The Significant Seven (25 page)

Chapter Fifty-One

August 28, 2009

Doyle secured the lock on the stall door of the still excited Editorialist, then leaned back against the barn wall. He was breathing hard. There was a trail of blood where he had pulled the corpse out of the stall. Doyle looked away, trying not to retch. The man’s face had been pounded so hard by the horse’s hooves as to be unrecognizable as anything once even remotely human.

He spotted the knife that had fallen from the attacker’s hand. Doyle used his handkerchief to pick up the weapon by the handle and place it on the ground next to the body. It was a weapon obviously designed to rip through tissue and organs and bones. “You got what you deserved, you bastard,” Doyle snarled.

Track security people arrived within minutes after Doyle called them. An ambulance soon followed, then township police. Doyle answered questions for nearly three hours before he was allowed to phone the incredulous Tenuta to inform him about what had taken place at his barn.

“Who was the guy Editorialist killed?” Tenuta said. “What was he doing there?”

“I can’t answer the first question, Ralph, but I think I know the answer to the second one. I’ll tell you later. I can’t talk about all that right now. Whoever he is, this guy will be identified pretty quick I would think. DNA, fingerprints, they’ll find out who he is. Was.”

Finally excused by the lead detective, Doyle got into his Accord and drove out of the racetrack. On Willow Road heading east, he used the speed dial on his cell phone to reach the sleepy but soon instantly alert Damon Tirabassi—instantly alert after he’d heard what Doyle had to say.

***

Engel and Tirabassi were waiting for him when Doyle reached his condo building. The three of them rode the elevator in silence after Doyle said, “Wait until we get upstairs. I’ve got to change my clothes.” There were blood spatters on the cuffs of his khakis. “Karen,” he said, “would you please make some coffee? I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Showered and dressed in clean clothes, Doyle picked up a cup of the coffee from the living room table. “Thanks, Karen.” He opened a sideboard and took out a bottle of Bushmills. “I’m having a taste. You two? No, of course not, you’re on duty.”

Tirabassi said, “Jack, let’s get to it. It’s after midnight. We know what happened out there at Heartland Downs. I called the track security chief right after I talked to you. So you were approached by a man, carrying a knife, and he somehow got killed by a horse. Who do you think this guy was?”

“Like I told the cops at the track, I’m sure when they run this guy’s prints they’ll find him. He’s either ex-military, or ex-con. Probably the former. He had that look about him. He told me he came there to kill me. He was very cool, scary cool. Like he’d done this before. What saved me, thank God, was that he didn’t know anything about horses. Or, at least, a horse like Editorialist.”

“Why would this man want to kill you?” Karen said. “Is this connected to the spongings?”

Doyle muttered, “I wish it were.”

“What?” Tirabassi barked.

Doyle sat back in his chair. He felt drained. “First, the good news, folks. The sponging at Heartland Downs is over. Kaput. Finito.”

“What do you mean, Jack?”

“Just what I said, Karen. I’ve taken care of that matter. The person, the people involved in the spongings are out of business.”

Tirabassi put his head in his hands before asking, “Did you kill anybody, Jack? That you won’t tell us about?” He got up from the couch and walked over to a window. “What next?” he said.

“What
next?
What kind of crack is that, Damon? I haven’t killed anybody. At least not since that meth freak at Monee Park, which was done in self-defense. But I almost got killed earlier tonight when I was again aiding
you
people. Almost like what happened in Kentucky, when I was helping you out down there to nail the insurance thief. That, of course, was involuntary. This sponging business is completely voluntary. And you’re looking at me like maybe I screwed up?”

He replenished his Irish coffee, took a deep breath, sat back. “Hey, haven’t I always been straight with you? Rhetorical question,” he smiled, and Karen smiled back. “Damn right I have. So, you can take it to the bank, the sponger is
done
.”

Tirabassi said, “Jack, come on. Who is the sponger? We need an arrest. We need a name.”

“You’re not getting one from me. And that is fucking that.”

Karen, not smiling now, face flushed, said, “You’re setting yourself up as the presiding officer, judge, in this case? You’ve made a unilateral decision to shield somebody you know is guilty of a federal crime? This isn’t going to fly, Jack.”

“Try to shoot it down, then.” He was as angry as she was. “You two have a water-boarding kit down there in that crappy car you drive? Bring it on up!”

Karen slammed her notebook and pen down on the table.

“Jack, I’ve heard about loose horses, but you are way out of any herd I could imagine. Why won’t you identify the sponger? Why didn’t you call us right away from the track when your attacker died? For all we’ve done for you…” She got to her feet. “I’m going to the washroom,” she said, “before I do something rash.”

Karen started down the hallway, then came back. “Have you thought about the $50,000 reward for the sponger, Jack? It could be yours.”

Doyle shrugged. “What’s fifty grand to a man of my unlimited potential?”

Karen glared at Doyle and slammed her hand against the wall before stalking off. Even usually dour Damon smiled at that crack of Doyle’s.

Doyle and Tirabassi avoided looking at each other while they waited for her. When Karen was again seated, Doyle said, “Hear this. If you two will go along with me on the sponger, I’ll give you the chance to crack six murder cases. Six of The Significant Seven horse owners. Can you wrap your heads around that?

“Two days ago, I went to see Mike Barnhill’s widow Peggy. I called ahead and said I was a good guy. Helping the FBI on a racetrack project. I told her she could call either of you because I knew you would vouch for me.”

Karen said, “She never called me.” Damon also shook his head. “But,” Karen said, “I’ll bet you talked yourself in anyway. Why didn’t you tell us what you were planning? The way we’ve worked together, Jack, there’s no need for you to be so secretive.”

“Hah! Me, secretive? Compared to you? You Bureau people being secretive is like, what is the old saying, ‘bringing coals to Newcastle?’” Doyle paused before adding “foals to Newmarket…Jazz to Newport…Bigots to a Klan Klonklave.”

“Cut it out, Jack,” Tirabassi said. “That’s enough of that. The Irish coffee must be getting to you. Get serious, damn it. Tell us what happened with Mrs. Barnhill.”

“She said for me to come out to her home the next afternoon. I did. When I got there, she looked like she was still under the influence of those numbing drugs their physicians make available to spouses of the recently deceased. I’ve seen a few new widows at their husbands’ wakes, and they all look half-stoned. So what, if it helps them?

“Mrs. Barnhill went on and on about how gracious the other widows of The Significant Seven had been. Bringing food to her house, flowers to the funeral home, comfort on the phone. Mrs. Barnhill was also very impressed with Renee Rison’s solicitude, although Renee is not a widow.”

Karen said, “Jack, you’re rambling. Get to it, please.”

“Peggy Barnhill still can’t quite come to grips with what she refers to as ‘Mike’s accident.’ I didn’t want to disabuse her of that notion. I didn’t want to tell her, at this time, that I think Mike was murdered. That I think the other members of The Significant Seven now in the ground were also murder victims. I couldn’t bring myself to mention that possibility. But Peggy brought it up herself. ‘These six hearty, healthy, happy men all dying over the course of one summer? How can that be?” she asked me. “Was somebody killing them?”

“I told Peggy Barnhill I thought that was a good question. That’s when I asked to see The Significant Seven’s ownership contract. She said she’d only recently gotten a copy. A Chicago attorney named Frank Cohan had written it. It was signed by all seven men and notarized.”

Doyle poured another half cup of coffee, leaving out the Bushmills. “When I got to the final paragraph of the contract, I understood what was going on. I don’t know if lawyer Cohan was in a hurry when he he wrote it, or what. And I guess the trusting partners didn’t question his work. But there was, I’m assuming unintentionally, a loophole you could drive a Brink’s truck through. And somebody spotted that. And acted to exploit it.”

Tirabassi leaned forward. “In what way, Jack?”

“I’m going to have to look at my notes for this. Wait.” He took his notebook out of his jacket pocket.

“The contract states that the heir or heirs or heiresses of the last surviving member of The Significant Seven shall ‘Devote proceeds from the stallion career of The Badger Express and other profits from the racing stable, if any, to the creation, financing, and administration of a retirement farm for racehorses.’”

The agents looked at each other, puzzled. “So?” Tirabassi said.

“So,” Doyle replied, “it says proceeds. Not
all
proceeds. Frank Cohan, or his typist, left out the
all
. Big mistake. And none of The Significant Seven caught that omission. But somebody else did. Actually, that may have been the reason for Judge Toomey being the first to die. The fear that maybe Toomey, an attorney, might some day review, amend, and correct the language by adding the
all.
I think that’s what led to Toomey dying first.And what led to the rest of the six deaths.

“The trustee,” Doyle continued, “under the terms of this contract, would be free to use
some
, not all, of the proceeds to fund the horse retirement plan. That trustee, of course, will be Renee Rison, little Miss Bereavement. Once her father dies, which could be any hour now, she’s going to be in complete control of a revenue stream measuring in the millions. Even if The Badger Express were to keel over tomorrow, he’s insured for $20 million. With the trust as the beneficiary of that policy, and her soon to be in control of the trust, devious little Renee could easily set aside a million bucks or so for the care and keeping of several dozen old racetrack warriors, just to make it look good, and use the considerable rest for herself.

“I do not believe that that is what The Significant Seven had in mind,” Doyle said.

There was a brief silence before Karen said, “Are you saying Renee Rison killed all those men?”

“No. But Renee Rison is cunning enough to find people to do that kind of work for her. Then she winds up with all the money. I asked her some questions about the partnership deal when we were at Ravinia. She brushed me off. Talked just about her Dad’s impending demise. She must have gotten worried about what I might suspect or discover. She decided that I was a threat to her plan. I’m sure she sent the man with the knife to the barn to kill me.”

Tirabassi said, “How can you tie Renee and the dead man together?”

“By cell phone. When the dead man’s cell phone rang, I picked it up. The caller ID said Renee Rison. She must have realized I was not the man she was calling. She hung up without saying anything.”

Karen said, “If the motive was money, why? She had her own business. She was due to inherit her father’s businesses.”

“Her Dad’s car dealerships were in trouble, like most of them around the country. I think you’ll find her travel business was on the slide, too. She probably used what savings she had, or went into her equity line—I know she owns the building her travel agency is in—to finance this operation. I don’t imagine professional killers come cheap, even in a bad economy like this one. Let’s say she had to spend hundreds of thousands on the killer or killers. So what? At the end of the day, little Renee planned to be sitting on many millions.”

“I don’t know, Jack,” Tirabassi said, shaking his head. “Even if your theory is right, what can we do about it? Unless the guy who tried to kill you left some kind of trail to her, we don’t have anything to go on.”

“Maybe the unknown man knew her late brother in the service,” Doyle said. “You can check that out once he’s been identified,” Doyle said.

Tirabassi remained doubtful. “That could be pure coincidence. We’d need more than that to go on.”

Doyle downed the last of his coffee. “Well, Damon,” he smiled, “you’ve always got me to fall back on. Here’s my idea.”

***

The next morning, the story about the unidentified man who had been stomped to death by a horse at Heartland Downs was all over the national news. Scott Sanderson spotted it on the Internet as he sat in front of his home computer in Dallas, sipping his morning coffee. He quickly turned on the television to a morning newscast. A photo appeared showing a body covered by a blanket, only the feet uncovered. A horse’s head could be seen in the near background, the animal peering out of his stall at all the activity. When the camera zeroed in, Sanderson sat up in his seat. “God damn it to hell,” he said, “I know whose Western boots those are.”

“What?” called Sanderson’s wife from the nearby kitchen.

There was no answer. When she looked around the corner, her husband was hunched over, his head in his hands. She knew better than to ask him what was wrong. In his world, nothing was ever wrong. She kept quiet.

Finally, he got out his chair, his face drawn, jaw clenched.

“I got to take a trip,” he said. “Right away. Today.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

August 30, 2009

Doyle scored a parking place across the street from Renee Rison’s travel agency. He pumped the only eight quarters he had on him into one of the recently privatized and newly rapacious Chicago parking meters, buying part of an hour. He walked through the door with his iPhone at his mouth, a new one provided him earlier that day by Damon Tirabassi. Doyle nodded to Renee’s assistant, Teresa Chandler. She was headed out the door. She waved at Jack. “We’re closing up a little early on this rainy evening,” she whispered to Doyle. “Renee’s in her office at the back.”

The office door was partially open. He tapped on it lightly. Renee, startled, put down her phone. Doyle pretended to be concluding a conversation on his phone. “Right,” he said. “I’ll see you later.

“Jack, I’m surprised to see you here.”
I’ll bet you
are, he thought.

Renee rose from her chair behind the cluttered desk. She gave Doyle her best welcoming look. She wore a short-sleeved red dress that fit her perfectly. Her hand was warm as she shook his. “Please sit,” she said. “Were you planning to surprise me by asking me out to dinner?”

“I don’t think I’m going to surprise you at all, Renee. I think you know why I’m here.” He took one of the chairs in front of her desk, placing his iPhone down on the empty chair next to him.

She walked around the desk to the small refrigerator in the corner of the office. “Water? Soda? Something stronger?” she said, smiling back over her shoulder as she bent down and looked into the fridge.

“I’m here to ask you about the man you called on his cell phone yesterday evening.”

She hesitated before reaching into the fridge for a small bottle of Veuve Clicquot, opened it, and returned to her chair before saying, “What are you talking about?” She took a plastic cup out of a lower desk drawer and filled it. Doyle saw her hand shaking as she drank.

“Yesterday evening,” Doyle said, “a man came to Heartland Downs intent on killing me. Didn’t happen. Instead, he got stomped to death by Editorialist.”

“
What
? Why would someone want to kill you? And what do think this has to do with me?”

“The dead man’s phone rang as he lay there in the straw in Editorialist’s stall. His face nearly obliterated. I heard a cell phone. I found it in his jeans pocket. The caller’s name and number were on it. Yours.”

She returned to her chair. “You don’t even know who this man is and you’re saying I know him?” she said dismissively.

“Oh, they’ll find out who he is. Either fingerprints or DNA. He was in his thirties, hard-looking guy, so I’ll bet he turns out to be ex-military, or ex-con. They’ll find out.”

She said, “What if they do identify him? What does that mean to me?”

“I think they’ll eventually find a link between you two, maybe with other parties involved. People you employed.”

Renee laughed. “For what purpose?”

“To gain control of the money accumulated by The Significant Seven.”

She sat back in her chair. Her hand shook again as she refilled her champagne cup.

“When you knew your father had only months to live, you came up with your murderous plan. If the six other members of the partnership preceded your Dad in death, you would be in charge of the financial jackpot produced by The Badger Express once your father died. The Badger Express. The stallion who keeps on giving.

“You had to act quickly. Your father only had months to live. Somehow you were able to employ a very professional assassin, who I presume was the guy that came after me at the barn. He took care of the first six of The Significant Seven. Leaving you all alone in the catbird seat.”

He stood up. “That’s the way I see it, Renee. And that’s the theory I’m going to tell two FBI agents I know when I see them tomorrow. Let them start to look into this. You screwed up, babe. You should have hired a killer who knew about horses. This dead man is eventually going to lead to you.”

“Oh, Doyle, you cocky bastard,” she spat out, “why should I plan to spend millions of dollars on the upkeep of damaged old horses? I don’t even like the damn animals. You think I was going to stand by and watch all that money being blown on nags? No way.” For a moment her angered face was almost the color of her dress as she glared at Doyle.

“What would your father think of your plan, Renee?”

She drank from the champagne cup. “He’ll never know about it. And neither will anyone else. Daddy’s car dealerships started going into the dumper about a year and a half ago. When the economy crashed. He was embarrassed, tried to keep them going and not lay off his workers, but he couldn’t pull it off. I’m sure the stress from all that accelerated his cancer. Some of the biggest car companies in this country, which he’d made tons of money for over the years, just shut him off. He was devastated. He closed three of the four dealerships, sold the other at a bottom price. He made clear to me that my inheritance was going to be very, well, disappointing. My own business had almost collapsed. I had to take steps to remedy my situation,” she smiled. “I’ll have to take another step now. Too bad you told me what you’d figured out, Jack. I couldn’t allow allegations such as those to get around, could I?”

Doyle said, “You are one cocky bitch, Renee.”

She reached into the middle drawer of her desk. “You’re just smart enough to be dangerous, Doyle.” When she came around the desk, she was holding the .22 pistol.

“You’re a smart guy, Jack, and a smart ass. I never could stand guys like you.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Renee?”

Renee smiled. “What am I doing, Jack? Why, I’m ‘protecting myself from an attacker.’ And I’m getting rid of you.”

She reached behind her for her champagne cup and threw its remaining contents onto Doyle’s chest. Dropping the cup, she ripped open the top buttons of her dress to reveal one of her braless breasts. With the same hand, she tousled her hair into disarray.

“Doyle, you animal,” she smiled. “I’m lucky I have this weapon for protection. Three years ago, Teresa and I were held up here in the store on a Friday night. The guy took all our cash and made fun of us. I swore then I wouldn’t let that happen again. I got a permit and the pistol.

“‘Oh, officer, this man Doyle, I dated him once, we went to a concert at Ravinia. I didn’t wish to see him again. He was too forward for me. He’s been calling me repeatedly since then, and I never answer. Then, tonight, he charged into my office and tried to force himself on me. It was horrible. He pulled down my dress top. He said terrible things. “I know what you like. You’ll like it from me.” He was like an animal. I’ve always had a fear of rape. I was terrified.’

“‘Thank
God
I had that pistol in my desk and was able to defend myself. I’m sorry I had to shoot him, but I had no choice.’” She gave Doyle another mocking smile.

Doyle flashed a left uppercut into Renee’s gun arm. She screamed. The little .22 flew up out of her hand and hit the ceiling before bouncing down on top of the refrigerator and then onto the carpet. Renee, face pale, clutched her wrist. “You’ve broken my wrist!”

She bent down trying to pick up the pistol. Doyle kicked it under the desk out of her reach. He shoved her down into her chair and retrieved his iPhone, hitting the recording button. Renee heard herself say, “Thank
God
I had the pistol in my desk and was able to defend myself. I’m sorry I had to shoot him. But I had no choice.”

“You bastard, Doyle.”

“Uh, uh, Renee. I’m no bastard, and I’ve got the birth certificate to prove it.”

He put the phone down on the desk. “The FBI will find that very useful, my dear.”

“No, Doyle, they won’t.” She stood up, still clutching her injured wrist. “Scott,” she screamed. “Get in here.”

The side door to the office banged open. In walked a tall, tanned man with a military buzz cut. He wore dark sunglasses, a black tee-shirt and jeans. In his left hand, he carried a black Glock .19 with sound suppressor attached. For a moment he looked straight at Doyle. He raised the pistol. Pivoting slightly, he turned to Renee and shot her in the forehead.

Doyle jumped toward the door. But the man quickly turned to aim the weapon at him. “Stop right there, Doyle. I want to take a look at the man that got my buddy killed at the racetrack.”

Doyle turned around slowly. “I didn’t get him killed, you jerk. He got himself killed by the horse.” Nodding toward Renee’s body, “What was that for? I thought you worked for her.” Pieces of her skull were plastered against the back of her chair.

“We both did. Me and Orth. Then she started to get shaky on us. When I found out Orth was gone, I was afraid she might come completely apart. Threaten me with exposure. Renee was calling me every half-hour, driving me nuts. She said I had to come up here and get rid of a pain in the ass named Doyle. I flew in this morning to get the rest of the money she owed me and Orth. She paid me today. Told me to stay close, that Doyle might show up looking for her. If not, I’d go looking for him.” Sanderson smiled. “Hello, Jack.”

“Why kill her?” Doyle said. He was sweating now. Thinking where the fuck are the Feebs. He said, “She could have been a meal ticket for a guy like you. She’d be sitting on millions. You could have squeezed her.” He shifted his feet slightly, but Sanderson kept the Glock aimed directly at Doyle’s chest.

“Stop fucking moving,” Sanderson ordered. He glanced at the dead little woman in the red dress. Shook his head. Said, “She’d paid us most of the money she owed. She was getting wacky. The chick had to go, man. She was a loose end. Just like you.”

Doyle snatched his iPhone off the desk. He threw it as hard as he could toward Sanderson’s face. Instinctively, Sanderson reached up to deflect the phone, his Glock now pointed at the ceiling. Doyle jumped forward and unleashed a crushing left hook into Sanderson’s throat. Sanderson dropped the pistol. He fell forward onto the floor, gasping. Doyle kicked the Glock under the desk next to Renee’s .22.

He picked up the iPhone. “Damon. Karen! Where the hell are you?”