by John McEvoy
Getting no response, Peggy stepped down the stairs. When she walked through the door of the workout room, she began screaming.
Chapter Forty-Eight
August 23, 2009
“Jack, calm down. You’re like a raving maniac. You’re talking so loud and fast that I can hardly understand you. What happened to Mr. Cool?”
Damon Tirabassi turned to Karen Engel. She was driving as they headed north on Lake Shore Drive. “It’s Doyle,” he said. To their right, the unusually gray summer waters of Lake Michigan were ruffled with waves. It was one of those rare August mornings that set boats to rocking in Belmont Harbor, wind surfers calling into work sick. Rain pounded he windshield. Karen turned the wipers to high.
“Bull shit I’m a raving maniac,” Doyle said. “Are you listening to me or not, Damon?”
“Of course I’m listening.”
Doyle said, “Two evenings ago, a guy named Mike Barnhill died in the basement workout room of his home. Name ring a bell?”
“No.”
“I figured as much. Well, for your information, and for the information of what portends to be your vaunted Bureau, Barnhill was the sixth member of his horse-racing syndicate to kick off this summer. Sixth. And there has not been even one official inquiry into these deaths. Even Inspector Clouseau might prick up his ears at these statistics. How about the cream of American law enforcement?”
Karen motioned for Damon to hand her the phone. “You’re on the muscle today, aren’t you Jack? I could hear you even without the speaker phone.” Doyle did not reply.
She switched over to the second lane when she saw a Chicago Police Department car flying up ready to pass her on the left. “Jack,” she said, “I’m sure the reason we’ve not been ordered to investigate is that there hasn’t been any evidence of foul play in these deaths. Yes, I’m aware of The Significant Seven. I agree, it’s pretty weird, even when just when the first two or three died. But not one of the police jurisdictions involved reported a possible murder. We can’t get involved unless we’re asked, or told. We haven’t been either up to this point. I’ve got to turn off Hollywood. I’ll give you back to Damon.”
Doyle said, “Damon, get serious. You’re telling me something murderous hasn’t gone on with these guys? Their fatality rate—six different deaths, six different kinds of dying—is way off any actuarial able. And you know it.”
“Where are you, Jack?”
“I’m at the track. I just hung up with Renee Rison. She’s scared shitless her father’s going to be next in the death line. Even though the poor guy is doomed.”
“What do you mean doomed?” Tirabassi said.
Doyle said, “Arnie Rison has lung cancer. Advanced, untreatable. Renee’s concern is that some madman, maybe resentful of the success and luck Arnie and his buddies enjoyed in racing, is carrying out some kind of vendetta against them. Some jealous, resentful, murderous lunatic. Like the guy who killed Lennon. That fucker in the Oklahoma City bombing. The Columbine creeps. Don’t think there isn’t a legion of them out there, burbling beneath civilization’s surface. You think that sounds crazy, Damon?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Karen swerved sharply to just miss hitting a Loyola student pedaling his bike through the Sheridan Road curve around the university. She didn’t bother to honk her horn. The young man was riding into her lane, his head down and not seeing what was behind him, ear phones plugged in. Straightened away, she said, “Damon, let me talk to him.”
“Jack, we’re on our way to Highwood Park to arrest one of their leading citizens for fraudulent stock dealings. A nationwide scam. By the time we get her booked and processed and taken downtown, it’s probably going to be late afternoon. We’ll get back in touch with you then and talk about the Seven. That’s the best we can do today. Okay?”
Doyle had calmed down. He said, “Karen, are we talking here about a north suburban white-collar criminal? Female? This is huge. What a dent in the glass ceiling!”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
August 25, 2009
Once, sometimes twice a week, on a completely random basis, Doyle would get in his Accord to ostensibly depart Heartland Downs in the evening at the end of his work day. He’d then park the car behind a small grove of trees on the far side of the track kitchen and walk back to Tenuta’s barn, keeping off the roadway, trying not to be recognized. Once in the dark office, he positioned a chair so that he could observe the area between the barns without himself being seen. The first couple of times he did this, he used his CD player to listen to some jazz, sound turned down low. That was before he realized that if he were ever to discover the silent, secretive sponger, he’d best have absolutely no aural distractions. So, with the office door slightly ajar, Doyle spent boring nights listening to the snuffling nasal sounds and shuffling feet of nearby equines. Once each hour, he left the office to quietly walk up and down the shed rows of barns he chose at random. The more nights he spent in these attempts to spot the sponger, the more discouraged he became.
A week earlier Editorialist, the meanest horse in America, had been scheduled to run the next afternoon in a minor stakes race. Editorialist would be an odds-on favorite, everyone knew that. The morning before Editorialist’s race Doyle said to Tenuta, “Ralph, who’s on security tonight?”
“Tony LaVine. Used to groom for my dad, then for me. Retired now. But he’s bored and needs something to do. So, I hire him once in awhile when one of my regular guards needs to be off. Nice old guy, Tony.”
Doyle said, “Are you talking about that skinny old guy who shuffles around here some mornings, looking to read your copy of Racing Daily?”
“Yeah, that’s Tony.”
“You can’t be serious! That old man can hardly locate the front page of the paper. You’re relying on him? With Editorialist running tomorrow?”
“Jack, ease up. Tony’s done this work for me before. He’ll be fine.”
“You hope.”
Tenuta said, “I’ve got to go into Chicago to talk to some potential new owners. I’m not worried about Editorialist, or old Tony. You shouldn’t be, either. C’mon, walk with me to the car. I want to go over tomorrow’s work schedule.”
In the parking lot, Tenuta handed Doyle the clipboard with the schedule. He was smiling as he leaned back against the car, saying, “I’ve known Tony LaVine, like I said, for a long, long time. But I hadn’t seen him in years until the start of this meeting. I’m walking out of the track one day and there he was. I was shocked. He looked terrible. Skinny, in a raggedy old sport coat, crusty looking pants, it was pitiful.
“We talked for a couple of minutes. Tony told me he could use a little work. I said, ‘Come to see me next week. I’ll see what we can do for you. By the way, Tony, would you like a cigar?’ I had some great Cubans with me from my good owner Sam Murray. I’d planned to enjoy one on the way home. Rosa doesn’t like me smoking around the house. But Tony says, ‘Naw, Ralph, thanks, but I don’t smoke anymore.’
“I said, ‘Tony, how about we go across the street to the Paddock Lounge? I’ll buy you a beer.’ Tony says, ‘Thanks, Ralph, but no thanks. I don’t drink anymore.’ By this time I’m taking an even closer look at Tony. Besides his miserable wardrobe, he’s wearing these ancient shoes, and his shirt collar is so frayed it could lift off in the next slight breeze. I said, ‘Tony, how about I loan you a few bucks to bet tomorrow?’ I said this because, in the old days, Tony LaVine was a regular at the mutuel windows. Tony used to say, ‘You’ve got to make at least one bet every day. Otherwise, you could be walking around lucky, and never know it.’ Anyway, this day Tony says, ‘Ralph, thanks for the offer, but I don’t bet anymore.’”
One of the Heartland Downs security patrols slowly drove past. Tenuta waved at them before turning back to Doyle. “So I said, ‘Tony, how about coming to my house for dinner tonight?’ Well, the old guy’s face lit up. ‘Sure, Ralph, thanks.’”
“It was, but I had, what do you call it, a superior motive.”
“Ulterior?”
“Yeah, Jack, that’s right. Tony rides with me to my house. Rosa opens the door for us. She takes a long look at Tony, who she’s never seen before. I said, ‘Rosa, this is Tony LaVine. An old friend of mine and of my dad’s. He’s here for dinner.’
“Rosa slowly looks Tony up and down again, which is when I take my shot. ‘This, Rosa,’ I said, ‘is what happens to a man who doesn’t smoke, drink, or bet.’”
Doyle laughed along with Tenuta.
“Rosa didn’t think it was all that funny. But we gave Tony a good meal—this was before the Kentucky cook book disasters—and I worked it out so Tony could get a few hours of work a week as a stable guard for me. He was happy as hell about that. And that’s how I’ve kept the old guy going.”
The next afternoon, after Tony LaVine’s night of apparent vigilance, Editorialist won “like a thief in the night,” as the jubilant Tenuta put it.
Two mornings later, the chief state veterinarian reported that, in the race prior to Editorialist’s, the heavily favored filly Mady and CeeCee, trained by Frank Lester, had been sponged. She finished eighth and last, her first loss of the year. The resultant exacta and trifecta payoffs were huge.
***
Doyle leaned back in the chair, his feet on one of the window sills in Tenuta’s office, looking out at the moistly developing evening. He’d just checked down the shed row. Tony LaVine was seated there in a camp chair under the roof, looking alert. The lingering drizzle suddenly accelerated into a hard rain. A hard rain falling. Doyle started to hum Bob Dylan’s song on that subject, remembering most of the words for a change. That led him into “Oxford Town” and “Corrina, Corrina.” Doyle loved the early Dylan music that his parents had played when he was a kid.
The rain stopped as if a faucet had been turned off. The evening was still gray and gloomy, but Doyle saw movement across the stable yard and heard voices. Two people, decibels rising as they argued. He could hear them clearly. Doyle jumped out of his chair and went to the doorway, recognizing one of the two voices, the woman’s. He opened the door all the way and saw the woman give the short man a shove that forced him back a couple of feet. She pivoted and started to quickly move away. Then she slipped in the mud, and dropped her exercise rider’s helmet, and went down on one knee as a white envelope slipped out of her other hand, disgorging dozens of bills of currency.
“Aw, Christ,” Doyle said. He dashed out the door and splashed across the muddy yard. She heard him coming. She’d quickly snatched up most of the $20 bills she’d dropped. Startled, she looked up at Doyle, mouth open, money in each muddied hand. She looked down and plucked the last sodden bills out of a puddle and stuffed the now refilled envelope into the back pocket of her jeans. She lowered her face again. Her shoulders started shaking as she sobbed, “Oh, Jack.”
Doyle reached down and jerked her to her feet. “Have you got all the money, Cindy?” he growled. He marched her into Tenuta’s office. Junior Garza, there a minute ago arguing with Cindy, had slipped away into the advancing night.
Slamming the office door closed, Doyle yanked down the window blinds before turning on the desk light.
“Why? Why in hell?…” He pounded the desk top with his left hand. “Answer me, woman.”
Cindy wiped her face and tried to compose herself. She took a deep breath and sat back in the chair. Tear-tracked and mud-streaked, her face was so heart-striking to Doyle that he felt even more angry, disappointed, betrayed.
She started to get up but Doyle put a hand on her shoulder and forced her back down into the chair, hating the desperate look on her tanned and earnest face.
“Let me talk, Jack. Let me talk.”
“Go.”
Cindy said, “I am truly, truly sorry. Not just that you caught me out, but that I had to start doing the sponging in the first place.”
“It was all for Tyler, wasn’t it?”
“You have to ask?” she said bitterly. “Everything I do is for Tyler.”
Doyle said, “That motive isn’t enough for me. It doesn’t justify your sneaky, cheating, horse-hurting actions. Don’t pretend it wasn’t for the damn money.”
Cindy slapped his hand off her shoulder and jumped up. “Yes yes yes, it was about the money, Jack. Of course it was. I’ve got this beautiful, damaged, challenged, different kid. And I want the best for him. And the only way for me to manage, or try to, was to bring in more money than I ever could through my regular work—no matter how hard I worked, how many hours.” She dropped her head downs into her hands.
“I exercise horses early in the morning. I help Doc Jensen most days. I spend three nights a week behind a cash register, selling beer and cigarettes to punks who try to pick me up. And when I finish, I’m so tired I can hardly stand up. Next day, I start over.”
She rubbed her hand over her tear-streaked face and slowly looked up at Doyle. “When that creep Garza first came to me with his sponging plan, I turned him down cold. I told him he was nuts. But he kept pressing me. He had a pretty good idea of my financial situation. And he figured out that because of where and how I worked, I could get the sponging done if I was smart. I asked the little bastard right off, ‘Why don’t you do it?’ Garza said, ‘Oh, no, chica, horses don’t like me the way they get along with you.’”
Doyle walked around the desk and sat in Tenuta’s chair. Cindy said, “I have to use the washroom, Jack. No, no, don’t worry, it’s just down at the end of the shed row. I’m not going to run off.”
“Like I can trust you,” Doyle muttered. He waited in the doorway until she returned, when he said, “Tell me this. Why didn’t you ask me for money. I would have helped you.”
“You came along too late. I wouldn’t have asked you anyway. I was too ashamed. I hated doing that to those horses. But I had no choice. Garza paid me $5,000 for each horse I got to. All of them were favorites, all of them lost. I’ve saved all that money for Tyler’s special schooling. I may be trailer trash, but I’ve never begged for money, or taken a handout, or a dollar of welfare money. Neither has my Mom.”
“You want a medal for that?” Doyle shot back. “What you did to those horses, helpless animals, damn it, I don’t care what your motive was. Not to mention cheating bettors all over the country by fixing races. If this story ever got out, it’d be a huge black eye for racing.” He took a deep breath. “You’re a menace to the sport that gives you a living,” he said.
Cindy didn’t answer. She stood up, back to him, arms crossed across her chest. Doyle fought down an urge to put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. Without turning around, she said, “What are we going to do, Jack?”
“I have a question. Who else is involved in this besides you and Junior Garza? He doesn’t strike me as a mastermind of betting strategies.”
“I have no idea,” Cindy said. “I know he calls somebody when I’ve done the sponging. Who it is, I have no idea. I never wanted to know.”
Doyle said, “You tell Junior Garza that if there’s ever another horse that gets sponged at any track he’s at, I will turn him and you over to the FBI in a minute. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Doyle sat down in the chair behind the desk. He held his head in his hands before saying softly, “I’m letting you off the hook, Cindy.”
Cindy whispered, “Thank you.” At the doorway she stopped and looked back. “And…what about us, Jack? Could you ever forgive me for what I did? For what I had to do?”
Doyle slowly shook his head. “I’m quits of you, Cindy Chesney.”
The next morning, when Junior Garza’s employer Marty Alpert arrived at the barn, he was informed by his head groom that “Junior quit, boss. We don’t know where he’s going. He didn’t say nothing. He just got all his stuff and left last night.”
Chapter Fifty
/> August 28, 2009
Orth heard Sanderson say, “He works late on Fridays. The track starts the races later that day and they finish later. He’s the last one to leave that barn that he’s in, except for the security guards. There’s an interval between when he’s there alone, waiting for the nighttime guard. That’s the window of opportunity, bro. It should work for you.”
“That’s the deal with him every Friday?”
“Yeah. You’re not going to trick this guy into meeting you anywhere. The way he lives his life, he’d be hard to sneak up on. You got to jump him and take him. Take his wallet, make it look like a robbery. Surprise the bastard.”
Orth said, “It’s always by surprise, ain’t it bro?” He replaced the receiver, got into his Jeep Cherokee, and pulled it up next to one of the Qwik Stop pumps. As usual, he walked inside and told Dwayne the cashier “sixty bucks worth” and paid in cash. They talked for several minutes about the currently good walleye fishing on the area’s lakes.
***
Three of the Ralph Tenuta-trained horses had competed on that Friday’s program. The best finish they managed was a third. The mood around the barn was dispirited. Ralph tried to revive the flagging spirits by shouting down the shed row, “Remember, we’ve got the Big E going tomorrow.” Editorialist was scheduled to run in the featured stakes race the next afternoon. He was usually a money earner for all concerned, including Tenuta’s stable employees because the horse’s owners, The Significant Seven, most often represented by Arnie Rison, always “staked” them with bonus payments. Doyle wondered if the ailing Rison would instruct Tenuta to carry out this practice if Editorialist won. Or Renee. Doyle considered these pretty meager stipends. But to people making $350 a week, they were much appreciated gifts.
***
Orth exited his rental car at the far end of the Heartland Downs parking lot just before eight o’clock. The last of the ten Friday races was under way. He heard track announcer Jason Dooley calling out, “And it’s Round Man in front by a length, Twags Two in second by two lengths, followed by….”