. He ran thin shaky fingers through the sparse tobacco-colored hair that was combed straight back from his forehead. His face was long and narrow, his features a collection of sharp angles and severe planes. He squinted at Rhineheart. His eyes were like slits.

“What can I do for you?” The voice was thin and high-pitched.

He doesn't remember me, Rhineheart thought. “It's me,” Rhineheart said.

“Who?”

“Rhineheart.”

“Rhineheart?” Farnsworth said.

“You don't remember me,” Rhineheart said.

“What do you mean I don't remember you?” Farnsworth said, peering at him. “You nuts or something? How could I forget the Kid?”

Rhineheart smiled. The Kid was what Farnsworth had always called him. Back when they had worked together—in the early '70s. Rhineheart had been a young street kid just out of the army who wanted to become a private investigator. Farnsworth had given him his first job, had taught him the business. Farnsworth had been an
old
bastard even then. Old—but sharp.

“It's been a little while,” Farnsworth said.

It had been years since they had seen each other. “Too long,” Rhineheart said.

“How ya doing, kid?”

“Fine. How about you, old man?”

“I'm not doing too bad,” Farnsworth said.

“How's business?” Rhineheart asked. It was a dumb question. One look around the room told him how Farnsworth's business was doing.

But Farnsworth said, “It ain't bad. I get all the night watchman work I want. Every once in a while I get a
real
case—a divorce, or a runaway, or something. With that and my social security”—he shrugged—“I'm doing okay.” He gestured at the room. “This place is a dump, but the rent is cheap, and you can look out the window, Rhineheart, and see the city. There ain't a suburb or a shopping center for miles.”

Farnsworth, Rhineheart remembered, had a thing about the suburbs and the country. He didn't like wide open spaces or any neighborhood that didn't have sidewalks. The best private eyes, he claimed, were city boys who had grown up on the crowded urban streets.

“What about you?” Farnsworth said. “You still in the trade?”

The trade. Once you were in the trade, Farnsworth used to say, it got in your blood and you were
always
in the trade.

Rhineheart shrugged. “What else is there?”

Farnsworth smiled. “You working for somebody now?” he asked. “One of them big outfits?”

“I got a little office over on Main Street,” Rhineheart said.

Farnsworth nodded. “You was never the type to work for somebody else. You always had a hard time following orders. Even from me. You were good, though. A little reckless, but a good operative. You still reckless, kid?”