by John Birkett
“Bullshit,” snapped Katz. “Why were you looking for him?”
He was going to have to tell Katz something. The question was how much. “Walsh has been missing since last Thursday.”
“Missing from where?”
“From home. From work. I was hired to find him.”
“By who?”
Rhineheart had to smile. Katz was probably the only person he’d talked to recently who spoke worse English than he did. “Actually,” he said, “that’s whom. The correct way to say that, Katz, is ‘by whom.”’
“Get fucked, Rhineheart. I want to know who hired you.”
“I can’t tell you that, Katz. It would”—Rhineheart searched for a word—“uh, breach the relationship between my client and me.”
“’Fuck you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the legal relationship,” Rhineheart said, “between a client and a private investigator.”
“You got your shit mixed up, Rhineheart. What you’re talking about is the confidential relationship between a lawyer and his client. It don’t apply to private eyes.”
“Unless the lawyer is the client.”
“Is that what you’re telling me, peep? A lawyer is your client?”
Rhineheart nodded. “Yeah.” The nuns at Saint Joseph’s, Rhineheart remembered, said that whenever you told a lie you got a spot on your soul.
“Bullshit,” Katz said.
“I swear to God, Katz.”
Katz took out another Camel, jabbed it between his lips, lit it, spat out some smoke, coughed. “I don’t give a shit if your client is a fucking judge. I want to know what all this is about.”
“No you don’t,” Rhineheart said. “You just think you do. When I tell you the names of some of the people involved in this, you’re going to say I wish you hadn’t told me that, Rhineheart.”
“Quit fucking around, peeper. I want some names. Now.”
“What happens if I don’t give you any?”
“I take you downtown,” Katz said. “I book you on some bullshit charge—withholding evidence or something. I ask the prosecuting attorney who owes me a couple of favors to ask the judge who owes him a couple of favors to suspend your license for a six-month period and to set your bond up there in the five-figure range.”
“I thought we were friends, Katz.”
Katz looked at Rhineheart as if Rhineheart were crazy. “What the fuck has friends got to do with it?”
Rhineheart shrugged. “Have it your own way. You want names? How about Duke Kingston?”
Katz’s mouth dropped open. “Duke Kingston?”
Rhineheart nodded.
“You’re bullshitting me. Kingston’s way out of your league.”
“Take another look at Walsh’s ID. See if he doesn’t work for Cresthill Farms.”
Katz sucked on his cigarette, coughed. He looked a little worried. Katz was a tough cop, but he was also, Rhineheart knew, leery of people with power and influence. He had pursued an investigation too far once, the story went, come too close to a powerful politician, and had been burned for it. The politician had made a phone call. Katz had been busted, transferred to a desk job. It had taken him a couple of years to make it back to homicide.
“There’s media people involved also,” Rhineheart said.
“What do you mean? What media people?”
“Local TV news people.”
“Shit,” Katz spat out.
“It’s strictly a simple missing-person thing so far,” Rhineheart said. “And it looks like the missing person’s no longer missing. If it turns out to be anything else, Katz, you’ll be the first person I’ll call.”
Katz gave him a bad look. “I find out you been bullshitting me about this, peeper, it’s your ass.”
Rhineheart resisted the temptation to smile. Katz was trying to save a little face. He tossed his cigarette on the floor and started to walk away.
“Hey, Katz.”
Katz stopped. “Huh?”
“Can I get a peek at Walsh’s wallet?”
“That’s illegal,” Katz said. “The wallet’s official police property.”
“Yeah,” Rhineheart said. “I know.”
Katz looked at Rhineheart. Then he shrugged. “Come downtown and see me tomorrow. We’ll talk about it.” He turned and started to leave, then he stopped.
“Hey, peeper.”
“Huh?”
He nodded at Rhineheart’s bandaged head. “What happened?”
“I banged it against something,” Rhineheart said.
Katz snickered. “Yeah. Like what? A blackjack.”
“How’d you guess?”
“You keep taking them blows to your head, peep, what brain you got’s gonna get mushy.”
“Won’t be nobody’s big loss,” Rhineheart said.
“Keep in touch,” Katz said on his way down the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rhineheart called Kate Sullivan at the TV station from a pay phone in the hospital lobby.
“I’ve got some news, Kate. We need to meet. Now.”
“Baskerville’s?”
“Ten minutes.”
Kate was sitting in one of the booths. Rhineheart slid in across from her and waved the waitress away.
“What happened to your head?” she said.
“I hit it against something,” Rhineheart said.
“You said you had some news.”
“Carl Walsh is dead.”
She looked shocked. “Dead?”
Rhineheart nodded. “Police pulled his body out of the Ohio this morning. They say he was drunk, drove his car into the river.”
“An accident?”
“That’s what the police think.”
“What do you think, Michael?”
“I think he was murdered. I think somebody poured booze down his throat and pushed his car into the river to make it look like an accident. I don’t know why he was killed. Maybe he knew something that somebody didn’t want him to know. Something that was going to ‘blow the town wide open,’ like he told you. I don’t know who killed him either.”
“Do you have any suspicions?”
“A few, yeah.”
“Would you mind sharing them with me?”
Rhineheart shook his head. “Better not.”
“I’m still your employer, am I not?”
Rhineheart shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you? Walsh has been found. In that respect, my job is done.”
“Don’t you intend to find out who killed him?”
Rhineheart smiled. “I was thinking about it, yeah.”
“Good,” Kate said. “Because that’s precisely what I want you to do. I want to remain your client, Michael. I feel sure the station will back me in this. I want you to find out why Carl Walsh was killed, Michael, and who did it.”
“There’s a new player in the game,” Rhineheart said. “You know who Angelo Corrati is?”
She nodded. “He’s a local bookmaker, isn’t he?”
“He’s the bookmaker. He handles all the heavy action locally. He stopped by my office yesterday afternoon. He said he was looking for Carl Walsh, too. Walsh owed him some money. Corrati wants me to stop looking for Walsh. He offered me something in return.”
“What?”
“My life.”
Kate Sullivan seemed shocked. “He threatened you?”
“Yeah.”
“Were you frightened?”
“I don’t frighten. I can be bribed,” Rhineheart said, “but I don’t scare.”
Kate Sullivan looked puzzled. “You can be bribed?”
“Just kidding.”
“You’re angry at me,” she said.
“I’m not angry at you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You’re right,” Rhineheart said. “I am.”
“I’m sorry I said that, Michael. Please don’t be angry with me.”
“All right,” Rhineheart said, “but you’re going to have to be cool. We may b
e getting into some funny stuff here. Things could get wild. In that kind of situation you have to hang tight and have your shit together.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said.
“Remember when we were kids,” Rhineheart said, “the nuns would catch us talking and try to get us to tell on each other?”
“I remember.”
“We never snitched on each other, Kate. We stuck together. That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.”
“The only trouble with that scenario, Michael, is that it isn’t true. I was afraid of the nuns. And when they threatened me, I told on you every chance I got.”
Rhineheart laughed. “You did, didn’t you?” He shrugged. “Well, this time try to do better, okay?”
“Okay.”
He stood up. “I’ll be in touch with you when I find out something.”
“You’ll keep me informed about any new developments, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry,” Rhineheart said.
“And, Michael, be careful please.”
“Don’t worry, babe.”
Independent Cab was on Forty-fourth near Broadway, a storefront, squeezed between a pool room and a laundromat. Inside, a fat black lady wearing a headset sat behind an old-fashioned switchboard.
“Help you?”
“I need to talk to the cabbie who picked up a fare at the Parkland Arms. On Southern Parkway. Last Wednesday night. Around nine-thirty.”
“What are you—a cop or something?”
“Private eye.”
“Hmmmf.” She made a sound, flipped open a logbook, studied it a minute, then closed it. “That’d be J. T. Smith. He was the only driver on duty last Wednesday.”
“Where do I find Mr. Smith?”
“He don’t come on duty ’til eight tonight. Then you can catch him at the airport. His stand in front of the Eastern exit.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, you ever look for runaway husbands?”
“Not this week,” Rhineheart said. “Call me up next week though, and I may be available.”
“I may do that,” she said, “but truth is, for right now, I’m sorta glad he’s gone.”
Rhineheart stopped at a street pay phone and made two calls. The first was to Farnsworth, to bring him up to date: Tammy Shea, the missing foal papers, the visit from Corrati, the scene at the morgue, and the call from Clark.
“Jesus,” the old man said, “you’ve been busier than hell. Can we meet later?”
“O’Brien’s. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll look for you, kid.”
Rhineheart’s second call was to his office.
McGraw answered. “Rhineheart Investigations.”
In the background Rhineheart could hear the office radio. It was tuned to some “easy listening” station. A string section was going to town on “Moon River.”
“You actually listen to shit like that?” he asked McGraw.
“Up your wazoo, Rhineheart.”
“You ought to be ashamed of the way you talk to your employer, McGraw.”
“I am.”
He told McGraw about Carl Walsh and his visit to the morgue.
“Oh Christ, that’s rough,” she said. “What does that mean? Is the case over?”
“In some ways, it’s just starting. Look, I want you to find me Dr. Harrison Gilmore’s address. Home and business.”
“You want me to do that now, or later?”
“Later,” Rhineheart said. “I get any calls?”
“Three. All from your so-called material witness, Karen Simpson.”
“If she calls again, tell her I’ll get back to her.”
“Where you going?”
“Frankfort.”
“To see the governor?”
“Close. I ought to be back in town around five-thirty, six o’clock.”
“Take it easy, Rhineheart.”
“Don’t worry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It took Rhineheart an hour and twenty minutes to drive to Frankfort and find Calvin Clark’s law firm. It was located in a restored Victorian mansion near the Old Capitol. A trim and tanned secretary let him in, led him down a tiled hallway, pushed open a door, and ushered him into an oak-paneled office.
A tall, white-haired gentleman in a dark suit stood up and greeted him. “Good morning, I’m Calvin Clark. Have a seat, please. Can I have my secretary get you anything? Coffee? A drink?”
“No thanks.”
“Mr. Rhineheart, I assume you’re aware of the fact that in addition to being the principal legal counsel for the Kentucky Horse Owners Association, I’m also a member of the board of directors of a Lexington-based firm known as Thoroughbred Security, Inc.”
“No,” Rhineheart said, “I’m not aware of any of that.”
“Well, it’s a fact, Mr. Rhineheart. By the way, I’d like to offer you my congratulations on a successful investigation.”
“What investigation are you talking about?”
“Why, the one concerning the fellow who worked for Cresthill Farms. I understand from the police that you were quite diligent in your search for him. Unfortunately, you didn’t find him in time to prevent a rather—from what I’ve been able to gather—horrible accident. But you can hardly be blamed for that. Personally, I think you did a yeoman job.”
Rhineheart didn’t say anything. It was no surprise that Clark knew about Walsh’s death already. The rich and powerful didn’t get that way by being dumb or staying uninformed.
Charles Clark smiled. “You keep your own counsel. I admire that.”
Rhineheart sat still, said nothing, waited.
Clark cleared his throat. “We may as well get down to business. At Thoroughbred Security we’re always head hunting, so to speak, for a few good men. For the past several years we’ve been following your career, Mr. Rhineheart.”
My career? Rhineheart thought. Was the man serious?
“Some of the publicity you’ve received hasn’t been altogether favorable, but all in all we think you’re an impressive man, Mr. Rhineheart. We like your style. I’ve been authorized by the board to offer you a position with the firm.”
“A position?” Rhineheart repeated. “You mean a job?”
“If you prefer.”
“What kind of a job?”
“Vice president of our Field Operations Branch.”
“Vice president?”
“It’s an executive level position.”
“What does a vice president of a Field Operations Branch do?” Rhineheart asked.
“Well, for one thing, he oversees and supervises our guard unit personnel, three shifts, one hundred and fifty men who patrol the farms serviced by our company. And let me say this, Mr. Rhineheart, almost every large well-known thoroughbred horse farm is protected by Thoroughbred Security.”
Rhineheart wondered if that included Cresthill Farms and River City Stud, but decided not to ask. Instead, he asked Clark what other responsibilities the vice president had.
“Among other things,” Clark replied, “he would supervise and train the personal security consultants that travel with the owners and protect them during public appearances.”
Like Borchek.
“The new field operations VP,” Clark went on, “would also develop and plan additional security for the stabling areas at various racetracks. In this connection the position would, naturally, entail some travel.”
“What’s a job like that pay?”
Clark couldn’t hold back a grin. “It has a starting salary of $65,000 a year, plus, of course, a generous expense account, the full package, naturally, of health and medical benefits, a stock-option plan, a company car of your choice and yearly bonuses that are substantial.”
Substantial. If he accepted, would that make him a person of substance? Sixty-five thousand was a pretty good-sized bribe. Someone wanted him in their pocket, out of the way. Who? Kingston? Taggert? Gilmore? Clark? What were they afraid he was going to stumble across?
“What do you think, Mr. Rhineheart?”
“It sounds pretty good,” Rhineheart said.
“Frankly, in my opinion it’s the kind of position a man could hardly afford to pass up.” He cleared his throat again. He looked at his watch. “I hope you’ll let me have the pleasure of telling my people that you’ve accepted our offer.”
“I don’t think so.”
Mr. Clark looked disappointed. “I’d hate to see you let this opportunity go by, Mr. Rhineheart. It’s not the kind of job that’s going to stay available for very long. Already we’re looking at some other applicants. If you turn it down someone else will snap it up.”
“I understand.”
Clark cleared his throat again. “I have something here,” he said, “that might help you clarify your thoughts on the matter.” He leaned across the desk and handed Rhineheart a check. It was a certified cashier’s check for $25,000 and was drawn on the First National Bank of Kentucky. “The sum you see there represents an incentive bonus should you decide to sign a contract to work for Thoroughbred Security before Derby Day.”
“Derby Day?”
“We need to fill the position immediately.”
“And, of course,” Rhineheart said, “if I take your job, I’d have to close my agency.”
“You simply wouldn’t have the time for a private practice, Mr. Rhineheart.”
“What about the cases I’m working on?”
“I’m sure you could make some arrangements with another agency to take them over.”
Rhineheart held the check in his hands. He could keep it as a souvenir, show it to McGraw, frame it on the wall. My Biggest Bribe. On the other hand, maybe he’d cash it and take the fucking job. After all, $65,000 wasn’t bad money. And the job sounded pretty nice. You probably had to take some shit. But for $65,000 . . .
He put the check on Clark’s desk. “I don’t know who you represent, Counselor,” Rhineheart said, “but tell them I can’t take your job.”
“Why not?”
“Simple. I already got one.”
It was late in the afternoon when Rhineheart pulled into an empty parking space in front of his apartment building. He let himself in, got a can of beer from the refrigerator, switched on the TV, and stretched out on the couch to see if he could catch Kate Sullivan on the early news.
She appeared on the newscast a couple of minutes after it started in a taped segment that dealt with the board of aldermen’s attempt to annex an unincorporated city that adjoined Louisville. It was a boring, colorless story but Kate delivered it with style. She seemed to be pretty good at her job. Rhineheart watched the program a few minutes longer. When they switched away to live coverage of one of the Derby Festival events, a steamboat race between The Belle of Louisville and The Delta Queen, he lost interest and turned off the set.
