The Last Private Eye

by John Birkett

  “You want to go jogging with me?”

  Wanda Jean wrinkled her nose. “You kiddin’, Rhineheart?”

  Bellarmine College, a small Catholic liberal arts college whose buildings were scattered along a grassy hillside overlooking Newburg Road, was a five-minute drive from Rhineheart’s apartment. On one end of the campus a quarter-mile cinder track circled a soccer field. Rhineheart parked the Maverick on the shoulder of the road, got out, did a few perfunctory stretching exercises, then ran five, slow, sweaty miles.

  The track was crowded with people—runners, joggers, walkers, young people and old people, kids, mothers with babies, old guys in sweat pants, girls in shorts. Some of the women weren’t exactly negligible. After a bit he found his running stride, and settled in behind a sandy-haired girl in yellow short shorts. She wore her hair in a long ponytail that bounced rhythmically against her lower back with each stride.

  He was halfway through the fourth mile when he suddenly remembered what it was that was important about Howard Taggert and River City Stud. They had a horse in the Derby, also, a colt named . . . Calabrate. Calabrate had just come off a strong race in New York and was mentioned as a top contender for the Derby.

  On the last lap he spotted McGraw seated under a shade tree at one end of the track. She was wearing jeans and a tank top and carrying a small straw purse. Rhineheart left the track and ran over to her.

  She tossed him a towel. “You sweat a lot.”

  “It’s a sign of high intelligence.”

  “Why were you following the girl in the yellow shorts?”

  “I was practicing surveillance techniques,” Rhineheart said.

  “Sure.”

  They walked over to the Maverick. Rhineheart reached in the window and opened the glove compartment. He took out the syringe, and handed it to McGraw. “I want you to take this over to Frank Parker’s lab and have him analyze it for me. I need to know what substances it contained. I already called Frank. He’ll meet you there at two-thirty this afternoon.” He handed McGraw a slip of paper. “Here’s his address.” Rhineheart slid behind the wheel and started the car.

  McGraw stuck her head in the passenger’s side window. “Where you going?”

  “To see Jessica Kingston.”

  “No shit?”

  “Private box. Third floor of the clubhouse. The whole bit.”

  “They say she’s really something.”

  “I heard that.”

  “You better watch yourself, Rhineheart. The rich are . . . different from you and me.”

  “F. Scott Fitzgerald,” Rhineheart said.

  “That’s right. You’re not the only goddamn person around here who reads, you know.”

  “I need you to do something else,” Rhineheart said. “Find out if Carl Walsh ever worked for River City Stud.”

  “Taggert’s outfit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Rhineheart shrugged. “Call up the Thoroughbred Employment Agency. Tell them you’re the new personnel director at Calumet Farms, and you’re checking Walsh’s job application. See if they have a file on him.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ll call you later,” Rhineheart said.

  “Okay. And Rhineheart?”

  “Huh?”

  “Be careful.”

  Rhineheart drove home. Wanda Jean had left a note pinned to the pillow.

  See U later

  Love,

  Wanda Jean

  Rhineheart took a shower, shaved, and dressed in his best suit—a gray three-piece Cricketeer. He put on a tie. After all, he was going to call on Jessica Kingston.

  As he left the apartment, his stomach was making hunger noises. He wanted a big breakfast—omelette, French toast, hot black coffee—served to him in a nice restaurant. He settled for a double cheeseburger, order of fries, and soft drink in a fast-food place on Bardstown Road.

  While he ate, he read the Sunday paper, which was thick with news about the Derby and the week-long series of events—a steamboat race, a parade, various luncheons, dinners, and parties—that led up to the race.

  One of the parties mentioned was, by the newspaper’s account, “the most famous soiree in America, the huge annual Derby gala hosted by the Master and Mistress of Cresthill Farms, Charles ‘Duke’ Kingston and his beautiful wife, Jessica.”

  According to the paper, “the big bash” was scheduled for Thursday evening and would be attended by the Duchess of Sussex and by a great many celebrities of movies and television and the media. The article went on to list the celebrities. Rhineheart recognized some of the names.

  He turned to the sports section, which featured a long article entitled “The Derby Dozen,” an obvious reference to the fact that, barring injuries and late withdrawals, twelve three-year-olds were going to run in the big race.

  He skimmed through the article until he came to the parts that dealt with Calabrate and Royal Dancer.

  On the basis of his rousing 2nd place finish in last week’s Wood Memorial at Aqueduct, Calabrate, a local favorite, is considered one of the top half-dozen candidates to capture Saturday’s Kentucky Derby.

  Bred by Howard Taggert at River City Stud, the largest horse farm in Jefferson County, Calabrate seems to be rounding into top form for the Spring Classic.

  His 2nd place finish in the Wood gives him 2 wins, 3 seconds, and a third in 6 starts since he opened his 3-year-old campaign in February with an impressive 3-length win in the Hooper Stakes at Hialeah.

  His earnings of $234,978 places him third among those horses slated to start. Owner Taggert likes his colt’s chances. “He’s a nice kind of colt and he’s got a first-rate chance to win the whole thing.” Calabrate is trained by Eclipse-winning trainer Johnny Bowden and will be ridden on Saturday by his usual rider, Chris McLain.

  Royal Dancer’s seventh-place finish in last month’s Arkansas Derby at the Hot Springs Oval still has trainer John Hughes shaking his head. “I don’t have any excuse for him,” said Hughes, the native of England who now trains for Cresthill Farms. “He just didn’t run his race.” Royal Dancer’s owner, Charles “Duke” Kingston, the multimillionaire proprietor of Cresthill Farms, assured reporters that his colt would “run big” in Saturday’s Classic. “We’re winners at Cresthill and we think the Dancer has a shot at winning the whole thing.”

  However, most racing experts agree that the son of Royal Native has only a slim chance of capturing the eighth and featured race on Saturday’s card. Currently listed at 7 to 1, Royal Dancer is expected to remain a long shot at post time.

  Royal Dancer’s rider in the Run for the Roses will be Julio Montez, whose mounts have won more than a $1,000,000 already this year. Montez, when queried about his colt’s chances, was noncommittal. “Me and Dancer’ll do the best we can.”

  Royal Dancer’s final workout for the Derby is scheduled for Tuesday of this week.

  Rhineheart felt a twinge of sympathy for Montez and for Royal Dancer. He had some idea what it was like to be a long shot. He had bet on enough of them. It looked as if he was working on one. As a private eye he was kind of a long shot himself. He worked alone. Out of a small office. He had no real connections. What were the odds on his finding Carl Walsh? 12 to 1? 20 to 1? Probably higher. Like Montez, he would do the best he could, too. Maybe it would be good enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Kingstons’ private box was located in Section G on the third floor of the Churchill Downs clubhouse. The box had six seats and was directly across from the winner’s circle and midway between the sixteenth pole and the finish line. It adjoined the governer’s box and offered a clear, unobstructed view of the track, its long stretch and wide, sweeping turns, the spacious grassy infield (which on Saturday would be jammed with 100,000 people), the backstretch on the other side of the infield, and beyond that, the backside stable area, rows of cinder-block stables with low-hanging green-painted roofs.

  It was a nice seat all right, but Rhineheart
wasn’t looking at the view. He had his eyes on Jessica Kingston, who was seated across the box.

  She was worth looking at. Tall, slim, and elegant, she was dressed in a red blazer and white linen slacks. She might have stepped out of an ad in the New Yorker. Her hair was light brown and she wore it pulled back from her face in a simple twist. She looked to be about Rhineheart’s age—thirty-five or so. Her features—oval eyes, high cheekbones, aquiline nose—were firm and clear. She had dark gray eyes, and when she smiled at Rhineheart, his heart quickened and his throat got full. It had been a long time since anyone had had that kind of effect on him. He was going to have to be cool and watch himself.

  The call to post for the upcoming race blared out over the public address system. A murmur swept through the crowded stands. Rhineheart looked down to the left and saw the horses begin to emerge from the paddock tunnel onto the track. They were picked up by riders on lead ponies and led single file up the track toward the quarter pole.

  Jessica Kingston said, “Are you a gambling man, Mr. Rhineheart?” Her tone was pleasant, conversational. It was, Rhineheart thought, as if they were about to have a social chat. Well, maybe they were.

  He nodded. “Once in a while, yeah.”

  “Do you have a pick in this race?”

  Rhineheart shrugged. He’d looked the race over in the Form, but he hadn’t been able to separate the horses. “Six horse doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “Who do you like?”

  “I don’t bet,” Jessica Kingston said. “My husband’s the gambler in the family.” She was silent for a moment, then she said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to come out here.”

  Rhineheart shook his head. “I don’t spend a lot of time wondering about things. I figured you had a reason, wanted to talk to me about something. That’s why I came.”

  She smiled. “You’re very direct. I like that. I’ll try to be direct, too. How’s your investigation going? Have you found Carl Walsh yet?”

  “How’d you know I was looking for Carl Walsh?”

  “I have sources, Mr. Rhineheart. And a good deal of interest in the case. After all, Walsh works for us. For Cresthill.”

  A flash of brightly colored jockey’s silks caught the corner of Rhineheart’s eye. Down on the track the horses galloped past the finish line. They were headed for the clubhouse turn, then the backstretch, where they would begin their warm-up exercises.

  “Is that why you asked me out here, Mrs. Kingston? To find out about the investigation?”

  Jessica Kingston lit a cigarette with a slim gold lighter and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “No,” she said, “I didn’t ask you here to find out about the investigation. I want to talk to you about my husband.”

  Rhineheart glanced over at the infield tote board, which was flashing odds changes. The two horse was the 9 to 5 favorite. The horse he liked, the six, was a medium long shot at 7 to 1. At the bottom of the board the TIME OF DAY column read 1:53. The TIME REMAINING slot showed 6 minutes to post.

  “You’ve never met him, have you?” Jessica Kingston asked.

  “Never had the pleasure,” Rhineheart said.

  “Don’t be so sure it’s a pleasure, Mr. Rhineheart.”

  He looked over at her. Her gaze was direct, steady. “You trying to tell me something, Mrs. Kingston?”

  “My husband wants to see you, Mr. Rhineheart. This afternoon, if that’s possible. He wants you to come down to Cresthill. If it’s convenient for you.”

  Convenient? Was she kidding? There was no way he’d pass up a visit to Cresthill Farms. Like most of the other big thoroughbred horse farms—Spendthrift, Calumet—it was located some seventy miles down the road, in Fayette County, outside of Lexington, in that area of Kentucky known as the Blue Grass.

  “Sure,” Rhineheart said. “What time?”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  “I need to warn you about my husband, Mr. Rhineheart. He can be terribly intimidating.”

  “Well, I’m pretty good at not being intimidated, Mrs. Kingston.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are, but there’s more to it than that. My husband is a very powerful man. There are times when he can even be dangerous. Particularly in regard to his horses and the Derby. He’s a man who’s interested in one thing and one thing only: he wants to win the Kentucky Derby. He thinks he’s going to this year with Royal Dancer. Perhaps he’s right. At any rate, his hope of winning the Derby has become a kind of obsession. And in the process he’s become a different person from the man I married. He’s become ruthless, Mr. Rhineheart. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, he wouldn’t do to win the Derby. If he thought, for example, that your investigation might get in the way of his plans, he might try to stop you.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Mrs. Kingston?”

  “It’s no great secret that Duke and I do not get along very well. Our marriage has been a marriage in name only for several years now. For a number of reasons, most of them good, sound economic ones, we’ve never divorced, and probably never will. However, we are two very different people with different aims and interests, and there are times when our interests conflict. My interest lies in the farm itself and the breeding operation. We have a great tradition at Cresthill and my hope is to perpetuate and carry on the work of my father, Bull Parker, who wanted Cresthill Farms to be the greatest thoroughbred breeding farm in the world. I’m afraid that Duke’s obsession, his fanatical desire to win the Derby, might lead him to do something that could bring everything crashing down around our heads.”

  Rhineheart squinted over at the backstretch. The horses were starting to warm up. If you were a private eye long enough, Rhineheart thought, you got to hear all the news and the gossip and the confessions. All the soap opera shit of the world.

  “I’m being frank with you, Mr. Rhineheart, because I don’t want anything bad to happen. I wanted to talk to you before Duke did. I wanted to warn you to be on your guard. Duke will do his best to intimidate you.”

  “I’ll try to watch myself, Mrs. Kingston.”

  “Don’t let him bully you, Mr. Rhineheart.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “At the same time you must try to avoid a confrontation with him.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Kingston.”

  “I think you’ll do just fine,” Jessica Kingston said. “You seem tough enough, and it’s good that you have a sense of humor. You’re going to need it when you meet my husband.” She looked at her watch and stood up. “I have an appointment. I’m afraid I have to leave.” She gave Rhineheart her hand. “Good luck on your investigation, Mr. Rhineheart. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.” She turned and left the box. He watched her walk up the aisle and through the exit. She was the kind of woman you watched until she was out of sight.

  Rhineheart sat there for a few minutes thinking about what she had said. Then he walked back to the betting windows and bet $200 on the six horse to win.

  He watched the race on a TV monitor in the grandstand. It was a seven-furlong claiming race for three-year-olds and up. The six, a barrel-chested dark brown gelding, broke alertly, then dropped back and stayed just off the leaders until the quarter pole when he began to make his move. In the turn he passed three horses and was fighting for the lead at the top of the stretch. But that was all he had. Coming out of the turn he flattened out and his stride began to shorten and horses began to pass him. He was on the inside near the rail and stayed there, tired and lugging in, all the way down the stretch. He finished eighth, beaten some twenty lengths by the favorite, the two horse, who won the race easily, going away.

  Rhineheart threw away his ticket and walked over to the clubhouse parking lot. He wheeled the Maverick out of the lot and drove it around to the backside entrance on Longfield Avenue. He parked on the street and walked through the gate. He showed Kate Sullivan’s pass to the gate guard, who barely glanced at it, and made his way over to Barn 24.

  A young black kid
with a bushy Afro and a T-shirt that read CRESTHILL FARMS was mucking out one of the empty stalls.

  Rhineheart asked the kid if John Hughes was around.

  “Ain’t nobody around,” the kid said. “Just me. And I ain’t nobody much.”

  “I know that feeling,” Rhineheart told him.

  “You look in the clubhouse bar?” the kid said. “Hughes be anyplace, he be in the clubhouse bar.”

  Rhineheart offered the kid a cigarette.

  “No thanks.”

  “You work for Cresthill long?” Rhineheart asked.

  “Couple of years too long” was the reply.

  “You know Carl Walsh?”

  “Sure, I know Carl.” The kid frowned at Rhineheart. “Why? I mean, who’s asking?”

  Rhineheart showed him the license.

  “Rhineheart, huh? You a private eye, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like Magnum, huh?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Get all the broads, drive around in them fast wheels, dress sharp.”

  “I got a ’76 Maverick,” Rhineheart said. “With a bad rear end. And my wardrobe’s not that great either. This is my best suit.”

  “Magnum ask people questions, he gives them cash money.”

  Rhineheart took out a twenty.

  “Shit, yeah,” the kid said, “I know Carl. Carl is my old buddy. What you want to know about Carl, Magnum?”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Tuesday morning. Over by the track kitchen. He was talking to old whatshisface, the guy who owns River City Stud.”

  “Howard Taggert?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You didn’t happen to overhear what they were talking about, did you?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “You ever met Walsh’s wife?”

  “Naw. I met a couple of his girl friends, but I never met his old lady.”

  “Tell me about his girl friends.”

  “What’s to tell, man. Waitress-type broads.”

  “You know any of them?”

  “That twenty you holdin’ keeps looking smaller and smaller.”