by John McEvoy
Twenty minutes earlier Tirabassi had come hurtling out of the darkness, throwing himself forward as Doyle held the extension cord whose clips were attached to Ronald Mortvedt’s balls. Tirabassi’s charge hit Doyle in the back, driving him face forward to the floor. Tirabassi had then pinned down the stunned Doyle.
Right behind Tirabassi onto the patio had come Kamin, who landed directly on the prostrate Mortvedt.
Tirabassi was breathing heavily as he heard Doyle say from beneath him, “Damon, get the hell off me. I already nailed the little bastard. It’s Mortvedt. That’s him lying there under your man. Why in the hell are you kneeling on my shoulder blades?”
When he’d arrived at the patio edge and seen Doyle moving the extension cord outlet toward the socket, Tirabassi explained, he’d accelerated his advance.
“I thought you were about to kill the little bastard, Jack. I didn’t want to lose our star witness.”
As Doyle walked out of the bathroom, one hand still applying pressure to the Band-Aid, Tirabassi gave him an appraising look. He said, “Jack, would you have”—he nodded toward Mortvedt—“if I hadn’t jumped you?”
“Would I have what?”
“Hit him with the juice.”
Doyle shifted his gaze from the waiting Tirabassi to Mortvedt, who also seemed interested in his answer.
“I was tempted, I’ll tell you that. But with the FBI right on top of me? Are you kidding? Fry Mortvedt, and risk spending time for it? Not a chance, Damon. There’ll be somebody dumber than me will come along and rid the world of this little bottom feeder, then wind up paying for it instead of getting the medal they deserve.”
Doyle feinted as if he were going to plant a kick on Mortvedt’s side. Damon jumped to his feet, but Mortvedt didn’t flinch. Doyle smiled at the two of them as he sat down on the couch.
***
Damon took a call on his portable phone. When he snapped the phone shut, he said, “That was Karen. She’s informed the sheriff of the capture of these two, but told them to stay away from Willowdale, that we’ll bring Mortvedt and Repke in to them.”
Earlier Tirabassi had walked up to the mansion himself to inform Harvey Rexroth of the capture of the two horse killers, eager to observe the reaction on the publisher’s face. But, Tirabassi had been informed by Byron Stoner, “Mr. Rexroth is out of the state on business. I’ll certainly let him know as soon as possible. He’ll be immensely relieved these criminals have finally been apprehended.”
“I’d hate to play liar’s poker with Byron Stoner,” Tirabassi said after returning to Doyle’s apartment.
***
Jud Repke saw the light early the next afternoon. Facing charges of horse theft, thanks to the confession of Lucas Collier, and insurance fraud for killing Rexroth’s horses, he heeded the advice of his attorney and agreed to testify against Mortvedt. Repke was promised, in the most general and potentially deniable terms, a fine, a suspended sentence, and lengthy probation in case he didn’t come through.
“I always hated killing those horses,” Jud said. He added, “Afraid as I am of Ronnie, there ain’t no way I’m going back inside if I can help it.”
Mortvedt was another story. He refused to answer any questions and, as a result, was bound over for trial in federal court. He was represented by a Louisville lawyer named Ed Boniface. At the urging of the government attorneys, Mortvedt—considered not only a threat to society, but a prime prospect for fleeing the country—was denied bail, despite Boniface’s stentorian objections.
Doyle was far from heartened by these developments. As he complained to Damon and Karen over lunch one afternoon, “Repke did plenty of this dirty work, and he gets away with a slap on the wrist. What if his testimony doesn’t convict Mortvedt? Then what have we got?
“I’ll tell you what we’ve got—nothing. They both could walk, even though they probably attacked Aldous. And without Mortvedt linked to him, how are we going to nail Rexroth for having his horses killed?”
Damon said, “Jack, be realistic. We’ve got no way of tying Mortvedt and Repke to Bolger’s beating, no matter how much we suspect them. Repke denies being there that night, Mortvedt won’t even answer questions about it. We’ve got no physical evidence whatsoever.
“But with Repke going against him on the other matters, we’ve got a good case against Mortvedt. They were both apprehended at Willowdale, with their horse killing tools. And Repke admits to why they were there, and what they had done there on previous visits. I think a jury will believe him and put Mortvedt away.”
“Yeah,” said Doyle, “but not for what he should be put away for. There’s no doubt in my mind Mortvedt beat Bolger to a pulp. That’s what he should be going up for.”
Karen shifted her glass of iced tea on the place mat, then began drumming her fingers on the table. They were in the only deli Doyle had located in Lexington, a place called Mama Goldberg’s, and it was a far cry from Shapiro’s in Indianapolis, or any of several Chicago delis he frequented. “The pastrami here tastes like it was made from a recipe left by Daniel Boone’s mother. Stay off it,” Doyle had warned the agents, adding: “The turkey sandwich won’t kill you. The chicken soup might.”
Karen said, “Let’s not give up on Mortvedt yet.”
Damon gave her a puzzled look. “What do you see that I don’t?”
“I’ve got a feeling he’ll deal,” Karen answered. “He’s been inside seven years of his life already. He’s a very independent individual, a guy who has always gone his own way. And I know how ruthless he is. But I think, just like with his buddy Repke, a long stretch inside is something he desperately wants to avoid. I’ve seen hard cases like him cave in before.
“And there’s something else,” Karen said. “Mortvedt’s got a real hatred of rich people. And Rexroth certainly qualifies on that point. I’m telling you, Jack, Mortvedt’ll turn. When we get across to him that he’s going down, that Repke’s testimony will put him away for twenty years, he’s going to change his mind. You watch. You’ll see.”
“In our dreams,” said Doyle, sliding the luncheon check toward Damon.
But Doyle, as he happily admitted a week later, was “dead wrong on this one.” Karen’s prediction proved to be on the money. Following Karen’s third interview session with him, and under continued pressure from prosecutors, Ronald Mortvedt joined the succession of toppling tenpins just as Karen predicted he would. Faced with a long string of successive sentences for insurance fraud, Mortvedt finally agreed to testify against Rexroth. His confession was detailed and decisive, citing dates he’d met with the publisher, and how his payoffs had been wired to his account in a New Orleans bank.
Mortvedt signed his confession on Saturday, October third, or two weeks prior to the running of the Heartland Derby. Under the terms of his agreement with government prosecutors, Mortvedt was to be given a five-year sentence in return for his testimony against Rexroth. While the prosecutors were eager to file charges against Rexroth as soon as possible, Karen and Damon prevailed upon them to hold off until after the upcoming race.
“Rexroth has begun this huge publicity campaign about how he’s going to win that Derby,” Damon told the Justice Department lawyers. “Jack Doyle insists Rexroth’s got something kinky going with this, too. I think Doyle is right when he says we should wait and see how this plays out. We may be able to nail Rexroth even a little higher up on the wall.”
“Rexroth isn’t going anywhere, anyway,” Karen added. “We’ve still got Mortvedt in custody. There’s no reason we can’t delay bringing in Rexroth for a few days.”
***
The following evening Doyle got a phone call from Damon, who had returned to Chicago with Karen. “We need you up here early tomorrow morning,” Damon said. “There’s someone I want you to meet, someone who wants to meet you. Someone who can answer some of your questions about Rexroth’s importance.
“Don’t drive,” Damon instructed. “Take the first flight out. Come
to our office on the tenth floor of the Dirksen Building.”
Jack grimaced. “What am I going to tell Rexroth?”
“Think of something, Jack,” Damon said. The line went dead.
A few minutes later, Doyle called Stoner. “Byron, I have to go up to Chicago first thing in the morning,” he said. “Personal business. I’ll be back late tomorrow afternoon.”
Stoner said, “What kind of personal business?”
“There’s a reason it’s called personal,” Jack replied, slamming down the receiver.
***
It was an extraordinarily warm Indian summer morning in Chicago’s Loop, the street musicians already sweating, pretzel sellers looking as limp as their product. Inside the Dirksen Federal Building, Jack stood gratefully in the slow-moving metal detector line, enjoying the air-conditioning.
When he was ushered into a tenth-floor office, Karen and Damon were already there. So was a stocky, middle-aged woman wearing a dark blue pants suit over a glistening white blouse, who was talking on the phone in a decisive tone. She had close-cropped white hair, a ruddy complexion, and a look of intense concentration as she conversed.
Jack sat down between the agents in one of the three chairs lined up before the woman’s desk. The nameplate on her desk read Florence Farley. Leaning over to Karen, Jack whispered, “She looks like a cross between Willa Cather and Gertrude Stein. Who the hell is she?” Karen pretended not to hear him.
Then the woman put the phone down. “Good morning, Mr. Doyle,” she said. Under her unflinching gaze, Jack felt as if he’d been Twilight Zoned into another appearance before his grade school principal back at St. Mary’s Parochial. “Good morning,” he replied.
“I am an assistant United States Attorney, criminal division, based here in Chicago,” Farley said. “I’ve been monitoring the progress of this case from the start. I will be the attorney seeking federal grand jury indictments. You have provided valuable service to your government, Mr. Doyle. Voluntarily or not,” she added. Farley stood and reached across the desk with her right hand extended. Doyle got to his feet. She had a grip like a steelworker.
“I understand you have some misgiving about the case,” Farley said when they were both seated again.
Jack shifted in his chair. “Not the nature of the case,” he said. “But the way it’s being handled now that we’re close to closing the cage on these vermin.
“Look,” he continued, “I’m not complaining about the work I’ve been asked—make that forced—to do for you people. I committed a crime in stiffing that horse, though you couldn’t prove it, and you all know that. But in helping you nail Rexroth and Mortvedt, well, I feel like I’m making up for what I did with City Sarah. Maybe even doing some good for a change.
“But let me be clear about this, Ms. Farley. As I’ve told my Feeb pals here, it makes my blood boil that Mortvedt is getting to plead down. How does this guy deserve a break? Why are you letting him do it? He’s a horse killer, and he would have been a murderer if Aldous Bolger had died. And you people have made a deal with this piece of crap? I don’t get it.”
Farley leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled under her square chin, eyes measuring Doyle.
“Harvey Rexroth,” she said, “is a dangerous and evil man. He has committed crimes you have no knowledge of, but because of his cleverness and the acuity of his expensive attorneys, he’s gone unscathed for years.
“The crimes he’s committed with these horses is a form of fraud that is very, very difficult to prove. There are some people out there, wealthy but nevertheless greedy, in both the thoroughbred and show horse fields, who are pulling the same horrible stuff as Rexroth. We need to make an example of Mr. Rexroth. Make clear to these people that we will pursue them.”
Florence Farley leaned forward, arms on her desk, head lowered, eyes boring into Doyle’s. She said, “And now, at last, in the case of Harvey Rexroth we have proof. It comes from a despicable source, Mortvedt, and his dim-witted accomplice Repke. That is true. But we’ll take it, and use it. We have taped and signed confessions from both of them implicating Rexroth. And he’s worth cutting a deal to get,” she emphasized, slapping her hand on the desk for emphasis.
When Farley had finished, Doyle silently looked out the window behind her. Then he said, “A man I know, Moe Kellman, tells me that years ago Rexroth made serious enemies of a couple of men who are high up in the government today.” The implication hung in the air.
Farley smiled but said nothing. “Could it be possible,” Jack pressed on, “that politics has reared its ugly head here?”
Florence Farley rose to her feet. She shook Doyle’s hand again. With a little smile cold enough to freeze a chunk of warmed brie, she said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Doyle.”
Chapter 34
Exiting the Dirksen Building, Doyle hit a wall of Chicago heat. It was nearly noon, the thermometer on a nearby bank building read a near-autumn record ninety-three degrees, and he had three hours to kill before his flight back to Lexington. His frustrating session with Florence Farley had ratcheted up his blood pressure so much that he stopped in the plaza and took a few deep breaths of the pollution-laden downtown air. That didn’t seem to help. He loosened his tie and took off his sport coat as he walked to the line of cabs on Dearborn Street. Still seething at the government’s rationalization for going easy on Mortvedt, Doyle decided to vent in the company of the only man in town who knew what had been going on with him. He gave the cabbie the address of Moe Kellman’s office.
Hillary, another one of Kellman Furriers’ standard-issue beauties working the front desk, smiled when Doyle walked in, then shook her head. “You just missed him, maybe five minutes,” she said. “Shall I call Mr. Kellman on his cell phone?”
“That’d be great,” Doyle said. “Thanks.”
When the connection had been made, Hillary handed the phone to Doyle. He heard Kellman say, “Jack, welcome back again. How was your command appearance at the Dirksen?” Doyle could picture Kellman’s sly grin at this statement.
I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of asking how he knew about that, Doyle thought.
After a pause, Moe said, “Friend of mine spotted you going in there this morning. I’m glad you got in touch. Here’s where you can meet me. I’ll send my driver for you.” Kellman gave him an address on Sheffield Avenue.
“Wrigleyville, right?”
“You’ll see,” Kellman said, cutting the connection.
Fifteen minutes later Kellman’s driver, a retired Chicago police sergeant named Pete Dunleavy, pulled Kellman’s white Lincoln town car over to the curb in front of a brownstone on Sheffield on Chicago’s north side. It was one the properties directly across the street from Wrigley Field. “You’ll find Mr. Kellman on the top floor,” Dunleavy said.
The front door of the old but recently refurbished structure was open. So was a gate in front of the stairwell. There were apparently two apartments on each of the first three floors of the structure. Doyle read the names on the mailboxes. Scarlatti, Greenberg, Angelici, Grossman, DiCastri, Kellman.… Maybe this is a chapter of the Jewish-Italian Mutual Aid Society, Doyle thought as he began walking up the carpeted stairs.
The top floor proved to be a large loft space with two washrooms, a long bar, and several couches and chairs, the west doorway leading to the spacious front porch. Moe was standing outside, leaning against one of the sturdy wooden railings that bordered the large space.
Doyle had previously viewed these special Cubs-watching venues only on television. Seeing one of them up close, he was impressed. The porch area contained rows of stadium chairs as well as more tables, all overlooking the nearby ballpark. There were two large Weber gas grills adjacent to wash tubs meant to hold kegs of beer. This site was high enough so that most of the interior of Wrigley Field could be seen. Now, of course, with the Cubs season recently concluded in an all-too-familiar deluge of heartbreak and despair, the park was empty.
“Don’t be deceived,” Doyle said.
Kellman said, “Let’s get into the air-conditioning.” They walked into the loft and sat at a table, Doyle reaching for his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Kellman’s face was dry beneath his bushy head of white hair.
“You got a relative living here, Moe? I saw ‘Kellman’ on one of the mailboxes downstairs.”
Kellman nodded. “That’s one of my nephews. Goes to law school at Loyola. He kind of keeps an eye on things for us here. Supervises crowd control on game days.”
Doyle grinned. “I suppose ‘us’ stands for your ‘people.’”
A look of irritation flitted across Kellman’s face before he said, “Yes, Jack, ‘my people.’ We bought this property a couple of years ago. The old owner had been selling a few lawn chair seats on the porch for some Cubs games. We spent some money and moved the place up several notches.”
“How much business do you do up here?”
Moe pointed at the calculator that lay on the table. “I just did some numbers,” he said. “If we add six more seats, we’ll bump the per-game gross to over thirteen grand.”
Doyle was stunned. He knew Kellman wasn’t given to exaggerating. The little man said, “The clientele is mainly young, professional people—traders, brokers, lawyers, they get together and form partnerships that rent the space for games. We’ve got room for ninety people up here for a game, on the roof and inside watching on those big TVs. We charge a hundred and fifty bucks a head. For that they get free drinks from thirty minutes before the game to thirty minutes after, free barbecue all during the game served by a good-looking wait staff. And they get the chance to look at the game from up here on high—when they’re not schmoozing, or hustling, or working their cell phones, or trying to pick each other up.”
