by John McEvoy
Karen said, “If the motive was money, why? She had her own business. She was due to inherit her father’s businesses.”
“Her Dad’s car dealerships were in trouble, like most of them around the country. I think you’ll find her travel business was on the slide, too. She probably used what savings she had, or went into her equity line—I know she owns the building her travel agency is in—to finance this operation. I don’t imagine professional killers come cheap, even in a bad economy like this one. Let’s say she had to spend hundreds of thousands on the killer or killers. So what? At the end of the day, little Renee planned to be sitting on many millions.”
“I don’t know, Jack,” Tirabassi said, shaking his head. “Even if your theory is right, what can we do about it? Unless the guy who tried to kill you left some kind of trail to her, we don’t have anything to go on.”
“Maybe the unknown man knew her late brother in the service,” Doyle said. “You can check that out once he’s been identified,” Doyle said.
Tirabassi remained doubtful. “That could be pure coincidence. We’d need more than that to go on.”
Doyle downed the last of his coffee. “Well, Damon,” he smiled, “you’ve always got me to fall back on. Here’s my idea.”
***
The next morning, the story about the unidentified man who had been stomped to death by a horse at Heartland Downs was all over the national news. Scott Sanderson spotted it on the Internet as he sat in front of his home computer in Dallas, sipping his morning coffee. He quickly turned on the television to a morning newscast. A photo appeared showing a body covered by a blanket, only the feet uncovered. A horse’s head could be seen in the near background, the animal peering out of his stall at all the activity. When the camera zeroed in, Sanderson sat up in his seat. “God damn it to hell,” he said, “I know whose Western boots those are.”
“What?” called Sanderson’s wife from the nearby kitchen.
There was no answer. When she looked around the corner, her husband was hunched over, his head in his hands. She knew better than to ask him what was wrong. In his world, nothing was ever wrong. She kept quiet.
Finally, he got out his chair, his face drawn, jaw clenched.
“I got to take a trip,” he said. “Right away. Today.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
August 30, 2009
Doyle scored a parking place across the street from Renee Rison’s travel agency. He pumped the only eight quarters he had on him into one of the recently privatized and newly rapacious Chicago parking meters, buying part of an hour. He walked through the door with his iPhone at his mouth, a new one provided him earlier that day by Damon Tirabassi. Doyle nodded to Renee’s assistant, Teresa Chandler. She was headed out the door. She waved at Jack. “We’re closing up a little early on this rainy evening,” she whispered to Doyle. “Renee’s in her office at the back.”
The office door was partially open. He tapped on it lightly. Renee, startled, put down her phone. Doyle pretended to be concluding a conversation on his phone. “Right,” he said. “I’ll see you later.
“Jack, I’m surprised to see you here.” I’ll bet you are, he thought.
Renee rose from her chair behind the cluttered desk. She gave Doyle her best welcoming look. She wore a short-sleeved red dress that fit her perfectly. Her hand was warm as she shook his. “Please sit,” she said. “Were you planning to surprise me by asking me out to dinner?”
“I don’t think I’m going to surprise you at all, Renee. I think you know why I’m here.” He took one of the chairs in front of her desk, placing his iPhone down on the empty chair next to him.
She walked around the desk to the small refrigerator in the corner of the office. “Water? Soda? Something stronger?” she said, smiling back over her shoulder as she bent down and looked into the fridge.
“I’m here to ask you about the man you called on his cell phone yesterday evening.”
She hesitated before reaching into the fridge for a small bottle of Veuve Clicquot, opened it, and returned to her chair before saying, “What are you talking about?” She took a plastic cup out of a lower desk drawer and filled it. Doyle saw her hand shaking as she drank.
“Yesterday evening,” Doyle said, “a man came to Heartland Downs intent on killing me. Didn’t happen. Instead, he got stomped to death by Editorialist.”
“What? Why would someone want to kill you? And what do think this has to do with me?”
“The dead man’s phone rang as he lay there in the straw in Editorialist’s stall. His face nearly obliterated. I heard a cell phone. I found it in his jeans pocket. The caller’s name and number were on it. Yours.”
She returned to her chair. “You don’t even know who this man is and you’re saying I know him?” she said dismissively.
“Oh, they’ll find out who he is. Either fingerprints or DNA. He was in his thirties, hard-looking guy, so I’ll bet he turns out to be ex-military, or ex-con. They’ll find out.”
She said, “What if they do identify him? What does that mean to me?”
“I think they’ll eventually find a link between you two, maybe with other parties involved. People you employed.”
Renee laughed. “For what purpose?”
“To gain control of the money accumulated by The Significant Seven.”
She sat back in her chair. Her hand shook again as she refilled her champagne cup.
“When you knew your father had only months to live, you came up with your murderous plan. If the six other members of the partnership preceded your Dad in death, you would be in charge of the financial jackpot produced by The Badger Express once your father died. The Badger Express. The stallion who keeps on giving.
“You had to act quickly. Your father only had months to live. Somehow you were able to employ a very professional assassin, who I presume was the guy that came after me at the barn. He took care of the first six of The Significant Seven. Leaving you all alone in the catbird seat.”
He stood up. “That’s the way I see it, Renee. And that’s the theory I’m going to tell two FBI agents I know when I see them tomorrow. Let them start to look into this. You screwed up, babe. You should have hired a killer who knew about horses. This dead man is eventually going to lead to you.”
“Oh, Doyle, you cocky bastard,” she spat out, “why should I plan to spend millions of dollars on the upkeep of damaged old horses? I don’t even like the damn animals. You think I was going to stand by and watch all that money being blown on nags? No way.” For a moment her angered face was almost the color of her dress as she glared at Doyle.
“What would your father think of your plan, Renee?”
She drank from the champagne cup. “He’ll never know about it. And neither will anyone else. Daddy’s car dealerships started going into the dumper about a year and a half ago. When the economy crashed. He was embarrassed, tried to keep them going and not lay off his workers, but he couldn’t pull it off. I’m sure the stress from all that accelerated his cancer. Some of the biggest car companies in this country, which he’d made tons of money for over the years, just shut him off. He was devastated. He closed three of the four dealerships, sold the other at a bottom price. He made clear to me that my inheritance was going to be very, well, disappointing. My own business had almost collapsed. I had to take steps to remedy my situation,” she smiled. “I’ll have to take another step now. Too bad you told me what you’d figured out, Jack. I couldn’t allow allegations such as those to get around, could I?”
Doyle said, “You are one cocky bitch, Renee.”
She reached into the middle drawer of her desk. “You’re just smart enough to be dangerous, Doyle.” When she came around the desk, she was holding the .22 pistol.
“You’re a smart guy, Jack, and a smart ass. I never could stand guys like you.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Renee?”
Renee smiled. “What am I doing, Jack? W
hy, I’m ‘protecting myself from an attacker.’ And I’m getting rid of you.”
She reached behind her for her champagne cup and threw its remaining contents onto Doyle’s chest. Dropping the cup, she ripped open the top buttons of her dress to reveal one of her braless breasts. With the same hand, she tousled her hair into disarray.
“Doyle, you animal,” she smiled. “I’m lucky I have this weapon for protection. Three years ago, Teresa and I were held up here in the store on a Friday night. The guy took all our cash and made fun of us. I swore then I wouldn’t let that happen again. I got a permit and the pistol.
“‘Oh, officer, this man Doyle, I dated him once, we went to a concert at Ravinia. I didn’t wish to see him again. He was too forward for me. He’s been calling me repeatedly since then, and I never answer. Then, tonight, he charged into my office and tried to force himself on me. It was horrible. He pulled down my dress top. He said terrible things. “I know what you like. You’ll like it from me.” He was like an animal. I’ve always had a fear of rape. I was terrified.’
“‘Thank God I had that pistol in my desk and was able to defend myself. I’m sorry I had to shoot him, but I had no choice.’” She gave Doyle another mocking smile.
Doyle flashed a left uppercut into Renee’s gun arm. She screamed. The little .22 flew up out of her hand and hit the ceiling before bouncing down on top of the refrigerator and then onto the carpet. Renee, face pale, clutched her wrist. “You’ve broken my wrist!”
She bent down trying to pick up the pistol. Doyle kicked it under the desk out of her reach. He shoved her down into her chair and retrieved his iPhone, hitting the recording button. Renee heard herself say, “Thank God I had the pistol in my desk and was able to defend myself. I’m sorry I had to shoot him. But I had no choice.”
“You bastard, Doyle.”
“Uh, uh, Renee. I’m no bastard, and I’ve got the birth certificate to prove it.”
He put the phone down on the desk. “The FBI will find that very useful, my dear.”
“No, Doyle, they won’t.” She stood up, still clutching her injured wrist. “Scott,” she screamed. “Get in here.”
The side door to the office banged open. In walked a tall, tanned man with a military buzz cut. He wore dark sunglasses, a black tee-shirt and jeans. In his left hand, he carried a black Glock .19 with sound suppressor attached. For a moment he looked straight at Doyle. He raised the pistol. Pivoting slightly, he turned to Renee and shot her in the forehead.
Doyle jumped toward the door. But the man quickly turned to aim the weapon at him. “Stop right there, Doyle. I want to take a look at the man that got my buddy killed at the racetrack.”
Doyle turned around slowly. “I didn’t get him killed, you jerk. He got himself killed by the horse.” Nodding toward Renee’s body, “What was that for? I thought you worked for her.” Pieces of her skull were plastered against the back of her chair.
“We both did. Me and Orth. Then she started to get shaky on us. When I found out Orth was gone, I was afraid she might come completely apart. Threaten me with exposure. Renee was calling me every half-hour, driving me nuts. She said I had to come up here and get rid of a pain in the ass named Doyle. I flew in this morning to get the rest of the money she owed me and Orth. She paid me today. Told me to stay close, that Doyle might show up looking for her. If not, I’d go looking for him.” Sanderson smiled. “Hello, Jack.”
“Why kill her?” Doyle said. He was sweating now. Thinking where the fuck are the Feebs. He said, “She could have been a meal ticket for a guy like you. She’d be sitting on millions. You could have squeezed her.” He shifted his feet slightly, but Sanderson kept the Glock aimed directly at Doyle’s chest.
“Stop fucking moving,” Sanderson ordered. He glanced at the dead little woman in the red dress. Shook his head. Said, “She’d paid us most of the money she owed. She was getting wacky. The chick had to go, man. She was a loose end. Just like you.”
Doyle snatched his iPhone off the desk. He threw it as hard as he could toward Sanderson’s face. Instinctively, Sanderson reached up to deflect the phone, his Glock now pointed at the ceiling. Doyle jumped forward and unleashed a crushing left hook into Sanderson’s throat. Sanderson dropped the pistol. He fell forward onto the floor, gasping. Doyle kicked the Glock under the desk next to Renee’s .22.
He picked up the iPhone. “Damon. Karen! Where the hell are you?”
Chapter Fifty-Three
September 10, 2009
Ralph Tenuta passed the large white bowl of mostaccioli down the dining room table. “Have some more, Jack.”
“I will, Ralph.” Doyle turned to Rosa Tenuta before helping himself. “What a great dinner, Rosa. I might have another piece of that chicken Vesuvio, too.” Rosa beamed as she forked a breast from the platter onto Doyle’s plate. Ralph was smiling at the other end of the table at whose middle Doyle was seated. The meal had been long, lavish, and delicious. Even Doyle’s notable capacity for food was being tested. Early to the gym tomorrow, he vowed to himself.
This dinner at the Tenuta home was to mark Doyle’s final day as Ralph’s stable agent. The mood was festive. Two of Tenuta’s trainees had won their races at Heartland Downs that afternoon, Editorialist as the favorite, Clever Carolynn at 13-1. Doyle parlayed the pair, starting with a $100 win bet on Editorialist. He was flush. Thus far in the evening the talk had all been about horses, flavored by Doyle’s effusive praise of the meal, delivered to the delight of Ralph. But Rosa’s curiosity came to the fore with the main course.
“Jack, we read all about Renee Rison’s death. And the arrest of the man who shot her. That must have been terrible for you, being involved in the death of a young woman.”
Doyle almost choked on his pasta. “Involved? Rosa, I was just there. As a witness. That woman maybe didn’t deserve to die that way, shot to death by a man she’d hired. But she was sure as hell set to kill me. She was an evil little person.”
He sighed and looked around the dining room. Reached for his glass of chianti. “Watching people die has never been fun for me,” he said.
“So you’ll be testifying against Sanderson?” Ralph said.
“Yes. He’s expected to come to trial in about two months. They’ll have my testimony as well as the iPhone recording of what went on there in Renee’s office.”
Rosa said, “The papers reported that the FBI people were late going in to help you.”
“Almost too late,” Doyle said. “Damon Tirabassi set up the iPhone connection. Mine worked fine. It was recording and the voices also were being carried to where the agents were out in front of Renee’s building. One problem. Their phone was malfunctioning. They were only getting snatches of the conversation. Government-issued equipment, Jesus. Anyway, Damon finally got his phone to work properly. And they charged in. I hit Sanderson pretty good. Damaged his larynx. When he was writhing on the floor, I couldn’t resist. I put my phone next to his ear and started playing back what he’d done and said. It was great.”
Rosa said, “I still don’t quite understand what Renee was up to. Wasn’t she going to inherit a load of money from her father?”
“Not as big a load as she had in mind. So she used her savings, and borrowed against the equity in the travel agency building she owned, to finance the crimes. If she could get sole control of The Badger Express, she’d be sitting on the mother lode. That’s what the greedy little bitch set out to do. She nearly managed it.”
Rosa said, “But wouldn’t you think Renee would be vulnerable to these men she hired after it was carried out? Wouldn’t they have a hold over her?”
“I don’t know what she figured,” Doyle said. “Maybe she was counting on their loyalty to her late brother, the dead SEAL. Who knows what she had in mind? She hired these two men, Sanderson and Orth, who had been in the service with her brother. Guys who had later done dirty duty as private security workers in Iraq. Before they went too far and got sent back. Sanderson did
the recon, Orth the killing. The bastards wiped out six innocent men. Just for money. Or maybe, in Orth’s case, because he liked it. I don’t know, Rosa. I don’t understand people like that.”
“How do you figure this stuff, Jack?” Ralph said. “Arnie Rison was as nice and honest a man as I ever had as a client. How could he be the father of a woman like Renee? It’s beyond me.”
“And a lot of others, too, Ralph,” Doyle said.
Rosa said, “What happens to The Significant Seven’s money, Jack?”
Doyle drained his wine glass before saying, “Arnie Rison was understandably shattered by his daughter’s confession. To his credit he called in Frank Cohan, the attorney who had prepared the original Significant Seven contract. Cohan, as he should have done in the first place, inserted the word ‘all’ in regards to distribution of the syndicate’s proceeds. The amended contract was notarized and copies distributed to the widows of the other men the next day. That next night, poor Arnie Rison gave up the ghost.
“To their great credit, the widows of the six dead men have agreed to an arrangement whereby all future proceeds from The Badger Express are to be used exactly as their late husbands originally intended. For the benefit of retired race horses. They’ve appointed a trustee to administer the funds. These good women have put this money where their husbands’ hearts were.”
Rosa offered Doyle another piece of chicken, which he declined. Her husband said, “Jack, I’ve kind of stayed away about asking you something else. You and Cindy Chesney? I noticed you didn’t even speak to her when she came to the barn with Doc Jensen yesterday.”
Doyle hesitated before answering, “To put it bluntly, Ralph, Cindy and I are over with.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Rosa said, “Are we ready for dessert and coffee? I’ve made the cannolis that Ralph loves.”
Doyle smiled at this most accommodating of hostesses. “I am, Rosa. Thank you.”
Rosa went into the kitchen. Ralph sat back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest, pouting. He said, “You don’t want to tell me anything more about you and Cindy, that’s up to you.”