High Stakes (2 page)

Chapter Four

Karen winced at the sound emanating from Damon's breast pocket. Doyle said, “What the hell is that? Sounded like a baby burping.”

Tirabassi took his cell phone out of his sport coat jacket pocket. Frowning, he said, “There's something wrong with this ringing thing.” He left the booth and walked outside to start his conversation. When he returned minutes later, he said to Karen, “You-know-who. The Boss. Wanted to see how we were coming along here.”

Karen said, “That will give you an idea, Jack, how seriously our supervisor is taking this case. He calls one of us three or four times a day for a progress report.”

Doyle couldn't resist. “If I was him, I'd be concerned, too. Your organization's record of dealing with horse racing isn't exactly stellar.”

Tirabassi banged his coffee cup down on the table. “What's that supposed to mean? Didn't we nail Harvey Rexroth? That s.o.b. who was killing his own stallions to collect insurance claims?”

“Well, yeah. But remember, Damon, you managed that
primarily
as a result of my excellent, undercover efforts working the case on your behalf. Admit it. Without me, who knows how long Rexroth would have continued on his illegal way?”

Karen said, “Oh, come on, Jack. It wasn't a question of you single-handedly saving the day. As much as you'd like to think so. Pass the cream, would you please?” she said with a smile.

Her partner glared at Jack. “Don't forget that the Bureau helped convict that big-time race-fixer on the East Coast a few years back.”

“Yeah, a
lot
of years back,” Doyle shot back. “And let's not forget one of the Bureau's comic racetrack capers.” He paused to retrieve the salt shaker and apply a liberal portion to what remained of his eggs. “I refer, of course, to the famous FBI Owner Case.”

The agents glanced at each other, obviously puzzled. Damon barked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Doyle kept them waiting while he chewed his last piece of bacon. After a sip of his coffee, he said, “I guess they haven't featured this case in
Highlights of FBI History
. It happened at a little upstate New York track. Two of your really enterprising agents, suspecting that races were being fixed, got the okay to buy and run a horse of their own at the track in question. They purchased an inexpensive gelding, using a go-between to handle the deal. This allowed these two go-getters easy access to the backstretch. Posing as owners, they said they were area used-car dealers who had ‘always wanted to own a racehorse.' Naturally, they used fake names. By hanging around the track they evidently hoped to gain information enabling them to break what some informant had claimed was a race-fixing ring. They carried out this ruse for almost two months. Started ‘their' horse four or five times. You want more coffee?” He paused to signal Darla that he did.

Damon leaned forward. “Get to the damn point, Jack.”

“Calm down, my man,” Doyle said. “I'll give you the good news first. While that was going on, the horse they acquired, The Zackster, or some name like that, actually won a race and placed in two others. So, he paid for his purchase price and his training bills. As a result, this unique exercise of law enforcement didn't cost the U.S. taxpayer anything.”

“Glad to hear that,” Karen smiled. Damon maintained his frown, saying, “I know there's a kicker to this story.”

Doyle said, “Of course there is. While thriving in the horse ownership business, your agents failed to discover any race-fixing. Anything illegal. Didn't unearth any suspected criminal action. Just wasted their damn time.

“Maybe the informant had pulled their legs. Or maybe your guys were inept. The irony of this situation is the fact that, by using phony names on their state racing licenses, they violated the law that prohibits hidden ownership. Which happens to be a felony. But I guess that falls into the means-justify-the-ends theory you folks ascribe to, right?”

“All right, Jack, you've had your fun with us,” Damon said. “Bottom line time here. Are you going to help us or not?”

Doyle slid out of the booth and got to his feet. “Let me think about this. I'll call you in a day or two. You still have the same cell phone numbers?” They nodded yes.

Chapter Five

A surge of unseasonably warm weather had turned this part of early spring in Chicago into a bonanza of unusual but very welcome beauty. On his route from his condo to Heartland Downs Racetrack, Doyle drove past tentatively budding trees, early green grass, and beds of small bright tulips waving bravely in the strong breeze from the west. “No global warming, eh?” he said to himself. “And I guess the Flat Earth Society must still be holding meetings.”

Doyle parked his Accord in the lot outside the track kitchen. Walking through the Heartland Downs barn area, he was greeted vocally or with a nod by almost everyone he encountered: grooms, hot walkers, trainers, exercise riders, jockeys, jockeys' agents, veterinarians. This was routine at racetracks, Doyle had learned, but certainly not among the frequently dour-looking citizens he passed on his city runs and walks, the majority of them earplug-equipped or talking on cell phones. As a kid, Doyle had been trained by his parents to always say hello to people he met on the street, a practice he'd carried forward, only to be ignored or rebuffed most of the time in adulthood. The few urban exceptions he knew were people walking their dogs.

Maybe the civility he admired was a product of racetrackers being so dependent on each other for work in their various capacities. Things could change in a hurry, a stable suddenly taken out of business by a disgruntled owner, its employees becoming flotsam on the backstretch job market. Jobs were lost, and sought. Options had to be kept open. Maybe that was the grease that morphed into politeness. Or, maybe these folks were just happier about where they were, what they were doing in life.

Doyle was looking for his friend Ingrid McGuire, the bright, young, and very pretty veterinarian he'd met when he was working as a jockey's agent. Ingrid had developed a large racetrack practice, one of the features of which was her striking ability to communicate with horses via what was, for Doyle, a mysterious sort of telepathy. Yet he knew it worked, had observed the results, her equine patients silently imparting to Ingrid what proved to be their wants, dislikes, and, sometimes, fears. The numerous naysayers, including Jack, who had initially scoffed at Ingrid's claims, had for the most part become converts. Having watched her in action, Doyle was impressed by her very obvious respect and affection for her four-footed clients. “They're all individuals, Jack,” she had emphasized to him. “They are remarkable creatures to be treasured.”

Rounding the north corner of trainer Ralph Tenuta's barn, he saw Ingrid in Stall 1, running what looked to him like some sort of power tool over the long back and hind quarters of a black gelding whose nameplate read Pick the Packers. Above the noise of the machine Ingrid said, “Hey there, Jack Doyle. Good morning.” She briefly shut off the machine, took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from her tanned face. Her long blond ponytail extended through the back of the ball cap she was wearing with its “Save Old Friends” logo, the motto of a national organization dedicated to preventing retired racehorses from being sent to slaughterhouses and therefore winding up on foreign dinner tables. Then she resumed sliding the noisy tool back and forth as the gelding's whole body gently vibrated.

“Morning, Jack,” said Tenuta from the doorway of his nearby office. “You waiting to talk to Ingrid?”

“Yes. Good to see you Ralph. What the hell is she doing to that horse with that machine?”

Tenuta laughed. “Another step forward in Ingrid's horse helping. Look at old Pick the Packers. Loves it. Last week, Ingrid went through this routine with him and he went to sleep right afterwards. Was snoring like a human. Next day, he won here, running the best race of his life.”

They watched as Ingrid turned off the machine and packed it in a large leather carrying case. She gave Pick the Packers a final pat on his neck and came out of the stall. “I've got one more of Ralph's horses to work on, Jack. Want to come with me?”

“Sure.” He and Tenuta followed her down the shed row to where a red chestnut filly looked at them expectantly. As Ingrid opened the stall door, the filly whinnied a welcome. Tenuta said, “She'll be doing some of her chiropractic work on this one. Name is Mady Martin. Ingrid has helped her a lot.”

Ingrid proceeded to pick up, bend, then rock back and forth each of Mady Martin's legs before fully extending the left fore and swinging it side to side. “So, Jack,” she said as she worked, “what's up?”

“Something maybe you can help me with,” Doyle said. “Ingrid, you've heard about those horses being secretly killed at university vet schools?”

She turned her attention to Mady Martin's left fore, yanking it backwards and stretching it, then did the same thing to the right fore. “Yes, I heard about that. Weird, huh?” Ingrid began to crank the appreciative filly's neck from side to side, grunting softly with that exertion. “What's your interest in these killings, Jack?”

“I've been asked to try and find whoever is responsible by some people I know. Couple of FBI agents. These are criminal acts they're dealing with. Have you heard any scuttlebutt about who might be doing this? I know you stay in contact with a lot of your fellow vets.”

Ingrid nodded as she prepared to finish Mady Martin's treatment. “Naturally, there's been some talk about it. But nobody I know seems to know what's going on. They figure it's some nutcase from some loony animal rights outfit. Who knows?”

Tenuta poked Jack in the arm. “Watch this windup she'll do. I've never seen anything like it.”

Ingrid plucked a carrot out of her carrying bag and waved it in front of Mady Martin's eager nose. Leaning against the filly's side, she held the carrot to the back of her head. Mady Martin craned her neck back to nearly touch the carrot. Ingrid did the same thing on the horse's other side as the filly nickered impatiently. Then Ingrid held the carrot under the horse's belly. This stretching exercise concluded with Ingrid feeding Mady Martin that carrot plus two others.

As Ingrid hooked the stall webbing shut behind her, Tenuta said, “Couple of guys were talking in the track kitchen this morning about the horse killings you mentioned. Buck Norman brought up the name of that kook that used to date Pat Caldwell. Esther Ness. I worked for her for about ten minutes. Among other things, she was a shouter for what she called ‘horses rights.' Didn't you know her, Ingrid?”

Ingrid shrugged. “Just to say ‘hi' to. I used to see her around.”

Doyle said, “Who is Pat Caldwell?”

“He's the fella that's the chart caller here for
Racing Daily.
Pretty colorful guy,” Tenuta answered. “But he does a great job, right Ingrid?”

Ingrid said, “As far as I know he does. You watch the races and read his descriptions of them more than I do.” She looked at her watch. “Gotta hustle on, guys. Buck Norman's got a new two-year-old filly in his barn that won't settle down. Wants me to find out what the troubled youngster is thinking. If I hear anything about the horse killings, I'll give you a call, Jack.”

The men watched appreciatively as the tall, assured, attractive woman walked toward her truck. “She going out with anybody now?” Doyle said.

“I hear she's been dating Bobby Bork, that assistant racing secretary here. What,” Tenuta smiled, “you interested?”

“Naw. Just curious. We're just friends. I know Ingrid had a tough stretch of life with that alcoholic vet partner of hers before he died driving into a moving train last year. I just felt sorry for her, the trouble he'd been giving her.”

Tenuta said, “Same with me. She deserved better than that bastard.”

They walked up the shed row. Tenuta paused to pat an inquisitive two-year-old colt named Mr. Rhinelander who had poked his head out above his stall webbing. “This one's going to make his first start pretty soon, Jack. I think he's going to be damn good.”

Doyle didn't answer immediately. He was thinking about what Tenuta had just said about Ingrid McGuire's new romantic interest. “This Bobby Bork,” he said disgustedly, “I had a lot of dealing with him when I was entering your horses for you a couple of years ago. You know what they call him over at the racing secretary's office? ‘BM Bork.' Which stands for Big Mouth. He's evidently a smart enough guy, but he's not too high up on anyone's list of favorite people. Especially my list.

“Weird, isn't it,” Doyle continued, “that Ingrid would link up with another asshole following in the sorry wake of the late vet? I mean, this is an intelligent, likeable woman. Hard to figure that she should be so stupid on the social side of her life.”

At Tenuta's office door, Doyle said, “You hear anything about these horse killings, you'll let me know, right?”

“Sure. You're in a kind of a hurry on this, aren't you Jack?”

“Why wouldn't I be? It's a damn shame what's been going on.”

Chapter Six

Minutes after Doyle had tipped the Fab Rib Guys delivery man and deposited the brown bag with its aromatically enticing contents on his kitchen table, his phone rang.

“Jack, sorry to call this late,” said Karen Engel. “But we were wondering if you'd discovered anything about those deaths?”

“By ‘we' you mean dour Damon and your demanding boss, right?”

“Please, Jack. Cut the sarcasm for a change. I wouldn't be bothering you like this if it wasn't a pressing matter.”

Doyle started to open the large Styrofoam container. He looked down appreciatively at the sauce-dripping slab of baby back ribs that was surrounded by a bag of French fries and containers of collard greens and sweet potato pie. He relented.

“Karen, nothing's come up yet. I only went out to the track today to start inquiring.” He paused to extract a couple of fries from their package. “Tell you what I'll do. I'll set up a meeting with Ingrid McGuire. You remember her?”

Karen said, “Sure. Your pal the horse whisperer.”

“Horse communicator,” he corrected. “I'll phone her in a few minutes. After I have my dinner. Okay?”

“We'd all appreciate that, Jack.”

He turned on jazz station WDCB to hear announcer Barry Winograd introduce “the title cut from the Kelly Brand Quintet's great new CD ‘Afternoon in June.'” Doyle set about relishing two of his favorite things in life, great food and great music.

***

Two mornings later, shortly before noon, Doyle waited for Ingrid at the entrance to the noisy, crowded Heartland Downs track kitchen. Salsa music blared from the sound system inside, causing conversational voices to be raised. Her red pickup truck sped into the nearby parking lot a minute later. “Sorry I'm late,” she said. “I've been up all night with a horse of Bud Bauder's that was threatening to colic. Got him straightened out, though. Sorry I'm dirty, too,” she said as she slapped the dust off her jeans.

“I see you're limping a bit. What happened?”

“A frisky colt kicked me in the knee yesterday. Still hurts.”

Entering the large building with its rows of tables and lengthy aisle of cafeteria-style breakfast offerings. Doyle said, “I'm not really hungry. All I want is coffee. How about you?”

“Same.”

“Okay, let me grab a couple of containers and we can sit outside in relative peace and quiet.”

They walked to one of the old wood picnic tables that sat beneath a huge weeping willow tree. The early morning sun had erased the dawn air's haze and its light lay gently on the scarred surface of the table. Doyle said, “Thanks again for meeting me, Ingrid. You must know the reason why, right? Have you had a chance to ask around about a possible horse killer?”

“All business, as always. Right?” Ingrid sipped her coffee before continuing. “I've talked to everybody I know who I think might have an idea as to who's responsible for these so-called mercy killings. The only name that ever comes up is that girlfriend, or I guess ex-girlfriend, of Pat Caldwell's. You know, the guy who calls the charts here for
Racing Daily
? Esther Ness.”

Doyle waved hello at Steve Holland, a horse owner he knew who was headed for the track kitchen,
Racing Daily
in hand. “What do you know about Caldwell?” he asked Ingrid. “I know what he does here, but I've never met him.”

“Pretty friendly kind of guy. I've talked to him a couple of times at the monthly cookouts the track sponsors for all the backstretch people and racing office personnel. “She smiled. “That's also where I first got to know Bobby Bork. Guy I'm going with now.”

Doyle said, “How long has Caldwell been calling the charts here?”

“Oh, several years. He worked other tracks before getting this plum job. He's a tall, skinny guy, must be six foot four or five. Always wears a coat and tie at work. People say he's real easygoing when he's not doing his job. At work, he's all business. I once heard a woman horse owner ask him at one of the cookouts, ‘Mr. Caldwell, how do you ever manage to tell where every member of a twelve-horse field that's speeding down the backstretch a quarter-mile away from you is at? How do you figure out
who
all those horses are in all that rushing? And
where
they are then?” Caldwell just smiled at her. He told her, “I've got a great memory for what horses look like, and the colors their jockeys wear. Besides, everybody's gotta be someplace.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the screech of pickup truck brakes on the nearby roadway. They heard a horn blast and a shouted oath from the halted tan truck.

“What's that?” Doyle said.

Ingrid said, “That's that crabby old trainer Sid Morris. He braked to avoid hitting a squirrel that was hopping across the road.”

Doyle said, “Hopping? Don't they run, the quick little creatures?”

Ingrid smiled. “Take a good look some time. They run up trees. But squirrels don't synchronize all four feet like horses do, or dogs, when they move on the ground. They hop. Both front feet hit the ground, then both back, and so on. Like rabbits. Kangeroos, too.”

“Very educational,” Doyle said. “You've taught me about horse communication, now the ambulatory methods of small rodents.” He looked at his watch. “You think Caldwell is around now?”

“I think he's usually started his workday in his office, that's up in the press box, by now. I understand he comes in before the day's races to review tapes of the previous day. Like I said, he's supposed to be very dedicated, one of
Racing Daily's
best callers. He does the Kentucky Derby every year as well as the Breeders' Cup.

“Word is,” Ingrid continued, “that Caldwell is a big bettor and quite good at it, too. And,” she laughed, “his hobby is shopping for antiques. They say he's put together a very extensive collection that he keeps at his unmarried sister's house someplace in upstate New York. He's never been married, either. I know he buys a new Caddy every two years. Another rumor is that Pat doesn't trust banks. That he keeps rolls of cash in tomato cans buried under the light posts on his sister's property. Like I said, he's a lifelong bachelor. But he's always in a relationship with some woman or another, including that Esther Ness.”

Ingrid crumpled her empty coffee cup and flicked it into the nearby trash can.

“Let's take my car,” Doyle said. When they reached the Accord, he stepped ahead of her and opened the passenger door. Ingrid smiled. “So gentlemanly.”

“And debonair. Cavalier. Modest…” Doyle replied with a laugh.

This mood of congeniality was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a woman's scream. “Oh, no,” Ingrid said, turning back. “I know that girl.”

She was looking toward the south side of the track kitchen building where a small Hispanic girl, wearing a groom's regular garb of tee-shirt and jeans, had her back pressed against the wall, face in her hands, weeping. Confronting her was a burly Mexican-American man. He was cursing her loudly in Spanish, stopping only to slap her with an open right hand every few oaths.

Ingrid ran toward them, calling, “Rita, Rita. What's wrong? What's happening here?” She pointed a finger as she ran. “You, mister, stop that.
Stop
that.”

The man turned his broad back and administered another ringing slap to the small, tear-tracked brown face in front of him. Triumphantly, he turned back to face them. “You, beetch, you keep out of this.” Rita tried to slip away. But he caught her arm and again jammed her back against the wall. “
Puta
.” There were other snarled words in Spanish aimed at Rita. Another slap and anguished cry rang out before Doyle ran forward and plowed his right shoulder into the man's back and thrust him forward, banging his head into the kitchen wall. Rita scurried around them toward Ingrid.

The man recovered his balance. Shook his head. Bunched his large fists and stepped toward Doyle, eyes wild, forehead bleeding from its meeting with the wall.

Doyle used one of his best old boxing moves. Started a long, lazy, looping right hand intended to miss and create confidence. The man ducked it easily and began to say something in Spanish. He crouched, reached into a back pocket, brought out and opened a switchblade. It flashed in the morning sun as he lunged.

Doyle sidestepped, easily evading the thrust. He pretended to start the same right-hand looping punch. The man ducked again, sneering with confident recognition. The sneer had a short shelf life. Doyle stepped quickly to his left, planted his back foot, and pistoned three powerful left hooks deep into the man's right side. Under the rib cage. Right on the liver. With a nearly breathless squeal of pain, gasping for air, the man fell onto his back, and began to moan. Doyle picked the knife off the ground, walked slowly to a nearby refuse corner, and deposited it in the recycle bin.

Ingrid's suntanned face, for the past few seconds flushed with worry, creased in a slight smile aimed at Jack. She had an arm around the terrified Rita and began to walk her into the track kitchen. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “I'll call Security, Jack.”

Doyle's adrenalin flow slowed. He looked down at the bulky Mexican-American man, who was now struggling to sit up, wheezing softly, clutching his right side. Doyle pushed him back down. He grabbed the man's belt and flipped him sideways, then reached into the man's back pocket, took out a worn wallet containing an Illinois Racing Commission's groom's license. Photo, name, D.O.B., undoubtedly a spurious home address and Social Security number. If United States racetrack backstretches were checked for accurate numbers such as these, Doyle knew, they would soon be seriously emptied.

Doyle gave the man a light kick in the leg. Anger flared from the prostate man's eyes. “Hey, Rodrigo. Take a look at me. You try any more beating up women,
amigo
, I'll be back to see you. Day. Night. Or some surprise time in between.
Comprende?
”

***

A half-hour later, after escorting the shaken Rita to her dormitory room, Ingrid and Jack went to the Heartland press box to see Pat Caldwell. But when they got there, Caldwell's assistant and call taker, the person who wrote down his description of horses' positions in their races, Sheryl Stefanski, informed them that Caldwell had made an emergency visit to the dentist that morning. “Just as well he wasn't here for you. An abscessed tooth, he figured. He was grouchier than a fat man starting Weight Watchers. I know. I'm married to one that just has. Anyway, come on back between races this afternoon.”