The Last Private Eye (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rhineheart ate dinner at a seafood restaurant near the river. He had Boston scrod and scallops and baby shrimp and hush puppies, washing it down with hot coffee.

Then he drove home.

He fixed a pot of Irish tea and watched part of an old movie on the television. When the movie was over, he switched off the TV and got into bed. He was almost asleep when the phone rang.

On the other end of the line a woman's voice, taut with fear, said, “This is Rhonda Walsh. Someone told me you want to talk to me.”

“Where are you, Rhonda?”

“Never mind where I am. What do you want to talk to me about?”

“You know about Carl?”

“I read about it. The paper says it was an accident. It was no accident, it was murder.”

“You know who did it?”

“You're damn right I know who did it. That bastard Corrati did it. He killed Carl because Carl owed him some money.” She started to cry.

“Rhonda, you got any proof of what you're saying?”

“Proof? No, I don't have any
proof.
But everyone knows Corrati done it. He threatened Carl.”

“Why don't you tell that to the cops?”

“You gotta be kidding. What are they going to do? Corrati pays off the police.”

“Why don't you let me come and talk to you.”

“Mister, I don't know who you are, or who you work for, or anything. My friend told me an old guy gave her this number.”

“Listen, Rhonda, I'm working for somebody who wanted to find Carl before he got hurt.”

“Sure you are, and I'm the tooth fairy. Listen, the reason I called is to tell you I'm leaving town. Put out the word. I'm gone and won't be back.”

“Wait a minute, Rhonda.”

“I may send you something belongs to Carl. My friend says the old guy's a nice guy.”

“Rhonda.”

The line went dead.

Rhineheart went back to bed. He thought about the call for a while, then he started thinking about the last time he'd seen Jessica Kingston, replaying the encounter over in his mind. He told himself it was a waste of time to keep thinking about her. He put her out of his mind and after a while it was two in the morning and he was lying there staring at the ceiling and not thinking about her when the doorbell rang. He got up and got his gun, put on his robe, and went to the door.

Jessica Kingston was standing there.

The first thing she said was “What happened to your head?”

“I banged it against a blackjack.”

The second thing she said was, “Are you all right?”

Rhineheart shrugged. “I'm okay.”

The next thing she said was “You won't need that,” and pointed at the gun.

Rhineheart put the gun down, slid his arm around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her. Her mouth came open immediately, her arms wrapping around his neck. She tasted and smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke and expensive scent—and something else, something sweet and warm and full of promise, something distinctly her own. After a long moment they broke apart, both breathing audibly. Jessica Kingston's face looked stunned, as if she had just witnessed some momentous event, a five-car collision or something. Rhineheart knew how she felt. Even though he couldn't see his reflection, he was sure his own face had that same pale, shocked look.

Jessica Kingston said, “I don't even know your first name.”

“It's Michael,” Rhineheart said.

“Michael,” she repeated.

He took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

“Let me help you undress.”

She nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Rhineheart woke in the middle of the night. The scent of sex mingled with the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume. She was stretched out on the bed next to him. The tip of her cigarette glowed in the dark. He reached over and touched her arm.

“You all right?”

“I'm fine. You?”

“I'm all right.”

“I've been waiting for you to wake up,” she said. “I want you to make love to me again.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the night table. Then she turned to him. He reached over and cupped her breasts in his hands. Her nipples tightened. She shuddered with desire as he drew her to him. He entered her, thrusting deep, and her body rose to move against his in urgent yet easy rhythm.

“Oh God, yes.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“And this?”

She moaned.

The sex was hot and fierce and sweet and what surprised Rhineheart most was the depth and force of the feelings evoked. It had been a long time since he had felt anything like the flood of emotions that went coursing through him. Not since Catherine. Maybe not ever. He wasn't sure how she felt, but at the end, as they clung together, limbs entwined, tears spilled out of her eyes and ran down her face. Afterward, they talked for an hour, then made love again, then slept, wrapped in each other's arms.

Later, Rhineheart woke to find her getting dressed. He looked at the clock on the dresser: 4:50.

“I have to go,” she explained. “It's a long drive back to Lexington. I have a million things to do for tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Rhineheart said. The thing, as always, was to be cool.

“Help me with this, please.”

He helped her with her dress.

“When will I see you again, Michael?”

“I'm coming to your party tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” she corrected him.

“Right.”

“Yes, of course, but that's not what I mean. I want to see you again. Regularly. We'll have to make some arrangements. Find a place to meet. Someplace private.”

“We can meet here,” Rhineheart said.

“Yes, but we'll have to be careful.”

He thought about that for a moment. Okay. He could live with that. He could handle it. If it meant seeing her, he could handle a lot of things.

“I have a private telephone that no one knows about. It rings in my bedroom.” She gave him the number. “If you ever need me for anything, call me there.”

“All right.”

“I'm incredibly busy now, but after the Derby, things will calm down. We'll have more time,” she said. “We'll be able to see each other as often as we want. We'll go places, if you like.”

“I'll take you to the Vogue,” Rhineheart said.

“Where?”

“It's a movie theater over on Lexington Road. They show a lot of old movies. You like old movies?”

“Yes.”

“You like popcorn? I'll buy you some popcorn.”

“How delightful.”

She finished dressing. Rhineheart pulled on some slacks and a shirt and walked her outside to her car, a silver Porsche.

She put her hand up and touched his face.

“I'll see you at the party, Michael.”

Rhineheart said, “We haven't talked about the case at all.”

“No,” she said. “We haven't had time, have we?”

“You know that Carl Walsh is dead?”

“I heard about it, yes.” She shuddered. “Terrible.”

“The police didn't find any foal papers in his car.”

“Maybe he hid them someplace. Maybe he didn't take them after all.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go, Michael.”

“Be careful driving home,” Rhineheart said.

They kissed good-bye and she got in her car and Rhineheart watched her drive off. He stood in the street, staring after her car a long time after the taillights had disappeared.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rhineheart didn't go back to bed. He drove over to Bellarmine and ran for half an hour. When he got back home he removed his bandages, took a shower, and got dressed. He ate breakfast at a donut shop on Taylorsville Road and read the paper. They carried a brief account of Walsh's death. It was on page six of the second section.

The sports section had an article about the draw for post position for the Derby. The ceremony was being held at the racing secretary's office at 10:00
A.M
. It was 9:40. If he drove like hell he could make it about the time it was over. The hell with it.

After breakfast, he drove downtown to the County Clerk's office. He parked in an
OFFICIALS ONLY
spot and took the stairs to the Tax Assessor's office. He had a different clerk pull the file on South End Real Estate Corp. The president of South End was Curtis Evans of Louisville, a name he didn't recognize. On the form, the company was described as a subsidiary of Midtown Properties. He asked the clerk to pull the Midtown Properties file.

And struck pay dirt. Such as it was.

The owner and chief presiding officer of Midtown Properties was none other than Harrison Gilmore. That meant what? He could tie the vet to the company that owned a store in a place that Carl Walsh had taken a cab to on the night he disappeared. Big deal. He thanked the clerk, went back out to the Maverick, and drove over to police headquarters.

Katz's office was a little partition with a desk on the third floor. He was typing up a report when Rhineheart arrived. He opened a desk drawer, reached inside, took out a small manila envelope, ripped it open, and dumped a brown leather wallet on the top of the desk. He jerked his thumb at it. “Walsh's.”

Rhineheart looked through the wallet. Driver's license. Social security card. Employee Pass. Visa Card. A Gulf Oil credit card. A wad of business cards in the billfold. On the back of one card was a phone number. Rhineheart memorized it, put the card back into the wallet, the wallet back into the manila envelope.

“Find anything, peeper?”

He shook his head.

Katz scowled at him. “Guess what?”

“Huh?”

“Walsh's wife hasn't showed up to claim the body yet.”

“No kidding?”

“You wouldn't happen to know why she hasn't showed up, would you?”

“Maybe she's busy, Katz.”

“Get out of here.”

Rhineheart decided to spend the rest of the morning tailing Gilmore. A call to the vet's office elicited the information that on Thursdays Gilmore didn't come in until the afternoon. Rhineheart drove over to Gilmore's house, a large, elegant Victorian home near Cherokee Park, and parked down the block. He had with him a container of coffee and a couple of glazed donuts in case he got hungry, and a paperback collection of short stories in the event he got bored.

He sat there sipping coffee and smoking and waiting for Gilmore to make an appearance. At 12:30 Gilmore came out of the house and got into a silver-gray Cadillac, which was parked in the driveway. He pulled out of the driveway and turned left. Rhineheart waited until the Cadillac reached the end of the block before he wheeled the Maverick out into the street and followed.

Gilmore took Bardstown Road to the Watterson Expressway, the expressway east to Shelbyville Road. His office was in a three-story brick-and-glass office building across the street from a shopping center.

Gilmore pulled the Cadillac into the office building parking lot, whipped into a reserved parking space, got out, and entered the building. Rhineheart parked across the street in the shopping center. He turned on the radio, twisting the dial around until he found a news show. He listened to the news for a few minutes. It was the same old shit. Then he turned the radio off. He read part of a short story, smoked four cigarettes. Stakeouts were another pain in the ass. You needed to be patient, cool. Rhineheart wasn't that patient.

After a while he grew restless and decided to nose around and see what he could see. He got out of the Maverick, walked across the street and took the elevator up to the third floor. Gilmore's office was at the end of the hall. As he stepped off the elevator, the door to the office opened and Gilmore came out and walked toward Rhineheart. He was wearing a checkered sports coat, yellow slacks, and white shoes with a gold buckle across the instep. Gilmore had his head down and he was carrying a small black leather bag, similar to a doctor's bag.

Before Gilmore could look up, Rhineheart opened the door on his immediate right and stepped inside. The men's john. Cold tile. Chrome faucets. Urinals. Stalls. Bright, gleaming mirrors. Rhineheart went ahead and relieved himself. It had been a long wait in the car. He washed his hands and dried them, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He waited an extra thirty seconds, then opened the door. No one was in the hall. The elevator floor indicator was moving down past 2 toward 1.

Rhineheart took the stairs down and made it to the building entrance at the same time Gilmore was climbing into the Cadillac. He waited for the Cadillac to pull out of the lot and turn right before he ran across the street to the Maverick, got in, hit the starter, and headed after it.

He caught up to the Cadillac as it was turning up the westbound ramp of the Watterson Expressway. Rhineheart eased up on the gas, trying to keep a couple of cars and fifty yards between the Maverick and the Cadillac.

They traveled west for five minutes, then the Cadillac's turning signal flashed on and it swung up the Newburg Road exit, headed north. Gilmore continued on Newburg for another mile, then, at Trevillian Way, he turned left.

He drove past the Collings estate and the tennis center and turned into the parking lot of the Louisville Zoo. The zoo? What the hell. Rhineheart flipped on his left turn signal, waiting for a couple of cars to pass, and watched Gilmore pull into an empty parking space near the front of the lot. Then he turned in, parked the Maverick farther back, and got his binoculars out of the glove compartment.

In a few minutes a Green Turino drove into the lot and parked a few spaces away from the Cadillac. A man got out of the car, carrying a small plastic case. Rhineheart put the binoculars on him. A tall thin man with red hair and freckles. It was the guy he had seen sitting at Corrati's table in the Kitty Kat Club on Saturday night.

The redheaded guy walked over and got into the front seat of the Cadillac. He and Gilmore talked for ten minutes, then the redheaded guy got out of the car—no longer carrying the case. He got into the Turino and drove toward the exit. Rhineheart decided to drop Gilmore and follow the redheaded guy.