The Last Private Eye

by John Birkett

  Farnsworth climbed in behind the wheel. Rhineheart opened the passenger door, motioned Kingston in, then slid in next to him and closed the door. He pointed the barrel of the gun at Kingston’s stomach.

  “Tell us how to get back to the party.”

  Kingston pointed straight ahead. “Just follow the road.”

  Farnsworth punched on the headlights and shoved the truck into gear. The road wound through the stable area, past a cluster of barns.

  “Left here. Then left again.”

  They turned onto the main farm road. Ahead, maybe half a mile, Rhineheart could see the glow of lights from the party tent.

  “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Rhineheart,” Kingston broke the silence. “The question becomes . . . are you a reasonable one?”

  “You’re not going to make me another offer, are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Go ahead,” Rhineheart said. “I’m listening.”

  “Drive straight home and go to bed and forget everything you overheard tonight. In exchange, I’ll make you a rich man. And I’m not talking about any piddly-ass $65,000-a-year job offer now. I’m talking about more money than you ever seen in your whole life, more money than you ever dreamed of. Never mind the Derby winnin’s. Do you have any conception of the kind of money that this drug Hughes discovered can make for us? I’m talking, my friend, about millions and millions of dollars, and the Derby is just the beginning, just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”

  Farnsworth shook his head. “You goddamn rich folk,” he said. “Ain’t you got enough?”

  Kingston snickered. “Shit,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “There’s never enough, old-timer. Only a man without anything would talk that kind of crap.”

  The truck crept slowly along the road, which was lined on both sides with parked cars.

  Rhineheart said, “Tell me something, Kingston. Where does your wife fit into this scheme?”

  “Let’s leave Jessica out of the discussion, Mr. Rhineheart. She keeps her nose out of my business, and I stay out of her affairs. If you know what I mean.” He gave Rhineheart a cool challenging look.

  Rhineheart made no reply. They were fifty yards from the tent.

  Kingston said, “It’d be a mistake to go to the police, you know.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “You don’t have any real evidence. Just your word that some events occurred. And from what I understand, your word is not highly thought of at police headquarters. On the other hand, I have some friends rather high up on the force. I can make a lot of trouble for you, Mr. Rhineheart.”

  “There’s three people been killed,” Farnsworth said. “That oughta cause a stink.”

  “I doubt it,” Kingston said. “Three nobodies. Two hot-walkers and a barmaid.”

  “Bend over,” Rhineheart told Kingston. He was tired of listening to the bastard and pissed off to boot.

  “What?”

  Rhineheart pushed Kingston’s head forward and clipped him with the barrel of the gun. It wasn’t the occipital bone, but it got the job done. Kingston groaned and slumped down in the seat.

  “Here’s the car,” Farnsworth said, and whipped the pickup into a spot next to the Maverick. They got out. Kingston lay stretched out on the seat. It looked as if he’d be out for a while.

  Farnsworth reached inside the pickup, took the keys out of the ignition, and flipped them over into the grass.

  “You bring a car?” Rhineheart asked Farnsworth, who shook his head.

  “I hitched a ride with a fella.”

  “How’d you get on the grounds?”

  Farnsworth grinned and pulled open his suit coat. Underneath it, he was wearing a jockey’s silk. “I’m supposed to be one of the car parkers.”

  Rhineheart tossed him the keys to the Maverick. “Bring it around to the tent entrance and wait for us.” He jammed the gun down into his waistband, sprinted over to the tent, and went inside.

  McGraw was standing near the dance floor, looking worried.

  “You’ve been gone an hour and a half,” she said angrily, then looked at his head and said, “You’re bleeding.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Rhineheart said, looking around. The party was going full blast. The tent was wall-to-wall people. “Have you seen Jessica Kingston?”

  McGraw nodded. “I talked to her. She came up and introduced herself to me. She knew I was with you. She gave me a message for you.” McGraw handed him a folded piece of paper.

  Dear Michael,

  Took my houseguest into Lexington to see the sights—such as they are. Will talk to you tomorrow.

  Love,

  Jessica

  “Goddammit,” Rhineheart said, “she’s with the goddamn Duchess of somewhere.”

  “Who?”

  Two men, one bald-headed, the other wearing a thick black beard, walked into the tent. They were wearing blazers with a logo over the breast pocket. The logo, Rhineheart knew, read THOROUGHBRED SECURITY.

  He took McGraw’s arm. “It’s time to split.” They walked outside. The Maverick was there, its engine chugging away. Farnsworth sat behind the wheel, gunning the motor. McGraw jumped in back, Rhineheart took the front passenger seat, and Farnsworth put it in gear. They took off down the farm road. At the main entrance the security guards waved them through. As far as Rhineheart could tell, no one followed them.

  They spent the drive home discussing what Rhineheart had overhead and seen through the library window.

  “Jesus Christ,” McGraw said. “A plot to fix the Kentucky Derby.”

  Farnsworth said, “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “It’s goddamn un-American is what it is.”

  It was one in the morning when they reached the Louisville city limits. They drove over to Rhineheart’s place. He gave McGraw the bedroom, Farnsworth the couch, and he sat in the chair by the front window with his weapon ready, watching the street outside.

  At 3:06 the phone rang. It was Kingston.

  “You been waiting for my call, Mr. Rhineheart?”

  “I wasn’t sure it was going to be a call.”

  “You had a lucky night, Mr. Rhineheart. But I have a warning for you. Don’t press this matter any further. Or someone innocent might get hurt.”

  Rhineheart’s stomach suddenly felt hollow.

  “What are you talking about, Kingston?”

  “You know damn well what I’m talkin’ about, Mr. Rhineheart. I’m talking about Jessica. You wouldn’t want to see her get hurt, would you?”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” he said. “You wouldn’t hurt your own wife.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Mr. Rhineheart. There’s very little I wouldn’t do to get my way in this matter. In that regard, Jessica’s just one more obstacle.”

  When Rhineheart didn’t respond, Kingston said, “Don’t even think about trying to come near Jessica, Mr. Rhineheart. The house and the grounds are surrounded by security people. They have orders to shoot you on sight. As of now, Jessica’s not being harmed. She’s safe so long as you keep your mouth shut.”

  “I want to see her,” Rhineheart said.

  “That can be arranged,” Kingston replied. “After the Derby, perhaps. We’ll see.”

  “She comes to any harm,” Rhineheart said, “and I’ll kill you personally.”

  The threat didn’t seem to faze Kingston, who said, “Warn off your colleagues, Mr. Rhineheart, and no harm will come to anyone, including Jessica.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rhineheart said. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “You really care for Jessica, don’t you? That’s very touching, Mr. Rhineheart. I’ll give her your best.” The line went dead.

  Over on the couch, Farnsworth had raised up and was looking at him. “I overheard your end of that.”

  “So did I,” said McGraw from the bedroom doorway. She was wearing Rhineheart’s bathrobe. It hung in folds on her, and trailed across
the floor when she walked through the front room into the kitchen. She was carrying her cigarettes and lighter in her little fist. “I better make some coffee,” she said.

  Farnsworth and Rhineheart followed her into the kitchen. They sat down at the table while McGraw put on the coffeepot. She set cups and spoons and napkins in front of them, sat down, and they all lighted cigarettes.

  Farnsworth said, “He threaten to kill his wife if we went to the police?”

  Rhineheart nodded.

  “You think he’s bluffing?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhineheart said. “He might be, but I can’t take that chance.”

  Farnsworth shrugged. “No, I guess you can’t.”

  “I don’t think he’s bluffing,” McGraw said. “I think he’s a fanatic. I think he’d do anything to win the Derby.”

  “Fact is,” Farnsworth said, “if we went to the cops without any evidence they’d laugh at us anyway.”

  “You may be right,” Rhineheart said.

  “So what’s going to happen?” McGraw said.

  Rhineheart shrugged. “The bad guys are going to get away with it,” he said angrily. “Make twelve million bucks and live happily ever after. How the fuck do I know what’s going to happen?”

  “Don’t snap at me,” McGraw shot back.

  “I’m sorry,” Rhineheart said.

  “Case like this’ll get on everybody’s nerves,” Farnsworth said.

  McGraw said, “Maybe you’ll think of something, Rhineheart. Some last-minute solution. Something brilliant. You’ll save her and get the bad guys and oh shit—” She burst into tears.

  “Hey,” Rhineheart said, patting her hand. “Take it easy, babe.”

  Farnsworth stood up. “I’ll pour the coffee.”

  McGraw grabbed up a napkin and blew her nose. “Look at me. What’s the matter with me?” She sniffled. “Private eyes aren’t supposed to cry, are they?”

  “Not in public anyway,” Rhineheart said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The three of them were still sitting there the next morning when the sun came up. Everyone got up and stretched. Rhineheart pulled up the blinds and took a peek at the world outside. It was Friday, the day before the Derby, and it was dawning bright and sunny.

  He put on another pot of coffee, made a pan of scrambled eggs, and they ate breakfast. While McGraw got dressed, Rhineheart drove Farnsworth down to his office. He told the old man to go home and get some sleep. Farnsworth said he thought he might just drive over to the airport and check out Corrati’s departure. Just for curiosity’s sake. Rhineheart told him to be careful and to stay out of Corrati’s way.

  He drove back to the apartment and took McGraw home, telling her to take the day off and get some rest. She nodded and said she’d call him later.

  He drove down to the office. The first thing he did was phone his service. Kate Sullivan had been trying to get hold of him. She had called last night and again this morning. What the hell was he going to say to her? He was probably going to have to tell her the truth.

  He dialed her number, and as soon as she came on the line he could tell by her voice something was wrong.

  “Michael?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since yesterday afternoon.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Let me guess,” Rhineheart said. “The station doesn’t want you covering the Walsh story any longer.”

  There was a short pause, then: “How did you know?”

  “I been in the business awhile. It’s the kind of shit that happens when you mess around with rich and powerful people. They put pressure on someone to stop you.”

  “Michael, listen, let me assure you, it’s not simply a question of pressure. Since Carl Walsh’s death was ruled an accident, my news director doesn’t feel that the expense of an outside investigation is warranted. That’s the way he put it.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rhineheart said.

  “And, Michael,” she said, “there’ll be a check in the mail covering your fees through today.”

  “Don’t you even want to know what I found out?” Rhineheart asked her.

  “Michael . . . I’m sorry, but my career is at stake here.”

  “What about Carl Walsh?” Rhineheart said.

  She didn’t say anything.

  Rhineheart raised his voice. “What about the story that was going to blow the town wide open?” The reason he was getting so angry, Rhineheart knew, was because he was backing off the case himself.

  Kate Sullivan still didn’t say anything.

  “What about the simple fucking truth?”

  She hung up the phone. Softly.

  So much for Broadcast Journalism. On the local level. It was on a par, Rhineheart felt, with local detecting.

  He spent the rest of the morning trying to call Jessica Kingston at the private number she had given him on Wednesday night.

  But no one answered.

  The mailman, a fat guy with white hair, arrived just before noon. He walked in and dropped a stack of letters on Rhineheart’s desk.

  “How ya doing?” he said.

  “Not too good.”

  “How’s the private detective business?”

  “Not too great,” Rhineheart said.

  “Who’s going to win the Derby?” the mailman asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The California horse,” he said.

  “Is that right?”

  “He’s a lock. I been following this horse since he was a two-year-old.”

  “I’m kind of busy,” Rhineheart said.

  “You’re not very friendly,” the mailman said.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Rhineheart said. “Go waste someone else’s time.”

  “You know what your trouble is?”

  Rhineheart stood up.

  “Okay, okay,” the mailman said. “I’m leaving.” He hustled out the door.

  Rhineheart sat back down and began to sort absently through the mail. There was a bill from Southern Bell; a letter from Friendly Finance urging him to come in and meet with their team of professional loan consultants who could show him how to take advantage of their new low monthly interest rates; and a notice from the local federal bankruptcy court that a former client of Rhineheart’s had listed him as one of the client’s substantial creditors. There was an offer from two book clubs, and a record club, and a magazine publisher. And there was a lumpy 8 by 10 manila envelope with Rhineheart’s name and office address scrawled across the front in wide, looping letters that looked familiar: the same handwriting he had seen on the photograph of Walsh and his wife. There was no return address on the envelope. Inside, was a cassette recording tape. The one Taggert had been looking for. A Sony, in a clear plastic case. Rhonda had said she might send him something that belonged to Carl.

  Rhineheart opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and rummaged around and found the recorder, an old Panasonic. He plugged it in, put in the tape, and hit PLAY. The tape had a hollow, scratchy sound to it, but the voices were identifiable and understandable. The first voice he heard was Duke Kingston’s resonant drawl.

  KINGSTON: What is it you want, Walsh?

  WALSH: I want to talk to you . . . about Royal Dancer. (A pause)

  KINGSTON: What about Royal Dancer?

  WALSH: I know what’s going on, Kingston.

  KINGSTON: What are you talking about?

  WALSH: I know what’s going on with Dancer.

  KINGSTON: What do you mean?

  WALSH: Don’t play no fucking word games with me, Kingston. I’m telling you I know what’s going on. I seen you. I seen Doc Gilmore give the horse his last injection. I know about Lancelot. I know the whole fucking thing. You and Gilmore and the redheaded dude. His name is Lewis. You got some kind of drug nobody can detect.


  KINGSTON: Lower your voice. Someone might hear you. (A long pause) What do you want?

  WALSH: I want in. I want a cut. I want some fucking money, Kingston.

  KINGSTON: I don’t see any problem with that.

  WALSH: Good. You saw any problem, I’d have to think about going to see the stewards. Or the state racing commission. Or the cops.

  KINGSTON: That would be a mistake.

  WALSH: You think so?

  KINGSTON: We’ll work something out, Walsh. Of course, I’ll have to consult with my associates.

  WALSH: Why don’t you do that. And get back to me. Soon.

  KINGSTON: You have a number where I can reach you?

  WALSH: I’ll call you.

  KINGSTON: Fine. I’ll set up a meeting.

  WALSH: Don’t fuck me around, Kingston. You fuck me around I’m going to see the Man.

  KINGSTON: Don’t get upset, Walsh. There’s no need to make threats. You’ll be taken care of.

  WALSH: I better be.

  KINGSTON: Who knows about this, besides you, that is?

  WALSH: None of your fucking business who knows about it.

  KINGSTON: You been going around shooting your mouth off about it, haven’t you.

  WALSH: What do you think—I’m a fucking dummy? Why would I tell anybody else?

  KINGSTON: What about your buddy, the Mexican kid?

  WALSH: Sanchez? Naw, he don’t know nothing. Look, I got to get back to the barn now. I’ll talk to you later.

  The recording trailed off into silence. Rhineheart switched off the recorder. He stood up and walked over to the window. Below, on Main, a wino with a white beard stumbled into a bar across the street. A good-looking woman with long blonde hair came out of a building. She carried a briefcase and stepped briskly along the sidewalk. She had Rhineheart’s vote for Businesswoman of the Year.

  The tape was evidence. He could take it to Katz, or to the Commonwealth’s Attorney, or to the Thoroughbred Protective Agency. It would be enough evidence to stop the Derby fix. And maybe even enough to put Kingston and Corrati in jail for a while. But he knew while he was listening to it that that wasn’t what he was going to do with it.

  He was going to trade the tape for Jessica Kingston’s life.

  Farnsworth wouldn’t approve, Rhineheart knew. He would say play by the rules. The rules are all you got. Farnsworth had a code. Well, Rhineheart had something, too. He didn’t know if it was a code, but it said that some things were more important than rules. Jessica Kingston was a lot more important than some code.