High Stakes (6 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Sheets of rain pounded her windshield making the driving, what with the auto's lights off, very difficult late this spring night. The whirring wipers almost obscured the Swine Research Center sign as she passed it. She cautiously turned into the long drive from the county highway and headed toward the parking behind the Large Animal Building.

The previous night, she'd used the Google search engine to access and examine the layout of Indiana's Carmel College School of Veterinary Medicine. Her destination was well removed from the college's main campus.

At the far end of the parking lot, she spotted a large truck that was piled high with bales of now sodden hay, and pulled in on the far side of it. The downpour began to diminish. The only other vehicles in the lot were two empty pickup trucks, one with a small horse trailer attached. She quickly reviewed the plan of action she had laid out using the precise information confidentially supplied by a sympathetic Carmel College staff member, one of her fellow ALWD members and a longtime “animal activist.
”

Waiting for the rain to subside, she sat back in her driver's seat and closed her eyes, remembering a watershed moment in her life. She had just turned thirteen when she accompanied her favorite aunt on a mission for the Equine Rescue Society. It was a cold, gray December morning when they and several other volunteers arrived at the rundown farm outside of Pekin, Illinois. Her Aunt Julia, vice-president of the organization's area chapter, had been tipped off by an anonymous phone call the night before. According to the caller, “Horace Beasley, that sorry, cheap son of a bitch, is starving his poor horses. He's abandoned them and moved away. You will never see that bastard. But you better hurry and see them horses.”

Aunt Julia led the way past the small, weather-beaten house toward the paddock fence behind it. Then she halted, hand going to her mouth as she gasped, “Oh, my God.”

In front of them were four horses, two browns and a black and a gray. They were in appalling condition, their ribs showing, sores festering on their legs. They hardly had the strength to raise their heads to look at the visitors.

Aunt Julia opened the gate and entered the paddock, hands extended. She chirped and called out and, finally, one of the old brown horses struggled to make its way to her. It stopped and glanced at the water trough, which was frozen solid. Then it raised its head and looked at the visitors with filmed eyes and an expression of puzzlement and pain that would never be forgotten by the visitors.

The Rescue Society's horse van arrived an hour later. By then, the gray mare had laid down and died in the frost-rimmed grass, despite all their efforts to keep her on her feet.

The three survivors were helped gently into the horse van headed for the Rescue Society farm nineteen miles away. The little, emaciated black gelding died en route. The other two horses survived and eventually were restored to good health and given good homes.

Late that memorable afternoon, walking back to Aunt Julia's truck, the sun suddenly slashed through the winter cloud cover. But it did nothing to raise their spirits. She could even tonight hear Aunt Julia's impassioned voice saying, “
No
animal should ever be mistreated like that. They depend on us for almost everything. They deserve our love. Most of all, they deserve our respect.”

The rain suddenly stopped and she sat forward in her seat. She put on her gloves, pulled down the black raincoat hood over her head. Ready. Set
.
She ran across the parking lot to the door her fellow ALWD member had promised her would be left unlocked. She closed it quietly. The interior of this building was lit by ceiling lights set at a dimmed level. No problem. She knew where she had to be. Third stall from the left. Poking her head out of it, watching intently, was a two-year-old filly named Fullerton Avenue, who had been just recently donated to the Carmel vet school by her Chicago owner after being injured in training, an injury that would prevent her from ever competing on the racetrack. Thus, her retirement and donation to the school
.

She paused for several moments to speak softly to the wide awake, nervous Fullerton Avenue, who was eyeing her apprehensively until she finally settled, accepting the presence of this stranger. Perhaps happy for the unexpected late-night company.

“At least they've fed you well while they've demeaned you,” she whispered, stroking the horse's long brown face.

Then she reached into the pocket of her rain jacket for the loaded syringe.

Chapter Fifteen

Feeling not a bit jet-lagged as he settled in the backseat of the taxi taking him into Chicago, Doyle dialed his home message machine. He trolled through robo-call offerings of reduced mortgage rates (he didn't have a mortgage), “virtually free” electricity billing, offerings of life insurance rates so absurdly low that he laughed aloud. Ahmad, his driver, looked back over his right shoulder. “What you call good news, then, sir?”

“Hardly. Just nonsense news,” Doyle said before continuing.

Next came a series of eight messages from the FBI, each of the last seven more urgent than its predecessor. Tirabassi and Engel alternated in asking, then pleading, then ordering Doyle to return their call ASAP. He decided he'd wait until he was home before doing so.

Ahmed drove directly to Jack's northside Chicago condo without further comment or question. Doyle was impressed.

“Ahmed, how do you know so much about the city? Where to go? According to that license pinned up on the dashboard, you've only been driving a cab six months.”

A wide grin appeared under Ahmed's impressive mustache.

“I study…I am what you call a slick study, since I got here.”

“Quick study,” Doyle said, immediately wanting to retrieve his automatic reaction in correcting his driver.

Ahmed, unfazed, turned the final corner toward Doyle's address, slowed, and pulled carefully into the No Parking space in front of the condominium building.

Jack paid the fare and added a sizeable tip.

***

After unpacking his suitcase, Doyle went to the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of Guinness, and sat down at his desk before reaching for the phone. He quickly reviewed the FBI messages. Then he called Karen's number. She picked up on the first ring.

“Jack. Where are you? We've been trying to contact you. We've got bad news. Another horse killing.”

“Aw, damn,” he said. “I was in Ireland for a few days. Sorry to hear this. Where and when did this killing happen?”

“Two nights ago at Carmel College over in north central Indiana. Same MO, same result. And same kind of ALWD message left behind. This creep not only has a murderous bent, but he seems to enjoy rubbing our faces in it.”

Tirabassi came on Karen's speaker phone. “Where the hell were you, Jack? I thought you promised us you'd concentrate on this case. And you went, where, to Ireland?”

“You know damn well I went to Ireland. Your vast organization could easily figure out my travel schedule. Damon, I had some business over there. Took a couple of days. I didn't think I need your permission to use my passport. Remember, I'm a volunteer here.” He slammed the Guinness bottle down on the desk.

Karen came back on. “Sorry to be so critical, Jack. It's just that we've got to get to the bottom of this posthaste. Our Super is seriously on our backs.”

“Karen, that I understand. But look at it from my standpoint. All I can do is use my racetrack contacts, keep my ears open, hope to get lucky. What you've got here is some lunatic driving Midwestern highways at night going about what is obviously undetectable criminal business. I don't know how you expect to stop this jerk. You can't station twenty-four-hour surveillance at every veterinary school in the country.”

It was Damon on the line now. “Of course we know that, Jack. Our only chance is to get a tip. Find an informant. With your racetrack contacts, you are apparently our best bet.”

Doyle laughed. “Well, our government is in deep shit if Jack Doyle falls into its ‘best bet' category.” He paused to polish off the Guinness. “Okay, folks. I'll keep asking questions. Keep my eyes open, etcetera, etcetera. I have no intention of ducking out of the country on you. I'll stay on it. Okay?”

He could hear Damon's obviously relieved exhalation of air in the background before Karen said, “Fair enough, Jack. Do your absolute best.
Please.”

***

He went to his couch, turned on the television. Too early for the Chicago Cubs' night game. MSNBC was on, but Doyle was in no mood to listen to the bright, effusive host of this particular talk program, a man so determined to dominate the proceedings that he would ask his well-chosen guests a good question, then mainly answer it before allowing them a chance to do so.

Still restless, he checked his watch. Early evening, maybe not too late to get in touch with Ingrid. He knew she usually went to sleep early because of her dawn appointments at the racetrack. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hi, Jack. I assume you heard the latest.”

Doyle said, “Oh, yes. Bunch of messages from my pals, the distraught FBI agents. They're getting heavy heat from above to find this killer. Anything new on your end? Rumors, scuttlebutt?”

“No, afraid not. Just wild speculation. Some people think it's an embittered racetrack worker who was fired and is seeking revenge. Another theory holds that it's a disbarred vet, also taking revenge. A third school of thought, if you can call it that, is that these ALWD people, it may be several of them involved, are dedicated to raising their profile by continuing the killings. From that standpoint, they've enjoyed success. Every news report on the dead horses mentions ALWD, although their leadership continues to deny any involvement.”

She sighed and Doyle could envision her yawning. He knew she was at Heartland Downs every morning by five. “I won't keep you,” he said. “If you hear anything, or anything comes to mind, call me on my cell. Any time.”

“Will do. Will I see you at the track this week?”

“Probably. 'Night, Ingrid.”

Chapter Sixteen

Doyle finished his five-mile run along the lakefront shortly before eight o'clock. He felt great after shaking out the effects of air travel and his few exercise-free days in Ireland. Inside the vestibule, he picked up his copy of the
New York Times
, as well as the
Wall Street Journal
of his across-the-hall neighbor, an elderly crab named Hannah Hansen. The bane of his early existence in the condominium building, she had complained to the condo board about the “raucous terrible music coming from that Doyle's place across the hall.” In response, he increased the volume on his CD player for a couple of nights before relenting and using earphones when he wanted to hear Dizzy Gillespie's band roar. She never thanked him. The few times they met in the hallway, Hannah scowled while Doyle silently bowed in her direction. He still brought her paper up to her door whenever he saw it downstairs.

One message on his answering machine. “Call Mr. Kellman, please.” He did. Kellman's secretary Joanie Saltzman answered with a “Good morning, Jack,” and put him through.

Moe said, “How about lunch today? We haven't talked for a while. I want to hear about your foray to Ireland. The FBI case. So on. How about it?”

Doyle said, “Fine with me. Where?”

“Al Fresca's would be good.”

“I think it's supposed to rain today. I don't know about eating outside. Anyway, where do you want to go?”

Moe said, “Jack, sometimes you exasperate the hell out of me. I'm not talking about having lunch
outside
. I mean the new restaurant just opened on North Clark by Al Fresca. He's the nephew of Sal Fresca, an old friend of mine from the west side.”

Doyle groaned. “Al Fresca. Not al fresco. Sal Fresca. Is this a version of Abbot and Costello's Who's on First routine?”

“You want to have lunch there or not?” Kellman barked.

Doyle couldn't resist. “Is your old friend Al Dente going to join us?”

Moe hung up.

***

The rain predicted by Chicago television's panel of highly paid weather prognosticators did not eventuate. Moe and Jack sat at one of the half-dozen sidewalk tables outside the bustling new restaurant. Doyle had enjoyed a tasty
bruschetta
and was content to relax as Moe worked his way through a large bowl of thick, aromatic, garlic-laced pasta and bean soup. The early afternoon sun warmed the steady stream of pedestrians on Clark Street.

Doyle drank from his bottle of Moretti Beer, an import from Italy that he had begun to favor. “Know what my Uncle Colin Doyle used to say?” he asked, sitting back in his comfortable wicker chair, contented.

“Tell me.”

Doyle said “Colin's mantra, if an old Mick can have a mantra, was ‘Pray Irish. Eat Italian.'”

Bowl empty and removed, Kellman drained his Negroni and signaled for another. “So, Jack. You had a good trip to Ireland?”

“Yes. Saw Mickey. Went to a dinner where she won a big award. Spent some time with Nora. Both girls said to say hello to you. And I visited Niall Hanratty down in Kinsale.”

Kellman frowned. “Why? You're not exactly the roaming tourist type.”

“His wife, Sheila, asked me to talk to Niall. She's concerned about some threats he's received. I spent a couple of hours with him. He brushes off the threats. Probably needless concern on the part of a loving wife according to Niall. Sheila is really a sweet, sweet person.”

The entrees arrived, sausage and rigatoni for Doyle, a “chef's specialty” pasta presentation for Moe with shrimp, pecorino, and plenty of garlic over linguini.

Moe took a piece of the warm Italian bread, passed the basket to Jack. “What about here, what's going on here? The horse killer thing?”

“No progress, Moe. Another strike a couple of nights ago in another Midwest university facility. No clues, no traces. Damned if I can come up with any way to solve this nonsense, no matter how much the Feebs pressure me. I've put out feelers, asked around, tried to put myself into the mind of the kind of person who would be doing this. Sneaking into silent buildings full of animals in the middle of night and going up to one, some unsuspecting horse, and lowering the boom. I can picture it happening. But I can't picture who the hell is doing it.”

He plunked down his empty bottle of Moretti. “You tell me how to find a way through this mess.”

“I don't think I can do that, Jack. But I can counsel you to be patient. Sooner or later, whoever you're after will screw up. They usually do. Prisons are full of front-runners who didn't look back to see what was gaining on them until it was too late.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a cry of, “Hey, Moesy,” and the arrival at their table of a heavyset, sixtyish man wearing a broad smile, a rakishly crumpled gray fedora, a rumpled seersucker suit. “Oh, shit,” Moe muttered, before standing up to reluctantly shake hands and say, “How are you, Marty? Jack Doyle, meet Marty Farley, an old friend of mine.”

Farley nodded at Doyle before turning to smile again at Kellman. Farley reached to pull out a chair from the table, but Moe laid a hand firmly on his arm. “Marty, sorry, no schmoozing today. Jack and I are going over some serious business. Know what I mean?”

Farley backed up a pace, smile erased. “Well, sure, Moesy. I'll just go inside and wait for my companion.” With a resentful nod toward Doyle, he walked away.

Doyle said, “Why the brush off? Who's Marty Farley?”

Kellman sighed. “Known him for years. Former newspaper reporter, then started his own little public relations firm, always around, a full-time hustler. Before he got lucky in love, I used to wonder how this pain in the ass could make a living. He came up with some of the goofiest ideas you could imagine. One year, he was going around trying to raise capital for what he described as a ‘Luxury Retirement Home at an Affordable Price.' He was going to call it The Last Stop—for, quote, ‘Seniors with Senses of Humor,' unquote. Needless to say, this didn't fly. Besides a source of goofy ideas, he's a major league motormouth.”

“Verbally incontinent?”

“Exactly,” Moe said. “Never shuts up. Probably talks all night in his sleep. But as a perfect example of ‘You Never Know in Life,' Marty a few years back meets a rich divorcee and they fall in love. He marries into a scrap-metal fortune. Lives up on the North Shore with his little, homely wife who must have been desperate to corral a husband. Highland Park, I think. Marty got into Democratic politics up there. Even with all that money he married into, Marty's still the biggest freeloader I've ever known. And that, my friend, is saying something.” He drained his Negroni. “Marty is also a dedicated boozer. One of your people, so no surprise there. Irishers.”

Doyle said, “Don't try to get a rise out of me with another of your ethnic slurs. You're awfully insensitive for an elderly Yid.”

Kellman said, “May I continue?”

“Go ahead. I've got the Anti-Defamation League on speed dial.”

Their waiter carefully placed the bill in the middle of the table, where it was ignored.

“Couple of years ago,” Kellman continued, “I was invited to a very select Democratic Party fund-raising cocktail party at the Drake Hotel. Major league party donors. Couldn't go, I was going to be out of town. I ran into Marty in the Loop the day before and, for some goddamned reason, I don't know what came over me, told him about this party and asked him if he wanted to go in my place, said that he could use my invitation. Well, sure. This was a freeloader's wet dream. Free booze, free food, rubbing elbows with the inner circle.

“The next morning I get a call at the office from a friend of mine, John Doherty, who was at the party. He lives north, too, Lake Forest I think. Anyway, John gets on Amtrak to go home from a dinner meeting after work, starts walking down the aisle of the Metra car until he comes to a guy passed out in the middle of the aisle, guy he recognizes. Lying on his back. Snoring. Emitting alcohol fumes. People are stepping over and around him. It's obvious the guy's not sick, just passed out from sloshing down drinks. Doherty recognizes the guy. It's Marty Farley. But the prostrate Marty on his suitcoat chest is wearing a large identification badge from the party that says in capital letters MOE KELLMAN on it. Doherty thought this was very funny. I did not.”

“Did you call Marty on this?”

Moe shook his head no. “Wouldn't do any good. He'd just apologize for something he could barely remember doing and go ahead with his wealthy wife in his wavering life. What can I tell you?”

Conversation halted as a Clark Street bus stopped, disgorging passengers and exhaust fumes across the street. “I don't know how good Al Fresca's going to do being so near this kind of traffic crap,” Moe said, sneezing.”Let's get out of here. Hear me, Jack?”

Doyle looked away from the street and back at his friend. “Sorry, Moe, I can't help thinking about this horse killer deal. He or she will strike again, of that I am sure.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Percentages. Somebody gets going on a success streak like that, they don't stop. They start feeling stronger as they go on. Percentages say this villain or villainess or kill team, or whatever the hell it is, won't stop until they
are
stopped.”

Kellman said, “You and your percentages. I'm not so sure about that stuff. That guy with baseball, James, and the kid with politics, Silver—yes they impress me. Love you, Jack,” Moe smiled, “but I'm not quite sold on you along those lines.”

“Oh, yeah?” Doyle put on his sunglasses, leaned back in his chair. “I'm pretty good at that. Give me a couple of minutes. I'll show you.”

“Show me what?”

Doyle leaned forward, elbows now on the table. “Moe, I'm going to tell you right now that, in the next fifteen, twenty minutes, we'll see at least ten women hurrying by here on that sidewalk in front of us pushing baby buggies, infant carriages, whatever they call them. I'll order dessert while we wait. You want some cannoli?”

Kellman said, “Why should I sit here watching matrons or their hired help pushing babies past me? What are you talking about, Jack?”

“At least sixty percent of these women will be, watch for it, pushing with one hand and talking on their cell phone with the other. Bet on it.”

“I'll take that bet. You and your generalizations. I'll go for a double sawbuck. Order the cannoli. I'll have a grappa while I wait here to collect.”

It didn't take as long as Doyle had predicted. Sixteen minutes later, ten carriage-pushing young women had gone past them down the nearby sidewalk. As Doyle gleefully point, “Not six but
seven
of the ten yapping on their phones.”

Kellman pulled a bill out of his thick rubber-banded roll of currency. The only other item buried in this stack, Doyle knew, was Kellman's driver's license. The little man hadn't used a wallet since he'd had his pocket picked one furlough night in Seoul while on leave from the Marines during what he still bitterly referred to as the “Korean so-called fuckin' conflict.”

Doyle put the money next to his coffee cup. “Moesy, I'll buy lunch. I feel bad taking advantage of you like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Doyle said, “You've got to start giving me a little more credit for my theories. Remember that time last year? We were driving to Heartland Downs and we bet on the landscape companies? I said at least seventy-five percent of the trucks we'd see that day would have Mexican-American names on them. Garcia Gardening. Martinez Landscaping. Jose Hidalgo and Sons. You scoffed. Then we saw a dozen of those trucks. Nine of them had Mexican names on the side of them. You paid up, but I should have bet you more.”

They got up from the table. Moe said, “Thanks for lunch, you sneaky bastard. I've got to get back to work.”