Photo Finish: A Jack Doyle Mystery (Jack Doyle Series Book 5)

by John McEvoy

  Ingrid shifted on the couch. She’d never heard Eric so serious about anything, much less his family. He got up abruptly. “I want to show you something I wrote about Dr. Herman. It’s a poem I wrote. I did it for freshman English. Got me an ‘A’ and some inquiring looks from the prof.”

  Eric reached into the bottom drawer of their desk. He took out a tattered manila folder and found what he wanted. He handed it to Ingrid. She read:

  MY OLD MAN

  A pre-noon nip to

  Get the morning running?

  Or a slosh at dusk to

  Lay out evening’s path?

  He faced such vital

  Choices, drinker of

  The wee tot now and

  Then, the vat then

  Again. The measure

  Of a person’s not

  Their measure, he

  Maintained. No,

  The key’s just in the timing,

  Of that he was convinced. Until

  He and his bottle hit full throttle.

  Ingrid read the poem once, then again. She said, “That’s a pretty sorry picture of a man. You must have given a lot of thought to this. Your father has caused you a lot of pain.” She leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked straight ahead as he answered.

  “Yes, he did. That’s why I’d never consider going into practice with him. I’m going up to Chicago, get my track vet’s license, and set up a practice at Heartland Downs. That’s my plan.”

  He turned and smiled at her. “And I hope you’ll come with me.” He refilled his martini glass. Ingrid waved off his offer to freshen up her drink. She noticed, not for the first time, how Eric at about 6:30 each evening began to slightly slur his words. She wondered how many “martoonies,” as he called them, he had downed before she arrived. However many there were, they seemed to make him more caring and affectionate, especially in bed. She was in love and loving it.

  Chapter Three

  Summer 2011

  Doyle hadn’t made too many trips to O’Hare Airport’s International Terminal, but he enjoyed every one. As he once said to his friend Moe Kellman, “You can’t go anywhere else in Chicago and see more happy and relieved people. It’s a kick.”

  It took him several minutes to find a parking place in the crowded International Terminal lot. He hurried across the street to the entrance, observing reunited family members and friends embracing and talking in various languages. Hurried down the stairs to check the monitor on the first floor. The Aer Lingus flight he was meeting had landed. He shouldered his way through the crowd into the reception area facing Gate B.

  Doyle’s route to this destination had been laid out a week before. He had just returned to his Chicago condo from his morning run and was finishing his daily exercise regimen on the living room floor when the phone rang. He did his one-hundredth push up before picking it up on its third ring.

  “Hello there, Jack.” Doyle smiled.

  “Well, if it isn’t the prince and future king of Ireland’s bookmakers. Hello yourself, Niall Hanratty.”

  There was a short silence. “Och, how did you know it was me? Caller ID doesn’t figure into these international calls, does it now?”

  “Who needs caller ID with that County Cork accent of yours? Give me a minute to get settled here.” Doyle placed the receiver on the coffee table in front of his couch, walked into the kitchen, pulled a carton of orange juice out of his sparsely stocked refrigerator. He smiled as he recalled Niall and his muscle man helping Doyle survive a life-threatening situation at Monee Park Racetrack a year ago. Niall had been there to try to take control of the track owned by his cousin Celia McCann. These two heirs of financier and track owner Jim Joyce finally came to an agreement that satisfied both. Doyle counted himself fortunate to have escaped with his life.

  “What’s going on, Niall?”

  “Have you ever thought, Jack, of being a jockey’s agent? I know you own a great store of racetrack knowledge, having been involved in several interesting capacities. Are you looking for something to do now? You, a young man with such energy as you have? If so, I’ve got something for you.”

  Doyle swigged his orange juice. Toweled the sweat off his face. “Actually, Niall, I’m ‘between assignments’ as we say over here when we’re not working. What jockey are you talking about?”

  “Mickey Sheehan. Just a bit over the age of seventeen, but greatly talented, believe me. And a good kid.”

  Doyle said, “Why would an Irish kid rider want to come here? And why would you entrust the kid to me?”

  “Answering your second question first, because I trust you, Jack Doyle. As to the first question, well, I’ve known the Sheehan family for years. You’ve probably heard of Kieran Sheehan? One of our country’s leading jockeys for the past five or six years?”

  “I’ve read about him,” Doyle said. “He rides a lot for the leading stables in Ireland, England, France. Right?”

  “That he does indeed, the devious little bastard. Kieran wins races when he wants to, and loses them when he doesn’t. Myself, and most of the rest of Ireland’s bookmakers, have had to keep a keen eye on this lad for years. Much to our dismay, I must say.”

  “What do you mean, Niall?”

  “What I mean, Jack, is that Clever Kieran, as he is known here, sets up betting scores. He’s probably held, or stopped, as many horses as your man Warren Beatty held women during a month or two in his vibrant youth. But Kieran is so good at it, nothing has ever been proved against him. Even though he’s been called in for questioning by the racing authorities many times.”

  Doyle began doing leg stretches, phone still at his ear. “So, Kieran, he’s a bad apple?”

  “He’s a feckin’ orchard,” Hanratty barked.

  “Then why do the top trainers keep using him, Niall? I know he’s won all kinds of Group One races all over Europe.”

  Hanratty said, “They use Kieran because he’s so damn talented. When the man rides on the up-and-up, which is most of the time, nobody matches him.”

  “Are there other riders over there doing the same thing as Sheehan?”

  “Absolutely not. Most of them hate Kieran’s guts. Not just because of jealousy, envying his talent, but his sleek way of getting his own way. He looks down his long County Monaghan nose at the other riders. And at the racing establishment, for that matter. And he’s a regular irritant to bookmakers such as myself.”

  Doyle stood up. Drained the last of his orange juice. “What does all this have to do with the young jock you want to send over to me?”

  “I have a great deal of respect for the Sheehan parents. I grew up near the mother, Blathnaid, in Dun Laoghaire. Went to school with her husband Eoin at University College Dublin. These two good people are, well, they’re pretty horrified at Kieran’s life and lifestyle which, I am told, involves girls gone bad and cocaine flowing through. He won’t have anything to do with his parents anymore. And they want young Mickey to be as far away as possible from Kieran’s possible influence. I can’t blame them.”

  Doyle said, “Well, tell me about this youngster you want to send me. Any good?”

  “Brilliant prospect, Jack. Won a couple of dozen races so far out of maybe a hundred or so tries. Twenty-five percent winning rate. Should do great over there with you because Mickey has powerful potential, talent, brains, determination. Plus a great personality. And a great gift for getting horses to do what should be done. I’m talking the whole package here, Jack. And, of course, it would be you, now, steering all that ability in the right direction as I know you could.”

  Doyle laughed. “You are such a blarney machine, Niall. I have to give you credit for a superior brand of flattery.”

  “I’ll take all the credit I can get.”

  Doyle tossed his empty juice carton into the wastebasket. “Niall, let me think this over. I’ll call you in a day or two.”

  But he didn’t. Doyle called Hanratty in Ireland three hours later to say, “Niall, give me Mickey’s arriva
l date and flight number.”

  Hanratty let out a whoop. “The arrival date is this coming Friday, Aer Lingus, flight 125 at O’Hare. Thank you, Jack. There’ll be good come of this. Count on it. I thank you, my friend.”

  ***

  As passengers began to emerge from the US Customs area and walk toward the exit, they were waved at and called out to, and returned the waves and calls. Hugs soon followed. Doyle checked his watch. Nearly twenty-five minutes had passed since Mickey Sheehan’s flight landed. The Aer Lingus flight attendant crew, six attractive lasses in green uniforms, bustled through the arrival doors and rolled their baggage past him, chatting happily. He started to wonder if Mickey had missed the flight back in Dublin. Then he heard, “Mr. Doyle! Oh, Mr. Doyle!”

  Behind the voice came a small, blond, curly-headed person tugging a giant suitcase. A jockey’s whip was attached to its handle. Its diminutive owner had a face sprinkled with freckles. The face wore a worried look.

  Doyle took a step back. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “the jockey is a girl!”

  “Mr. Doyle,” said the attractive young woman standing next to the jockey, “I’m Mickey’s older sister Nora.” She extended her hand. Mickey reached out with one of hers. Doyle, still stunned, shook both. Nora was about five inches taller and twenty well-distributed pounds heavier than her sister. Nora’s green eyes shone as she enjoyed the look of shock on Doyle’s face.

  Regaining his composure, he said, “Ladies, this way.” He gripped the pull handle on Mickey’s suitcase and hefted Nora’s large black bag and led them to the escalator leading to the parking lot. By the time Doyle had the women and their luggage packed into his Accord, he had his questions ready. He waited to offer them until he’d paid the two dollar parking fee to the smiling African-American attendant and started out of the airport.

  “Well,” Doyle said, “I’ve got to admit I’m a bit surprised. Niall Hanratty led me to believe that Kieran Sheehan’s younger sibling was male. Not in so many words, but he did. And he made no mention of you, Nora, accompanying your sister. Or of you, period.”

  He turned off Manheim Road to a short cut he knew leading through Des Plaines.

  “Mickey,” he said. “How did you know it was me back there in the airport when you called out my name?”

  “Oh, Mr. Hanratty gave us a proper description of yourself. Said you were a nice looking fella in his forties, with sandy hair and a kind of rearranged nose from your boxing days. It was easy enough to spot you.”

  Doyle smiled as he turned right onto Tuohy Avenue.

  “Niall goes about his own ways in his own way. Aren’t you going to ask us how our flight was?” Nora said sweetly.

  “Hey, you’re both here safe and sound. That’s as much as I need to know about your travel. I would like to know, however, why Niall chose to deceive me.”

  “Mr. Doyle,” Mickey began before Jack cut her off. “No more Mr. Doyle, please. Jack to you, always.”

  She smiled, relieved. “Mr. Hanratty thought that you might not be disposed to taking on a woman rider. I suppose that’s why he didn’t make clear to you that I am one.”

  Mickey looked out at the traffic congestion at the intersection of Tuohy and River Road. “Jaysus, that’s a mess of autos.”

  They rode in silence for a couple of miles. Mickey said softly, “Jack, if it doesn’t work out for you, that’ll be all right.” In the rear view mirror he could see the worried look on this small person’s face. “I just want to show you what I can do in the saddle.”

  Flashing through Doyle’s mind was the question of what beautiful sister Nora might “do in the saddle.” He erased that licentious thought as soon as he could. “Fine, Mickey,” he said. “We’ll find out soon enough. I’m going to introduce you to a good trainer and a good friend of mine named Ralph Tenuta. He’ll watch you horseback and give us all an idea of how we’ll get on.”

  Mickey grinned. “Thanks, Mr. Doyle.”

  He put a fake frown on that she could see in the mirror. “Och,” Mickey said quickly, “I meant Jack.”

  On the southbound Edens Highway ramp, Doyle said, “Nora, what hotel are you two staying at in the city?” He heard giggles from the back seat emanating from the sisters.

  “Hotel?” Nora said. “I guess Niall did not make clear to you that we’re supposed to stay at your digs until we get settled.” Nora struggled not to laugh at the look of astonishment on Doyle’s face. He narrowly avoided being sideswiped by a wide-load house trailer whose driver had drifted out of his lane. The trailer being transported loomed large enough to house dozens. Finally, Doyle said, “Well, that Niall. What a card.”

  After parking the Accord in his underground garage, unpacking their luggage, and escorting the Sheehan sisters into his condo, Doyle said, “You two can take the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch. First comes dinner. Let me show you my vast collection of carry-out and delivery menus.”

  Chapter Four

  Doyle had never before attempted to sleep on his couch. He tossed and turned for an hour, listening to the muffled sounds of the visiting Sheehans preparing to slumber in his bed. At 12:41 he conceded to insomnia, sat up, turned on his television, the sound muted. Found the TCM channel. Smiled to see it was showing one of his favorite movies, Hombre, a classic Western with Paul Newman, Richard Boone, Frederic March, Diane Cilento, and a further cast of all-stars. Doyle had seen it so many times, he could pronounce the dialogue before the actors spoke.

  Nora Sheehan came out of his bedroom wearing a short green night shirt the color of her eyes. She was wide awake. “Can I join you?”

  “Only if you stay quiet for a bit.” He sat up on the couch. “Pull up a cushion. This movie is almost over.” She sat down beside him, putting her long legs up on the coffee table next to his.

  “Can’t sleep?” Doyle said. “How about my jockey?”

  “That girl could sleep through an apocalypse. Me, I guess I’m a bit jet-lagged.”

  Doyle held up his hand to shush her and took the mute off the remote just in time to hear the villainous Richard Boone say to the stoic hero, Newman, “Mister, you’ve got a lot of hard bark on you…”

  The film ended in a flurry of deadly violence. Doyle switched it off before the conclusion, with which he was very familiar.

  “Nora, would you like some tea? Maybe a drink?”

  “No thanks, Jack.” She shifted on the couch to face him. “It’s very nice of you to be doing what you’re doing for my sister and me. We really appreciate it.”

  “Hey, it’s just another manifestation of my benevolent nature.” He got up and took a Harp from the refrigerator, then sat back down next to her.

  “I haven’t had a chance to ask you something I’m curious about. Why did you come here with your sister?”

  “I had some time on my hands, Jack. I’m a free-lance journalist working in a country where the so-called Celtic Tiger has retreated into the forest. I talked one editor into selling him a report on Mickey’s progress in the U. S. for his website. Mickey is quite popular back home. Kieran’s little sister, talented rider, etc. Plus I want to look out for her. Our parents were not keen about her coming over here. But they were relieved when I volunteered to accompany her. Mickey’s a terrific little athlete, but she’s very naïve in the ways of the world. I’m sure Neil Hanratty filled you in on Kieran’s character and career.”

  “He told me a lot. But he never said why the famous or notorious Kieran is estranged from his sisters.”

  Nora sighed. “That’s because Kieran, from the time he was a child, has been almost exclusively interested in himself. He doesn’t give a damn about family.”

  She yawned, stretched, and stood up, smiling down at Doyle. “Thank you again, Jack, for picking us up, and putting us up.”

  Doyle couldn’t hold back. As she moved to the doorway, he blurted, “You have beautiful legs.”

  “Thank you, Jack. You have excellent eyesight,” she laughed.

  “See you in the morning.�
�

  Nora glanced at her watch, then back over her shoulder. “You already have, Jack. Sleep well now.”

  Restless and wide awake, Doyle turned his radio on to an all-night blues station in Gary, Indiana. He heard the announcer say, “And now a rarely heard example of the great actress Ethel Waters’ considerable vocal talent. Take a listen to this.”

  Doyle sat back and listened as Waters explained why she preferred her “handy man” to all other male suitors.

  “He shakes my ashes, greases my griddle,

  Churns my butter, strokes my fiddle…”

  He went to sleep with a smile on his face.

  Chapter Five

  Doyle got up at six o’clock after managing four fairly restful hours on his couch. After quickly dressing, he trotted down to the nearby 7-Eleven and bought sweet rolls and coffee and tea. When he walked back into his condo, he found the Sheehan sisters up, dressed, bright-eyed and expectant.

  “A little breakfast for you first, ladies. I’ll shower and then we’ll get going to the track.” The girls dug into the pastries and drank the tea.

  He drove to the northwest suburb where Heartland Downs was located. The night before, Doyle had called Aguirre Realty and made an appointment with that company’s rental agent specialist, Sandra Sucsy, a recommendation from Moe Kellman, who had an impressive gift for finding effective people.

  Ms. Sucsy greeted them enthusiastically and ushered them into her SUV for a tour of rental properties. Ninety minutes later, the Realtor had Mickey and Nora placed in a furnished flat some ten minutes away from Heartland Downs.

  It was in a large complex that overlooked a man-made lake. The Irish girls were delighted. Doyle wrote Ms. Sucsy a check for the deposit and the first month’s rent, telling Nora, “You can reimburse me when you set up a bank account here.” Then added, “Do you drive?”

  “No, not on the wrong side of the road like you do. And Mickey has no license.”