Photo Finish: A Jack Doyle Mystery (Jack Doyle Series Book 5)

by John McEvoy

  “Hey, agent Doyle, you need a little help there?” Doyle turned and saw the smiling face of Ingrid McGuire. The tall, tanned veterinarian had stopped on her way toward the building’s entrance.

  “Hi, Ingrid. Yes, I frequently need help. But not this time. You’re looking well,” he said admiringly. “What brings you over here? I thought you never left the backstretch.”

  “Usually, I don’t. But I’m about to meet Brad Molitor for dinner as soon as he’s off work.”

  Molitor was one of the bright young assistants in the secretary’s office. Doyle nodded approvingly. “Brad’s a good guy. You been going out with him?”

  “For about a couple of weeks,” Ingrid said. “We enjoy each other’s company. And, very much in his favor, Brad doesn’t drink.”

  That unveiled reference to Ingrid’s former partner and lover caused Doyle to shake his head. “I saw Eric Allgauer the other morning. He looked like hell.”

  “I can’t worry about him anymore, Jack. Nice to see you.” She turned and walked quickly toward the nearby door.

  Doyle headed down the red-brick path to the parking lot but had to stop at the bottom when a long, black limousine stopped at the curb in front of him. The driver got out and opened the rear door of the ostentatious vehicle. A small, bare-headed man wearing a brown suit and white open-collared shirt emerged. He reached back into the limo and took out a small suitcase and a duffel bag to which a whip was attached.

  “Well,” Doyle said, “could that be Kieran Sheehan?” He stepped forward to introduce himself and find out. After Sheehan had tipped the limo driver, Doyle said, “Kieran, I’m the agent for your sister Mickey. Name’s Jack Doyle.” He extended his hand. Sheehan ignored it.

  “Evenin’ to you, Doyle. Will you tell me now how to get to the riders’ room at this fine racetrack? I’ve had a long flight and I want to get settled in there before I go to the hotel. By the way, how are my lovely sisters? I assume you know Nora as well as Mickey.”

  The jockey was some eight inches shorter than Doyle, but Doyle felt as if he were being looked straight in the eye by this self-assured little man. “Your sisters? What the hell do you care? I understand you have as little to do with them as possible. If you’re hoping to get any information from me about Mickey and her injury, forget it.”

  Sheehan took off his sun glasses, tucked them in his coat pocket, and gave Doyle an appraising look. “You sound quite protective of my siblings. I understand you’ve made a very good living getting mounts for Mickey. And the lovely Nora…Have you gotten along well with her then, Doyle?”

  He picked up his luggage before adding, “And who are you, mister, to be commenting on my family relations?”

  “An interested observer. Welcome to the States, Kieran. May your visit be a fruitless one.”

  ***

  The Chicago area’s blanket of August heat and humidity was still draped over the uncomfortable citizenry late that night. The air conditioning in Lenny’s car hadn’t worked all summer. In-rushing air from their open windows did little to relieve the discomfort he and Teresa suffered on their west-bound drive.

  During the drive, Lenny and Teresa agreed again that they would not bomb Tenuta’s house. Such an action would involve getting too close to the home, risking discovery. Instead, their target would be the garage. “We blow a big hole in that fucker,” Lenny said, “and get the hell out of there, and cousin Ralph will get the message that he’s gone too long pissing somebody off. Me.”

  They reached Arlington Heights shortly before midnight. Lenny took nearly twenty minutes to locate Tenuta’s home. It was midway of a block of ranch houses on a dimly lit street on the south side of town. He drove past the house twice, checking to make sure he had the right address and that no lights were on. A circle of the block showed them that Tenuta’s back yard had a dark, wide alley behind it. Lenny parked in it, close to the adjacent wire fence, figuring this position would allow for a rapid escape. He and Teresa sat for a couple of minutes listening to the ticking noises coming from the car’s engine. He took a hit of meth. He offered Teresa one but, as usual, she refused. Finally, courage up, they quietly exited the car and Teresa followed him through the squeaky back gate and onto the gravel path leading to the garage.

  The house remained dark. “Tenuta’s probably asleep,” Lenny whispered. “These trainers, they got to get up around four in the morning. They go to sleep early.” Teresa muffled a laugh. “Tenuta’s going to get an early wakeup call in a few minutes.”

  Lenny tripped slightly as they crept to the north side of the garage, almost dropping the duffel bag containing the bomb. Teresa said, “Watch your step, Lenny. That thing is fuckin’ dangerous.”

  “I know, I know.” He could feel sweat trickling down his spine. He tried to stop his hands from shaking.

  Chapter Sixty-four

  “We heard this lound thump. I thought maybe it was a blown electrical transformer. It was enough to wake me up. And Rosa, too.”

  “What time was this?” Doyle said.

  Tenuta looked up at Doyle. He was sitting on a bench outside his track office this dreary, rain-dripping Thursday morning. Unshaven, face drawn, he looked, Doyle thought, like hell. “Right after midnight,” Tenuta said.

  “After the thumping noise, there’s this terrible loud scream. Then a whole lot more of them,” the trainer continued. “I went into the kitchen and opened the back door. Next to my garage, there’s a body on the ground. I can see the legs and feet. They’re not moving. The top part is covered up by this sizeable young woman who keeps on screaming. By now, lights are going on all over the neighborhood and dogs are barking like crazy. Before I go out the door, I tell Rosa, ‘Call 911.’

  “In between her shrieks, I hear the young woman say something over and over. I go up to her and tap her on the shoulder. She turns and looks up at me, still crying hard. ‘Oh, Lenny,’ she keeps repeating.

  “I can see the rest of the body now.” Tenuta paused. Took a deep breath. He was trembling. “The body had no head, Jack.”

  Several minutes later, after Doyle had gotten Tenuta a cup of coffee, the trainer continued his account of that early morning’s horrible proceedings.

  “The woman’s name is Teresa Genacro. She’s, she was, Lenny Ruffalo’s girlfriend. Once the police got there, right before the Fire Department, she told them she and Lenny came to my house intending to set off a pipe bomb to damage my garage.”

  Doyle said, “A pipe bomb! What the hell for?”

  “This girl was pretty incoherent. What the sergeant in charge eventually got out of her was that Lenny wanted to throw a scare into me. So that I’d change my mind and give him information about my horses. The dumb bastard had been pestering me, and I told him to get the hell away from me. That’s what he came up with this goddam bomb idea.”

  Once she had been somewhat calmed down and placed in their ambulance, Fire Department members elicited details from Teresa, Tenuta said.

  “She told them Lenny had used some of that crystal meth stuff both when they were on their way to my house from Berwyn, and once they’d gotten there. Said it made him jumpy as hell. When he tried to light the pipe bomb fuse at first, he dropped the match. Did that twice. Finally got it started and he waved her to back away. She could see him bending toward the bomb, peering into where the fuse went. Then all of a sudden it went off. So did his head.”

  “Christ,” Doyle said.

  “There was blood and pieces of the poor bastard’s head splattered all over the side of my garage. I was so shook up I couldn’t bring myself to call Lenny’s mother. Rosa did that, she’s the one that broke the news to Elvira. I’ll tell you, Jack, it was a night neither Rosa or I will ever forget.”

  Unforgettable is how Doyle termed the pipe bomb fiasco when he phoned Moe later that morning. Kellman asked, “How is Ralph taking all this? It’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard of. Or at least one of them.”

  “Ralph has, as they say around racetracks of a horse
who is tough and resilient, a ‘lot of bottom.’ Naturally, he’s shook up.

  “The good news is that Ralph is already starting to think about tomorrow’s races and Mickey’s rides. And about Saturday’s Futurity.”

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Friday proved to be a dismal day for Doyle. Mickey went winless. And Moe left town.

  Mickey lost on all three of her Friday mounts on her comeback day. Exiting the track late that afternoon, Tenuta said, “Jack, don’t be so gloomy. Mickey looked fine on those horses. She just didn’t win on her first day back from the injury. Not unexpected.”

  “So zero for three should make me happy?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’ll just point out that none of those three had much of a chance today. I didn’t want to put a lot of pressure on Mickey by giving her favorites to come back on.” He patted Doyle on the back. “Cheer up. Tomorrow’s going to be a much better day. Plotkin will see to that.”

  There was a phone message from Moe to call him. Moe picked up in his Chicago office. “Jack, I wanted you to know I’m leaving town.”

  “Under a cloud?”

  “Very funny. No, through the clouds. I’ve got to fly to Florida tonight. I hate to miss the Futurity, but I have to do it. One of my good friends from the old neighborhood passed away. Solly Brockstein. Keeled over on the golf course at his retirement community. Funeral’s Saturday.”

  Doyle said, “I’m sorry to hear that. About your friend, I mean, and that you won’t be with me for the Futurity.”

  “So it goes, Jack. The ironic thing is that Solly loved golf, but he was a terrible golfer. I used to kid him with what Mark Twain said about golf: ‘It’s a good walk spoiled.’ His son said Solly had birdied the previous hole and was in a great mood. So, I guess he died happy.

  “Anyway, Jack, call me after the Futurity. I’ll be too busy with the after-funeral reception to watch it on television. Tell Mickey and Ralph good luck.”

  “Will do.”

  Also wishing Mickey good luck was Wilfredo Gavidia. The injured rider, now home and engaged in extensive physical and mental therapy, telephoned her to advise, “Listen, chica, don’t worry just about your brother Saturday. You’ve got to think about all of them. Okay?”

  “Okay, Wilfredo,” Mickey said. “Thanks for the call.”

  Gavidia said, “I’ll give you another call tomorrow before the races.”

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Rudy Allgauer helped his brother carry the heavy steamer trunk to Eric’s pickup. They hoisted it onto the flatbed, placing it among several boxes of Eric’s possessions, then pulled a tarpaulin over the lot. Arriving at their homes this early Friday night, a couple of neighbors glanced incuriously at the Allgauer brothers. There was always a lot of coming and going in this Arlington Heights neighborhood inhabited by many racetrack transients.

  Back in Eric’s rented condo, Rudy sighed and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Eric said, “If you want this table and chairs you’re welcome to them Rudy. Same with the couch in the living room, the bed. I’ve got possession of this place for another week. I’ll leave the key with you.”

  “Damn, Eric, I wish you weren’t doing this. I still can’t see why you need to move to California.”

  “I’ve got to move someplace, bro, in order to make a living. I’m dead meat here, thanks to Ingrid and Tenuta. Nobody hires me. But I’ve still got my license and I’ll be able to work in California. I’ve decided to start up out there in the north, Bay Meadows, then Golden Gate Fields. Move down to the southern tracks later on, once I’ve gotten established.”

  He walked around the table and put his hand on Rudy’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you, bro,” he said affectionately, “and Michelle, too. But this is what I’ve got to do.”

  Rudy hesitated before saying, “Does Ingrid know you’re leaving?”

  Eric’s face flushed. “Why would I tell that bitch? She left me.”

  “Where are you going tonight?”

  “I’ve got to make a final visit to Heartland. After that I’ll be heading West. I’ll make it to Des Moines by early morning, catch a few hours of sleep at an Interstate rest stop, then head for Omaha. There’s a casino there where I can watch the Futurity Saturday afternoon.”

  Rudy left just before 10. Eric closed the front door behind him and returned to the kitchen. He picked up his black leather jacket and put it on.

  Before turning out the light, he filled his silver flask with icy vodka from the refrigerator.

  At the door, he checked his pockets. They were there, the Nembutol-filled syringe on the right side, the syringe loaded with elephant juice on the left. He smiled, thinking I’ve got enough juice in there to put Plotkin over the moon.

  A final look at his soon to be vacated living space briefly reminded him of the happy days he had spent there with Ingrid soon after their move from Urbana. Good times, indeed. How lovely and accepting she was. Then it all fell apart. He knew he bore some responsibility for their breakup. But not as much as “that damned horse communicator herself,” he said to himself.

  Eric slammed shut the condo door. Took a deep breath of the cool night air, then a long pull on the flask of vodka. He was glad to note that heavy cloud cover in the night sky obscured the moon. He had a couple of hours to waste before going to Heartland Downs.

  ***

  That afternoon, Doyle had invited the Sheehan sisters to have dinner with him. Mickey declined, saying she wanted to spend the evening concentrating on reading Racing Daily past performances of the Futurity field and again reviewing videotapes of brother Kieran’s races. Nora said she needed the time to catch up on her blog about Mickey. “I’ve fallen a bit behind, Jack. My editor back home said the website is being inundated with queries about Mickey and Plotkin’s chances tomorrow.”

  Doyle laughed. “I didn’t know you were going into the prognostication business, Nora. I’m not going to ask you who you’re picking to win. I already know. See you at the track tomorrow.”

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Pre-race tension was starting to get to Doyle, to whom tension was usually a stranger. He puttered around the kitchen in his condo after pouring two ounces of Jameson’s into an ice-filled glass. He didn’t feel like going out to eat. Finally, he decided to utilize the bachelor’s major weapon against hunger, his George Foreman grill. The resulting hamburger turned out fine, but he didn’t have much appetite. Another Jameson’s did little to calm his nerves.

  The more he thought about it, the less confidence he had in Tenuta’s security plans for that night. Tenuta’s old friend Harry Schwartz, a nice guy but a poster person for ineptitude in Doyle’s view, was to be joined by Delmar Schwartz, Harry’s middle-aged son. From what Doyle had observed of Delmar, the apple hadn’t taken a lengthy tumble from the tree.

  As Doyle pointed out to Tenuta, Harry Schwartz had not prevented previous drugging attacks on Tenuta’s stock. Tenuta was defensive. “Harry may not be what he used to be, but he’s a friend of mine, and he needs the job. It’s good his son will help him. I’m going to keep both of them on the night payroll for the rest of the season here.”

  Doyle’s tension level escalated when he fielded a phone call from Ingrid McGuire shortly after nine-thirty. “Sorry to bother you, Jack, but there’s something you should know. Plotkin is worried.”

  “Plotkin is worried! Like I’m not on the eve of that horse’s biggest race. Mickey’s biggest race?”

  Phone to his ear, Doyle went into the kitchen and turned on his coffee pot. “When did this happen?”

  Ingrid said, “Just minutes ago. I was taking a bath, thinking about tomorrow’s Futurity. All of a sudden, Plotkin sent some thoughts to me. What he was communicating was a sense of foreboding he felt. He’s concerned about whoever doped him before showing up again tonight.”

  “Any new ideas as to who would pose that threat? From either you, or Plotkin?”

  “Don’t be facetious, Jack. The two ‘possibles’ I had in mind I’ve now e
liminated. That angry groom Ralph fired? Hector Martinez? He was scooped up in an immigration raid for illegal aliens late yesterday afternoon. He’s in jail awaiting deportation.

  “Old Ambrose Pennyfeather, the vet Ralph let go? He’s been living in an extended care facility for the last two weeks. I found that out from Buck Norman when I was having breakfast in the track kitchen this morning. Poor old guy has galloping Altzheimer’s. I understand he was diagnosed a month ago and his family just recently got him placed.”

  “Maybe Plotkin isn’t up on current news,” Doyle kidded. “If he was, he might not be so concerned tonight.”

  Ingrid snapped, “That’s not funny, Jack. Plotkin couldn’t possibly know what happened with Martinez and Pennyfeather. He just knows what’s going on his mind. And that is troubling him.” There was a pause before she said, “I hate to think this, but the threat might well be Eric. He’s been so bitter about Ralph’s dismissing him, and so screwed up by his drinking, he might be capable of drugging Plotkin. God, I hope not.”

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Immediately following the WGN ten o’clock news, Doyle said to himself, “The hell with it. I’m going out there.” He pulled on his windbreaker and hustled down the two flights of stairs to the garage and his Accord. Traffic was light, so Doyle’s drive toward Heartland Downs took only forty-four minutes. But then it came to an abrupt halt at the Wilke Avenue railroad crossing where Doyle briefly pounded the wheel of his Accord in frustration as he watched an interminable freight train move slowly past. He stopped counting the cars after the first eighty. At last, the caboose went past and the wooden barriers were raised. Doyle gunned his Accord over the tracks.

  ***

  Shortly after eleven, Delmar Schwartz said, “Pop, I’ve got to get me some coffee from the track kitchen. I’m startin’ to fade here. You want any?”

  “No thanks, Delmy. Hurry on back.” Harry sat back in his camp chair in front of Plotkin’s stall and returned his attention to his Racing Daily.