by John McEvoy
At Tenuta’s office door, Doyle said, “You hear anything about these horse killings, you’ll let me know, right?”
“Sure. You’re in a kind of a hurry on this, aren’t you Jack?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a damn shame what’s been going on.”
Chapter Six
Minutes after Doyle had tipped the Fab Rib Guys delivery man and deposited the brown bag with its aromatically enticing contents on his kitchen table, his phone rang.
“Jack, sorry to call this late,” said Karen Engel. “But we were wondering if you’d discovered anything about those deaths?”
“By ‘we’ you mean dour Damon and your demanding boss, right?”
“Please, Jack. Cut the sarcasm for a change. I wouldn’t be bothering you like this if it wasn’t a pressing matter.”
Doyle started to open the large Styrofoam container. He looked down appreciatively at the sauce-dripping slab of baby back ribs that was surrounded by a bag of French fries and containers of collard greens and sweet potato pie. He relented.
“Karen, nothing’s come up yet. I only went out to the track today to start inquiring.” He paused to extract a couple of fries from their package. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll set up a meeting with Ingrid McGuire. You remember her?”
Karen said, “Sure. Your pal the horse whisperer.”
“Horse communicator,” he corrected. “I’ll phone her in a few minutes. After I have my dinner. Okay?”
“We’d all appreciate that, Jack.”
He turned on jazz station WDCB to hear announcer Barry Winograd introduce “the title cut from the Kelly Brand Quintet’s great new CD ‘Afternoon in June.’” Doyle set about relishing two of his favorite things in life, great food and great music.
***
Two mornings later, shortly before noon, Doyle waited for Ingrid at the entrance to the noisy, crowded Heartland Downs track kitchen. Salsa music blared from the sound system inside, causing conversational voices to be raised. Her red pickup truck sped into the nearby parking lot a minute later. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I’ve been up all night with a horse of Bud Bauder’s that was threatening to colic. Got him straightened out, though. Sorry I’m dirty, too,” she said as she slapped the dust off her jeans.
“I see you’re limping a bit. What happened?”
“A frisky colt kicked me in the knee yesterday. Still hurts.”
Entering the large building with its rows of tables and lengthy aisle of cafeteria-style breakfast offerings. Doyle said, “I’m not really hungry. All I want is coffee. How about you?”
“Same.”
“Okay, let me grab a couple of containers and we can sit outside in relative peace and quiet.”
They walked to one of the old wood picnic tables that sat beneath a huge weeping willow tree. The early morning sun had erased the dawn air’s haze and its light lay gently on the scarred surface of the table. Doyle said, “Thanks again for meeting me, Ingrid. You must know the reason why, right? Have you had a chance to ask around about a possible horse killer?”
“All business, as always. Right?” Ingrid sipped her coffee before continuing. “I’ve talked to everybody I know who I think might have an idea as to who’s responsible for these so-called mercy killings. The only name that ever comes up is that girlfriend, or I guess ex-girlfriend, of Pat Caldwell’s. You know, the guy who calls the charts here for Racing Daily? Esther Ness.”
Doyle waved hello at Steve Holland, a horse owner he knew who was headed for the track kitchen, Racing Daily in hand. “What do you know about Caldwell?” he asked Ingrid. “I know what he does here, but I’ve never met him.”
“Pretty friendly kind of guy. I’ve talked to him a couple of times at the monthly cookouts the track sponsors for all the backstretch people and racing office personnel. “She smiled. “That’s also where I first got to know Bobby Bork. Guy I’m going with now.”
Doyle said, “How long has Caldwell been calling the charts here?”
“Oh, several years. He worked other tracks before getting this plum job. He’s a tall, skinny guy, must be six foot four or five. Always wears a coat and tie at work. People say he’s real easygoing when he’s not doing his job. At work, he’s all business. I once heard a woman horse owner ask him at one of the cookouts, ‘Mr. Caldwell, how do you ever manage to tell where every member of a twelve-horse field that’s speeding down the backstretch a quarter-mile away from you is at? How do you figure out who all those horses are in all that rushing? And where they are then?” Caldwell just smiled at her. He told her, “I’ve got a great memory for what horses look like, and the colors their jockeys wear. Besides, everybody’s gotta be someplace.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the screech of pickup truck brakes on the nearby roadway. They heard a horn blast and a shouted oath from the halted tan truck.
“What’s that?” Doyle said.
Ingrid said, “That’s that crabby old trainer Sid Morris. He braked to avoid hitting a squirrel that was hopping across the road.”
Doyle said, “Hopping? Don’t they run, the quick little creatures?”
Ingrid smiled. “Take a good look some time. They run up trees. But squirrels don’t synchronize all four feet like horses do, or dogs, when they move on the ground. They hop. Both front feet hit the ground, then both back, and so on. Like rabbits. Kangeroos, too.”
“Very educational,” Doyle said. “You’ve taught me about horse communication, now the ambulatory methods of small rodents.” He looked at his watch. “You think Caldwell is around now?”
“I think he’s usually started his workday in his office, that’s up in the press box, by now. I understand he comes in before the day’s races to review tapes of the previous day. Like I said, he’s supposed to be very dedicated, one of Racing Daily’s best callers. He does the Kentucky Derby every year as well as the Breeders’ Cup.
“Word is,” Ingrid continued, “that Caldwell is a big bettor and quite good at it, too. And,” she laughed, “his hobby is shopping for antiques. They say he’s put together a very extensive collection that he keeps at his unmarried sister’s house someplace in upstate New York. He’s never been married, either. I know he buys a new Caddy every two years. Another rumor is that Pat doesn’t trust banks. That he keeps rolls of cash in tomato cans buried under the light posts on his sister’s property. Like I said, he’s a lifelong bachelor. But he’s always in a relationship with some woman or another, including that Esther Ness.”
Ingrid crumpled her empty coffee cup and flicked it into the nearby trash can.
“Let’s take my car,” Doyle said. When they reached the Accord, he stepped ahead of her and opened the passenger door. Ingrid smiled. “So gentlemanly.”
“And debonair. Cavalier. Modest…” Doyle replied with a laugh.
This mood of congeniality was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a woman’s scream. “Oh, no,” Ingrid said, turning back. “I know that girl.”
She was looking toward the south side of the track kitchen building where a small Hispanic girl, wearing a groom’s regular garb of tee-shirt and jeans, had her back pressed against the wall, face in her hands, weeping. Confronting her was a burly Mexican-American man. He was cursing her loudly in Spanish, stopping only to slap her with an open right hand every few oaths.
Ingrid ran toward them, calling, “Rita, Rita. What’s wrong? What’s happening here?” She pointed a finger as she ran. “You, mister, stop that. Stop that.”
The man turned his broad back and administered another ringing slap to the small, tear-tracked brown face in front of him. Triumphantly, he turned back to face them. “You, beetch, you keep out of this.” Rita tried to slip away. But he caught her arm and again jammed her back against the wall. “Puta.” There were other snarled words in Spanish aimed at Rita. Another slap and anguished cry rang out before Doyle ran forward
and plowed his right shoulder into the man’s back and thrust him forward, banging his head into the kitchen wall. Rita scurried around them toward Ingrid.
The man recovered his balance. Shook his head. Bunched his large fists and stepped toward Doyle, eyes wild, forehead bleeding from its meeting with the wall.
Doyle used one of his best old boxing moves. Started a long, lazy, looping right hand intended to miss and create confidence. The man ducked it easily and began to say something in Spanish. He crouched, reached into a back pocket, brought out and opened a switchblade. It flashed in the morning sun as he lunged.
Doyle sidestepped, easily evading the thrust. He pretended to start the same right-hand looping punch. The man ducked again, sneering with confident recognition. The sneer had a short shelf life. Doyle stepped quickly to his left, planted his back foot, and pistoned three powerful left hooks deep into the man’s right side. Under the rib cage. Right on the liver. With a nearly breathless squeal of pain, gasping for air, the man fell onto his back, and began to moan. Doyle picked the knife off the ground, walked slowly to a nearby refuse corner, and deposited it in the recycle bin.
Ingrid’s suntanned face, for the past few seconds flushed with worry, creased in a slight smile aimed at Jack. She had an arm around the terrified Rita and began to walk her into the track kitchen. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll call Security, Jack.”
Doyle’s adrenalin flow slowed. He looked down at the bulky Mexican-American man, who was now struggling to sit up, wheezing softly, clutching his right side. Doyle pushed him back down. He grabbed the man’s belt and flipped him sideways, then reached into the man’s back pocket, took out a worn wallet containing an Illinois Racing Commission’s groom’s license. Photo, name, D.O.B., undoubtedly a spurious home address and Social Security number. If United States racetrack backstretches were checked for accurate numbers such as these, Doyle knew, they would soon be seriously emptied.
Doyle gave the man a light kick in the leg. Anger flared from the prostate man’s eyes. “Hey, Rodrigo. Take a look at me. You try any more beating up women, amigo, I’ll be back to see you. Day. Night. Or some surprise time in between. Comprende?”
***
A half-hour later, after escorting the shaken Rita to her dormitory room, Ingrid and Jack went to the Heartland press box to see Pat Caldwell. But when they got there, Caldwell’s assistant and call taker, the person who wrote down his description of horses’ positions in their races, Sheryl Stefanski, informed them that Caldwell had made an emergency visit to the dentist that morning. “Just as well he wasn’t here for you. An abscessed tooth, he figured. He was grouchier than a fat man starting Weight Watchers. I know. I’m married to one that just has. Anyway, come on back between races this afternoon.”
Chapter Seven
They met at the clubhouse entrance just before the fourth race. Ingrid pressed number six on the elevator panel, and they got off at the press box level. They heard track announcer John Toomey say, “They’re in the gate. We’re ready for a start. And they’re off.” Ingrid preceded Jack onto the porch where Caldwell was poised, binoculars aimed at the track below, his call taker, Sheryl, ready to record his report of the race about to get under way.
The event for filly and mare claimers took a minute and twelve seconds for the winner to complete six furlongs. Jack and Ingrid listened, rapt, as Caldwell rattled off the position of each horse in the event four times. His account was much more detailed than that of announcer Dooley, which they could hear in the background.
“Mitt the Flip still on top as they turn for home but about to give way like the faint-hearted phony he is…Kansas Mama a length back and a length before Horace Nealy. Favored Tricky Travis still fifth and five lengths back, doesn’t look interested today. But shifting to the outside now and moving like a bat out of hell and going to make me a rich man is old Ready Roger. He’s gonna win off all by himself!”
Doyle knew that none of Caldwell’s colorful editorializing would make it into the straightforward reportage eventually comprising the Racing Daily chart footnotes of this race. But he smiled in appreciation as he listened to Caldwell.
After the horses had crossed the finish line, Caldwell kept his binoculars on them until they’d been pulled up, turned around, and began jogging back. Sheryl picked up her clipboard. She said, “Pat, these folks want to talk to you. This is Ingrid, and that’s Jack.”
Caldwell smiled and shook their hands, saying, “Ingrid McGuire. The famed veterinarian and horse communicator? And Jack Doyle, former jock’s agent? Come on into my office. I want to take a quick look at the tape of this race before Sheryl sends her chart on the computer. Then we can talk.”
They waited as Caldwell reviewed the just-completed race, rewinding the shot of the final turn to watch it three times. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, “old Mitt the Flip came out two paths when he started to quit, bothered Horace Nealy.” He made a note on the yellow legal pad next to the television before turning to them. “What can I do for you folks?”
Doyle summarized the recent horse killings, Caldwell acknowledging that he’d heard about them. Ingrid recounted her efforts to discover possible suspects. “I haven’t had much luck, Pat. The only name I kept hearing was Esther Ness.”
Caldwell groaned and sat back in his chair. “Aw, crap.”
“You know her, right, Pat?” Doyle said.
“Yeah, sorry to say I do. We had a thing going for a month or so back in the winter. It ended. Pretty badly.”
Ingrid said, “What can you tell us about Esther?”
“You got a day and a half?” Caldwell said with a grimace. “No, here’s the short version. We met at a horsemen’s association dinner a year ago. She helped sponsor it. She’s an heiress. To a dog food fortune. Very intriguing woman. Very, very smart. But, as became evident to me after a while, she’s got some loose screws.”
Doyle said, “What do you mean?”
“Esther has a lot of interests, and a lot of money. She travels around the country, sometimes around the world, on whatever whim hits her. Unpredictable? Oh, yeah. When she had her own racing stable, she went through trainers like an allergy-sufferer through Kleenex. Generous with her money? Sure, but only if you agree with her. She’s spoiled, pampered, eccentric, good but not great looking, but interesting as hell.”
Caldwell paused and went to the window to aim his binoculars at the field of horses walking out of the paddock tunnel for the next race. They heard him saying quietly to himself, “Chris Kotulek’s gelding in the white and blue, all red on the two horse, three horse only one with blinkers,”etc. After a minute, he turned back to them. He was smiling now. “That must sound kind of outdated, right? Most of the announcers today call the race using the color-coded saddle cloths to identify by numbers. I was brought up as a chart caller by men who prided themselves on memorizing jockey silks for each race. Pretty impressive skills. You finish one race, erase memory of those colors, and insert another bunch into your head in the next twenty minutes. I’ve never been able to give up that old-fashioned way of doing it. Matter of pride, I guess. Or stubbornness.”
Doyle said, “Anything else you can tell us about Esther Ness?”
“You’ve got to understand, Esther did things you’d never forget, some of them good things. About a year ago, she taught herself to play the guitar. In only about three weeks, she was pretty decent at it! She started appearing at the Heartland Downs Chapel Sunday mornings. Reverend Dave, he’s in charge of the backstretch ministry, welcomed her. She did what she called ‘A Sunday Sermon Through Song.’ I went to one of these. Hey, the woman was something to hear and watch. The congregation loved her, especially after she threw in a couple of Hispanic-sounding numbers.
“I didn’t attend the next week’s service. At that one, according to Reverend Dave, she was handing out business cards. Wait a minute.” Caldwell walked to his desk, ope
ned the middle drawer. He gave an embossed, laminated business card to Doyle who leaned over to allow Ingrid to see it. In addition to the color photograph of a thirtyish, dark-haired woman who was smiling confidently at the camera, there was a list of the services she offered:
•A Musical Ministry. Concerts, Workshops, and
Private Performances Upon Request.
•Trans-Denominational Minister/Wedding Officiant
•Certified Passion Workshop Facilitator
Doyle said, “Wow.” He handed the card back to Caldwell who returned it to his desk drawer. “Anything else?” Doyle said.
“Probably too much to tell. And I probably don’t know the half of it. What I do know is that Esther is obsessed with the belief that animals, especially thoroughbred horses, are too often being mistreated. She loves just about every non-human creature that walks. Or flies, for that matter. One night when I picked her up—she lives with her mother in a mansion out in Barrington Hills—she was wearing a tee-shirt that said ‘Adopt a Canadian Goose.’ She seemed to me to kind of get nuttier the more we went out. I finally quit her.”
Doyle frowned. “What do you mean, ‘kind of’? I hate that expression. Last week I read about a football lineman who beat up his girlfriend and said things ‘kind of got out of control,’ that he ‘kind of’ messed her up. The woman was hospitalized. Then there’s that fourth-rate celebrity actress who comes out of rehab every few months always saying she ‘kind of’ lost control of her life. They’d probably say the Titanic ‘kind of’ sank. I hate that.”
Ingrid and Caldwell listened to this brief diatribe in stunned silence. Doyle blushed. “Forgive me. Sometimes I get worked up about things that rile me. So Pat, when you said Ms. Ness ‘kind of’ got nuttier, it set me off. Sorry. Go on.”