"My God, Mike! What happened?"
"I think someone's been shot. The killer might still be here. Do you have your phone?"
"Right here."
"Call nine-one-one and get the police here."
She called as instructed and then turned to Mike. “Tell me what happened."
"Do you have the portfolio?"
"In my car trunk."
"Don't mention that to the police."
"Where's the key to these cuffs?"
"Lam Kow has it. I came here to meet him, but there was someone in the kitchen that I never saw. Lam Kow caught me phoning you, took my cell phone, and handcuffed me to this radiator. Then he went back in the kitchen and seemed to be arguing with someone. I heard a shot, then nothing. I thought I'd be a dead man any minute, but no one came back through the kitchen door. After a few minutes I heard a thumping, as if a body was being dragged downstairs."
Already two state police cars were pulling up in front of the house. She opened the door for them. “Are you the one who called?” a trooper asked.
"That's me, Susan Holt.” She told them what she knew, omitting mention of the portfolio. “The killer might still be here."
They quickly searched the house, guns drawn, and reported finding a body at the foot of the basement stairs. “I'm Corporal DeGeorgio,” one trooper said. “We found this key in the dead man's pocket. It might fit those cuffs. The rest of the place is empty, but a back door is unlocked. This cell phone was on the kitchen table. Is it yours?"
"Yeah,” Mike told him. “He took it from me when he handcuffed me."
The key unlocked the cuffs and Mike relaxed a little, happy to be free. His familiar lopsided grin returned. “I really got myself into a mess this time,” he told Susan. “I think you saved my life."
Another police vehicle arrived, and two more troopers entered with cameras and crime-scene equipment. DeGeorgio directed them to the basement, then said, “We'll need a preliminary statement from you, Mr. Brentnor."
Mike repeated his story. “I've been doing some promotion work for the new racetrack and Gateway casino up here. This Chinese architect, Lam Kow Loon, is designing the racetrack part. He's done some tracks in China and Hong Kong. Anyway, he was looking for investors to help pay for some additional features not covered in the original budget."
"What sort of features?” DeGeorgio asked, making notes.
"I don't know exactly. He never told me.” Mike avoided Susan's eyes as he spoke.
"Go on. What happened here today?"
"He asked me to come up and talk over my promotion plans for the track."
"Was he alone?"
"There was someone else in the kitchen that I didn't see."
"How did you happen to phone Miss Holt here?"
"He wanted me to suggest investors. I'd spoken to Susan about it earlier so I called her. Lam Kow thought I was trying to make trouble for him. He took out a gun and searched me for a weapon. Then he handcuffed my wrist to that pipe."
She noticed he'd been careful not to mention the portfolio, which was what Lam Kow Loon must have been after. “Did you witness the shooting?” DeGeorgio asked.
"No. Lam Kow left me here and went into the kitchen to talk with this other person. I could hear the murmur of voices. Next thing I knew, there was a shot. I was really scared then. I could hear noise, probably the body being dragged down the basement stairs, then there was just silence. I didn't know what to do because I was afraid he'd kill me next. For a long time I was afraid to do anything but keep silent. He'd taken my cell phone so I couldn't call the police."
The trooper nodded. “The back door was unlocked. That's how the killer left. We found a pistol in the trash barrel, probably the murder weapon. You'd better come look at the body."
"Do I have to?"
"He's Asian, but we need to know whether he's Lam Kow Loon or the other guy."
Mike followed them down the basement stairs while Susan tentatively brought up the rear. The body was at the bottom, faceup, and the bloody steps showed it had been dragged down. Mike gasped and managed to say, “That's him. That's Lam Kow Loon."
"And you don't know the name of the other man, the one who shot him?"
"I never saw him."
Corporal DeGeorgio nodded again and closed his notebook. “I'll have to ask you both to give us your home addresses."
"We're not from here,” Susan told him. “I work for Mayfield's Department Store in New York. Here's my card."
"All right. Both of you come along with me and we'll try to get to the bottom of this."
Susan was beginning to regret that she hadn't stayed in New York.
* * * *
It was almost evening before they were finally free of the state police, having made and signed official statements. As they walked out to their cars, the first thing Mike asked was, “Do you have the portfolio?"
"It's in my trunk. What's this all about?"
"Let's go back to my hotel room and I'll show you."
"I don't want to see your etchings, Mike. I only want to know what you've gotten yourself—and me—involved in."
"Trust me, I'll show you."
Susan had already decided to spend the night at the Big Bear rather than drive back to the city so late. When they got there, Rita was still on the desk and checked her in. “You're lucky to get a room here on a holiday weekend,” she said. “And I see you found Mike Brentnor, too."
"I sure did!"
"Room Sixteen. It's right down the hall from his room."
Susan grunted noncommittally and accepted the key. She followed Mike to his room, realizing for the first time that she'd brought no extra clothes or toilet articles with her for an overnight stay. When she mentioned this to him, he assured her they could purchase whatever she needed. “There's a drugstore down the road that's more like a general store. They even sell T-shirts."
"We'll try that later,” she said as they entered his room. “Now let's see your etchings or whatever you have in that portfolio."
"It's not mine. Lam Kow Loon loaned it to me to study his proposal. He was upset when I didn't return it right away. Look at this.” He unzipped the leatherette case and opened it, revealing architect's renderings of the racetrack and clubhouse, together with a detailed diagram of the racecourse itself, with distances and grading carefully marked. At one point, where the finish line was indicated, a row of dots had been carefully marked across the track, with Chinese symbols next to them.
"He's the one who tried to sell you shares in this?"
"That's right."
"But—but he didn't own the track, did he? How could he be selling shares in it?"
"He wasn't selling shares in the track, but in his invention. Look here.” He opened a manila envelope beneath the drawings. It contained press clippings in Chinese and English. One of the English clippings was from a Hong Kong daily newspaper, the other from the New York Times. Both told of the discovery of a remote-controlled device buried in the turf at the starting gate of Hong Kong's Happy Valley Racecourse.
"What is this?” she asked, still unable to make sense of it.
"They found a mechanism with a dozen launching tubes buried at the starting gate. It could use compressed air to fire tiny darts into the bellies of the racehorses. The darts were filled with poison or a tranquilizer in an attempt to fix the outcome of the races."
"And you're part of this?"
"Not of poisoning horses. Lam Kow knew of the Hong Kong plan and claimed to have worked on the device. He said it could also be used to deliver stimulants to horses we want to win."
"And you asked me to invest in this? They test racehorses for drugs, you know."
"He claimed these would be undetected."
"Mike, this is the craziest scheme I ever heard of! Do you think the horses will just stand there quietly when the darts hit their bellies?"
"He claimed the mechanism was already in place at the new track. The starting gate is often moved at tracks, but t
he tubes are buried at the most frequent gate location."
"Did you give him any money?"
He averted his eyes. “Two thousand dollars. He said he had to have more. That's why I asked you to go in with me."
"I don't believe any of it. They may have tried that stunt in Hong Kong, but it would never work here. I'll tell you the sort of bet I like. I'll bet you ten bucks this device isn't buried at the new track at all."
He thought about that. “It's a bet. Look, as long as you're staying over, let's grab dinner somewhere and then go out there and look around.
"Out there?"
"The track. Are you game?"
Susan took a deep breath. “Sure, why not?” If he had other things in mind, she was probably as safe out there as in his hotel room. Safer, maybe. “I still have to stop at that drugstore, remember."
* * * *
They decided to try dinner at the new Gateway casino hotel next to the track. It was an almost lavish place, with much of the glitter of Vegas and Atlantic City casinos, but done on the cheap. The fancy Roman columns at the entrance had a hollow sound to them, and gold wallpaper in the gaming room was already beginning to peel in one or two spots. The dining room food was passable, not great, and the drinks were on the watery side. Still, the place was crowded with folks obviously enjoying themselves. The ringing of slot-machine wins seemed almost constant.
"You folks need help?” a handsome man in a tux asked them. “I'm Ron Meyer, the room manager. This your first visit to the Gateway?"
"It is,” Susan told him. “We just ate in the dining room. When does the track open?"
"Not till next month. We wanted to have it running for the holiday, but we couldn't quite make it."
"Well, we'll be back,” Mike told him.
It had grown dark while they ate and as they left the hotel they headed for the parking lot, then cut across toward the gate to the racetrack. “How do we get in?” she asked him.
"I've got a key. Lam Kow gave me one when he hired me to promote the track.” He had the padlock open in seconds and they walked out in front of the darkened grandstand. “The clubhouse is on this end, with its own dining room and betting windows. The track is arranged so the finish line is opposite the clubhouse. The track is one mile around, and that's the length of most major races, so the starting gate is at the finish line. For a shorter race of seven furlongs or less, the gate is moved to the other side of the track. For the occasional race a mile and one-sixteenth or longer, it's moved back a bit."
"So Lam Kow's scheme could only fix mile-long races."
"Correct, but that's most of the important ones.” He used a penlight to guide her onto the track itself. “We should look for evidence of digging, but the system may have been in place since construction started last summer. Take my flashlight and—"
He was interrupted by the crack of a gunshot as a clot of dirt kicked up at their feet. “Someone's shooting at us!” Susan shouted, dropping flat on the ground.
"Damn!” Mike doused the light and was beside her in an instant as a second shot cracked in the night air. “It's Lam Kow's partner, the one who killed him!"
She grabbed the penlight from him and turned it back on, covering the bulb with the palm of her hand. Then she hurled it as far as she could, close to the ground. Two more shots were fired at the light. The second one nicked it, sending it spinning off course. “He's a good shot,” Susan whispered.
"We've got to get out of here."
"How?"
"They have a watchman here day and night. He must have heard the shots."
"Unless he's dead, too."
They stayed there hugging the dirt for a quarter of an hour, until Mike started a slow crawl back the way they had come. Susan reluctantly followed. They reached the gate without incident and found a burly watchman at the opening. He was a Native American, the first they'd seen at this supposed Indian casino site. “Was that you fired those shots?” he asked.
"No indeed,” Mike told him. “Someone was shooting at us."
"This here's private property."
"My name is Mike Brentnor. I'm handling promotions for the track. I have a key."
"Your name's not on my list."
"I'm working with Lam Kow Loon, the track designer. We're staying at the Big Bear."
"I just heard on the news he got killed. You'd better come into my office so I can check you out."
They followed him into a construction trailer parked nearby. “My name's Fred Chatow,” he told them. “Now let's see some ID."
"Right here,” Mike said. “How late are you on duty?"
"Noon to midnight, then the other guy comes on. Long hours, but easy work."
He seemed satisfied by what they showed him and he allowed them to go on their way. Susan stopped at the drugstore for some toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a T-shirt. When they got back to the Big Bear it was almost midnight.
"That starting gate could be a gateway to heaven for some of those horses,” Mike remarked. “We were shot at because they feared we'd find out that device was really there."
"Or else because we'd find out it wasn't there."
They stopped in the hotel bar for a late-night drink, talking over what had transpired that day. “All I know is that someone tried to kill us tonight,” she told him. “I'm heading back in the morning. You can do what you want."
"Susan, I shouldn't have involved you in all this."
"No, you shouldn't have."
"I'm beginning to think that Lam Kow Loon was nothing but a clever con man. He took those newspaper clippings and a few sketches of the track and built them into a major swindle."
She wasn't about to argue with him. “In the future, choose your business acquaintances more carefully,” she advised.
They paid their tab and got up to go. “Who do you think was shooting at us?” he asked. “Who was Lam Kow's partner in this?"
They were walking along the hall to their rooms when it began to come clear to Susan. “I think I know the answer to that, but it doesn't explain—"
He'd slipped his key card into the slot and was opening the door as she spoke. As he started into the room, three quick shots lit up the darkness. He gasped and fell back, pulling Susan to the floor with him.
"Mike!” she screamed.
The gunman leaped over their fallen bodies and into the hall. She saw Corporal DeGeorgio appear from somewhere and bring him down with a quick chop to the neck. It was the track watchman, Fred Chatow, of course, but that didn't matter just then. “Get an ambulance!” she cried out. “Mike's still alive."
* * * *
She insisted on riding with him in the ambulance, holding off the intern with his needle. “Just a minute,” she pleaded. “I have to tell him something."
Mike Brentnor opened his eyes and stared at her, perhaps unseeing. “Who was it?” he managed to whisper, his mouth filling with blood.
"Chatow, the watchman. He had to be in on it, or how could they ever have dug that trench and buried the device? It had to be after dark, before he went off duty at midnight. The troopers got him. DeGeorgio had been following us after a report of gunshots at the track."
"It hurts, Susan,” he managed to say.
"I know. We're almost to the hospital."
"Chatow must have killed Lam Kow so he'd have the whole thing for himself.” More blood, and she knew she'd have to speak faster.
"No, Mike. Chatow couldn't have killed Lam Kow this afternoon because he told us he worked from noon to midnight. It had to be you."
His lids were starting to close. “What? What are you saying?” he asked, his words slurring.
"You said Lam Kow handcuffed you and took your cell phone as soon as you finished talking to me. If that were true, how could you have phoned the Big Bear and told Rita I was coming for the portfolio?"
"I—"
"You killed him, Mike. There was never anyone else at that house. You wanted this racetrack scheme for yourself, crazy as it was. You killed h
im, dragged his body to the basement, and dumped the gun in the rubbish barrel. You'd brought the handcuffs along yourself, and you planted the key in the dead man's pocket, then went back upstairs and cuffed yourself to the radiator. You had to leave the front door unlocked for me, of course, something Lam Kow would never have done. You knew I'd come, relying on my reputation for never breaking my promises. But he did have a partner, the track watchman, Fred Chatow. When he heard Lam Kow was dead, he knew you'd done it to get the track plans for yourself. He shot at us at the track, then after midnight he got into your hotel room and waited to kill you."
She realized his eyes were closed and he was no longer listening. “I'm afraid he's gone, miss,” the intern told her.
They tried to revive him at the hospital but it was too late. She took the portfolio from the trunk of her car and gave it to Corporal DeGeorgio. He listened to her, shaking his head. “That's the craziest thing I ever heard. This Chinese fellow must have been a supreme confidence man to convince anyone it was true."
"Maybe not,” Susan said. “If Chatow was in on the scheme, it must have been more than a con game. Something must really be buried out there.” She remembered Mike Brentnor's phrase. “Sort of a gateway to heaven. For the bettors and maybe for the horses."
That was when she remembered the bet she'd made with Mike. If the mechanism was really there, she'd lost the bet. But Mike had lost more than that.
(c)2007 by Edward D. Hoch
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: WILSON'S MAN by Doug Levin
An occasional reviewer for the Oregonian and a member of the National Book Critics Circle, Doug Levin is a relative newcomer to mystery writing, though a previous story of his, “Fire Lines,” was published alongside works by Michael Connelly, George Pelecanos, and James Crumley in the collection Measures of Poison. His non-fiction has appeared in newspapers such as the Chicago Tribune and The New York Times.
* * * *
It seemed to Ben that his new telephone rang in sharp, intrusive bursts. At least that's how he felt when Sidney Alstead called on Tuesday afternoon. He could tell from the caller ID that it was Sidney. For the first two rings, he dismissed the call outright, but on the fifth ring he answered hastily out of morbid compulsion. It was just as he had feared: Sidney had good news.
EQMM, January 2008 Page 17
