The Last Private Eye (20 page)

“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.

He dialed Cresthill Farms. The maid answered the phone. She said, “Mr. Kingston isn't taking any calls right now.”

Rhineheart said, “You tell him that Rhineheart's calling about Royal Dancer and that if he doesn't get his ass on the phone in one minute he won't have one.”

Thirty seconds later Kingston came on the line. His voice was tight with anger.

“I thought you had better sense than this, Mr. Rhineheart. I warned you what might happen if you continued to bother me.”

“Listen to this.” Rhineheart played the tape for Kingston.

“That's interesting material you have there,” Kingston said, “but I don't see that it alters the situation any. You make a move to distribute that tape, and it's good-bye Jessica.”

“I got a deal for you, Kingston.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Simple. I give you the tape. You let Jessica go.”

After a moment, Kingston said, “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I got the same problem, Kingston. We each want something badly. I guess we can trust that.”

Kingston said, “You made yourself a deal, Mr. Rhineheart.”

“We'll have to meet someplace,” Rhineheart said. “Make the exchange. A public place.”

“No problem,” Kingston said. “There's a special thoroughbred auction at Keeneland tonight. In the sales pavilion. I'll arrange a seat for you.”

Rhineheart thought it over. “All right,” he said.

“Bring the tape,” Kingston said, “and I'll bring Jessica.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

According to the catalog, the two-year-old in the pavilion sales ring was a son of Raja Baba out of a Neartic mare. He was a lean and spindly-legged dark bay who stood calmly in the center of the ring. The electronic boards on either side of the podium identified the colt as HIP No. 214 and flashed the figure $2,500,000 to the audience—three hundred and fifty people seated in a semicircle in a glassed-in amphitheater.

From where Rhineheart sat—an aisle seat on a side row—the colt didn't look like he was worth any two million five. On the other hand what the hell did he know. Or care, for that matter. If the audience, a black-tie crowd of the rich and the super rich—Arab sheikhs, American potentates, and British royalty—was willing to bid the horse that high, that was cool with Rhineheart. After all, it was their money.

He was getting nervous. It was growing late, and the two seats to his right were still empty. There was no sign of Kingston. No sign of Jessica.

He got up and walked to the back of the room and went out into the hallway that circled the amphitheater. He lit a cigarette and looked around. The hallway was crowded. People pressed up against the glass to see inside the amphitheater. There were loudspeakers in the hallway so that everyone could hear the bidding. The Raja Baba colt was now up to three million.

He walked down the hallway. There were rooms with banks of phones marked for long distance and international lines. Most of the phones were in use. The babble of accents and languages made the place sound like a foreign bazaar. He went into the restroom and washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror. He sure wasn't much to look at. He left the restroom and walked back up the hallway. At the other end of the pavilion there was a bar and a glassed-in patio with some tables and chairs.

The Kingstons were seated at one of the tables.

They were alone. None of Kingston's men were around.

Rhineheart walked over to the table. Kingston looked nervous. Jessica had a grave look on her face. There was an empty drink in front of her.

He sat down across from her.

Kingston said, “You bring the tape?”

“Are you all right?” Rhineheart asked Jessica.

She nodded.

He took the tape out of his pocket and set it on the table.

Kingston reached across the table. His fingers closed around the plastic case.

Borchek and the big bearded guy walked into the patio. They stood near the door, watching the table.

Rhineheart said to Jessica, “It's a tape recording of your husband talking to Carl Walsh. It's evidence, but I had to give it to him. He threatened to kill you.”

She nodded. “I understand, Michael.”

“You can leave him now,” Rhineheart said. “He won't hurt you. I'll make sure of that. Come back to Louisville with me. I'll take you wherever you want.”

She shook her head. “I don't think I can do that.”

“You don't understand,” he said. “He threatened to kill you. I gave him the tape so he'd let you go.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know. I understand, but things are more complicated than that.”

Kingston said, “He'll take you wherever you want to go, Jessica.”

“Be quiet, Duke.”

Kingston stood up. “Why don't you tell him the truth, Jessica?”

“Duke—”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Tell him who you belong to.”

She looked up at him. “You bastard.” Her voice was icy.

Kingston looked over at Rhineheart. “You were one night in her life, mistah. Just like all the others. And you played the dupe. Right to the end. Without you, we never would've found the tape.” He turned to his wife. “You ready?”

She spoke to Rhineheart. “I'm sorry, Michael.”

“Sure.”

She stood up. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“No,” he said. “Of course not.”

“Come on, Jessica,” Kingston said, “you owe him a good-bye, but let's not drag the farewells out.”

Rhineheart stood up and turned toward Kingston.

Borchek reached inside his coat.

Jessica stepped between her husband and Rhineheart.

“Good-bye, Michael.”

She took Kingston's arm and together they walked out. Rhineheart stood there and watched them leave. Borchek and the bearded guy followed them.

Rhineheart sat back down. Kingston's words came back to him—like blows to the face. You were one night in her life. Just like all the others. You played the dupe. Right to the end.

He got up from the table and walked slowly over to the bar. A white-jacketed bartender slapped a fresh napkin down in front of him.

“What'll you have, sir?”