by John Birkett
Katz’s office was a little partition with a desk on the third floor. He was typing up a report when Rhineheart arrived. He opened a desk drawer, reached inside, took out a small manila envelope, ripped it open, and dumped a brown leather wallet on the top of the desk. He jerked his thumb at it. “Walsh’s.”
Rhineheart looked through the wallet. Driver’s license. Social security card. Employee Pass. Visa Card. A Gulf Oil credit card. A wad of business cards in the billfold. On the back of one card was a phone number. Rhineheart memorized it, put the card back into the wallet, the wallet back into the manila envelope.
“Find anything, peeper?”
He shook his head.
Katz scowled at him. “Guess what?”
“Huh?”
“Walsh’s wife hasn’t showed up to claim the body yet.”
“No kidding?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know why she hasn’t showed up, would you?”
“Maybe she’s busy, Katz.”
“Get out of here.”
Rhineheart decided to spend the rest of the morning tailing Gilmore. A call to the vet’s office elicited the information that on Thursdays Gilmore didn’t come in until the afternoon. Rhineheart drove over to Gilmore’s house, a large, elegant Victorian home near Cherokee Park, and parked down the block. He had with him a container of coffee and a couple of glazed donuts in case he got hungry, and a paperback collection of short stories in the event he got bored.
He sat there sipping coffee and smoking and waiting for Gilmore to make an appearance. At 12:30 Gilmore came out of the house and got into a silver-gray Cadillac, which was parked in the driveway. He pulled out of the driveway and turned left. Rhineheart waited until the Cadillac reached the end of the block before he wheeled the Maverick out into the street and followed.
Gilmore took Bardstown Road to the Watterson Expressway, the expressway east to Shelbyville Road. His office was in a three-story brick-and-glass office building across the street from a shopping center.
Gilmore pulled the Cadillac into the office building parking lot, whipped into a reserved parking space, got out, and entered the building. Rhineheart parked across the street in the shopping center. He turned on the radio, twisting the dial around until he found a news show. He listened to the news for a few minutes. It was the same old shit. Then he turned the radio off. He read part of a short story, smoked four cigarettes. Stakeouts were another pain in the ass. You needed to be patient, cool. Rhineheart wasn’t that patient.
After a while he grew restless and decided to nose around and see what he could see. He got out of the Maverick, walked across the street and took the elevator up to the third floor. Gilmore’s office was at the end of the hall. As he stepped off the elevator, the door to the office opened and Gilmore came out and walked toward Rhineheart. He was wearing a checkered sports coat, yellow slacks, and white shoes with a gold buckle across the instep. Gilmore had his head down and he was carrying a small black leather bag, similar to a doctor’s bag.
Before Gilmore could look up, Rhineheart opened the door on his immediate right and stepped inside. The men’s john. Cold tile. Chrome faucets. Urinals. Stalls. Bright, gleaming mirrors. Rhineheart went ahead and relieved himself. It had been a long wait in the car. He washed his hands and dried them, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He waited an extra thirty seconds, then opened the door. No one was in the hall. The elevator floor indicator was moving down past 2 toward 1.
Rhineheart took the stairs down and made it to the building entrance at the same time Gilmore was climbing into the Cadillac. He waited for the Cadillac to pull out of the lot and turn right before he ran across the street to the Maverick, got in, hit the starter, and headed after it.
He caught up to the Cadillac as it was turning up the westbound ramp of the Watterson Expressway. Rhineheart eased up on the gas, trying to keep a couple of cars and fifty yards between the Maverick and the Cadillac.
They traveled west for five minutes, then the Cadillac’s turning signal flashed on and it swung up the Newburg Road exit, headed north. Gilmore continued on Newburg for another mile, then, at Trevillian Way, he turned left.
He drove past the Collings estate and the tennis center and turned into the parking lot of the Louisville Zoo. The zoo? What the hell. Rhineheart flipped on his left turn signal, waiting for a couple of cars to pass, and watched Gilmore pull into an empty parking space near the front of the lot. Then he turned in, parked the Maverick farther back, and got his binoculars out of the glove compartment.
In a few minutes a Green Turino drove into the lot and parked a few spaces away from the Cadillac. A man got out of the car, carrying a small plastic case. Rhineheart put the binoculars on him. A tall thin man with red hair and freckles. It was the guy he had seen sitting at Corrati’s table in the Kitty Kat Club on Saturday night.
The redheaded guy walked over and got into the front seat of the Cadillac. He and Gilmore talked for ten minutes, then the redheaded guy got out of the car—no longer carrying the case. He got into the Turino and drove toward the exit. Rhineheart decided to drop Gilmore and follow the redheaded guy.
The Turino traveled down Trevillian to Poplar Level, south on Poplar Level to the Watterson west exit. On the expressway, the redheaded guy drove like a madman, whipping in and out of traffic, changing lanes. Rhineheart had to floor the Maverick to keep up.
Ten minutes later he watched the Turino swing down the Camp Ground Road exit and turn left. The redheaded guy seemed to be headed for Rubbertown, a section of the city that was populated with industrial chemical plants. The Turino cruised past the Dupont plant and turned left on Bell’s Lane, then left again onto a small two-lane road that curved in the direction of the river. There was little traffic on the road. It was easy to be spotted. Rhineheart slowed down.
A few miles farther on, the Turino turned into a parking lot adjoining a squat yellow-brick building. The lettered sign that ran across the face of the building read WESTERN CHEMICALS.
Rhineheart pulled over to the side of the road and shut off the engine. He watched the redheaded man get out of the Turino and walk in the building.
He started up the car and pulled into the chemical company parking lot. He went in the same entrance that the redheaded guy had used. Just inside the door, a receptionist sat behind a desk. A nameplate that read MS. MARSHALL sat next to the telephone on her desk.
Rhineheart waved an old deputy sheriff’s badge in front of her. “Detective Sergeant Katz,” he said. “Traffic enforcement. The gentleman who just came in here . . . ?”
“Mr. Lewis?” the receptionist said.
LEWIS W. C.: Lewis. Western Chemicals.
Rhineheart nodded. “Lewis, that’s right. He’s a . . . your . . . ?”
“Chief chemist.”
“Chief chemist. That’s right.”
“Is anything the matter? Do you want to see Mr. Lewis?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Lewis, the man you just asked about.”
“Lewis? I thought the man I was following was named Stewart.”
“Sir, are you referring to the redheaded man who just entered this building?”
“The man I was after had black hair.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Lewis has red hair.”
“Obviously, this is a case of mistaken identity,” Rhineheart said. “I’m probably in the wrong building, too.”
The receptionist looked thoroughly confused.
On his way out Rhineheart told her to have a nice day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rhineheart drove downtown to the office. McGraw was hunched over the typewriter, either working on a new letter, or retyping the one she had screwed up on Monday.
Rhineheart noticed something green and leafy on his desk.
“What’s this shit?”
“A plant. I thought the place could use a little color.”
“This is a detective agency,” Rhineheart said, “not a greenhouse.”
�
��One little plant isn’t going to hurt anything.”
“Just keep it over on your desk, okay?”
“Okay.” McGraw cleared her throat nervously. “I bought something else. I went shopping this morning and got a new dress.”
“That’s nice.”
“For the party tonight,” she said.
“Fine.”
“I put it on the office expense account.”
“How much?” Rhineheart said.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“How much?”
“It really wasn’t that expensive,” she said.
“Why am I going to kill you, then?”
“You just are.”
“Give me a figure, McGraw.”
“Promise not to yell.”
Rhineheart shook his head. “No promises.”
“It was $125.95.”
“That sounds about right,” Rhineheart said.
“You’re not upset?” She looked disappointed. “I should’ve got the purse and shoes that went with it.”
“Farnsworth call?” Rhineheart asked.
McGraw shook her head. “Was he supposed to?”
Rhineheart nodded. It had been eighteen hours since he had heard from Farnsworth. Usually, the old man was pretty good about keeping in touch.
“You worried about him?”
“Naw,” he lied.
“Can I go home now? It’s gonna take me about five hours to get ready for the party.”
“I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half.”
After she left, Rhineheart called Johnny Reardon of Midtown Investigations. He was an old friend, an ex-associate.
“It’s Rhineheart, John.”
“How’s himself these days?” Reardon asked in his fake Irish brogue.
“Himself’s doing okay. How about you, buddy?”
“Fine as wine. What can I do for you?”
“I need you to run a background on somebody,” Rhineheart said. Background meant the whole bit: home and work address, phone number, employment record, next of kin, credit check, police record, bank accounts, tax data, medical history, military record. Whatever information you could get. Reardon was an ace at running backgrounds. He knew all the people who knew all the stuff.
“I got a name,” Rhineheart said, “and a place of employment.”
“More than enough, me boyo.”
Rhineheart gave him Lewis’s name and the name and address of the chemical company.
“Cost you the usual bill. Have it ready for you Saturday.”
“One more thing, John. I want you to check out Thoroughbred Security, a Lexington firm. Find out who owns it, who sits on the board, etc.”
“You got it.”
Rhineheart hung up and called Farnsworth’s office. He wasn’t in, and his answering service didn’t know how to reach him.
Rhineheart decided to try the number he had found in Walsh’s wallet.
The phone rang once. It was picked up and a familiar voice said, “Howard Taggert here.”
Rhineheart was surprised, but he didn’t let on. “Taggert. This is Michael Rhineheart, the private detective who came to see you the other day.”
“How’d you get this number? It’s private and unlisted.”
“Carl Walsh gave it to me.”
Taggert snorted. “That’s highly unlikely.”
“The truth is, I found this number in Carl Walsh’s wallet, and I didn’t mention it to the police.”
Taggert was silent for a moment. “What is it you want?”
“For one thing, I want to know what he was doing with your private unlisted number in his wallet.”
“You have no authority or right to ask me any questions.”
“You want the cops to ask you about it? They’ve got enough authority.”
There was another silence. Then Taggert said, “Last Tuesday morning Walsh came up to me as I was leaving the track kitchen. He said he had something I might be interested in, a tape recording that showed evidence of some illegal activity on the part of certain horsemen who were stabled at the Downs. He wouldn’t name names. Walsh offered to sell this material to me. I told him that if he really had such evidence, he was obligated to take it to the stewards, but he said he would throw it away before he would give it away. He wanted someone to buy the information from him. He hinted that the illegal activity concerned the Derby. He said he would sell the tape recording to the first person who would give him enough money. To forestall this, I gave Walsh my number and told him to call me that same evening. He never did.”
“You were going to buy the evidence from him?”
“If necessary, yes.”
“Then what were you going to do with it?”
“Turn it over to the stewards, of course.”
Of course.
“Walsh didn’t tell you anything about the evidence? What it concerned? Who it was about?”
“No.”
Why would Walsh go to Taggert? There were only two logical reasons: either he had something on Taggert and wanted to blackmail him; or the evidence was on Kingston and he knew Taggert would be interested in it.
“Tell me something,” Rhineheart said. “Why do you think Walsh came to you?”
“I don’t really know. Maybe because he worked for me once. Maybe because he knew I was a member of the board of directors at the Downs.”
“Did Walsh hint that Kingston might be involved?”
“As I said, Walsh didn’t mention any names.”
“You go to the stewards about your encounter with Walsh?”
“And tell them what? My version of Walsh’s vague accusations against nameless people? Not hardly, sir.”
“Are you still interested in the recording?”
“Why? Do you have it? Is that the reason you called me?”
“You still willing to pay money for it?”
“That depends on what you’re asking for it.”
Taggert was a real cutie. Rhineheart said, “You better get yourself a lawyer, Jack. If it turns out Walsh was murdered, the police are going to want to talk to you about withholding evidence.”
“Murdered?”
“Yeah,” Rhineheart said, “and one more thing. If I come across this recording, you’re the last fucking person I’d send it to.”
He slammed down the phone on the old bastard and went home to change for the party.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Rhineheart picked up McGraw in front of her apartment. She was pacing the sidewalk nervously. The hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar dress was black and simple and knee length. A strand of pearls encircled her neck and she clutched a glittery black evening bag.
She slid into the passenger seat. “How do I look? Be honest.”
“You clean up pretty good,” Rhineheart told her. “What about me?” He was wearing a rented Lord West outfit.
“What about you?”
“How do I look?”
McGraw shrugged. “You look like you always look. A big guy in a wrinkled suit. Only this time it’s a wrinkled tux.”
“Thanks.” Rhineheart eased away from the curb. He took a look at his watch. It was 7:35. The next time he checked it, it was 8:49, and the Maverick was rolling up to the twin pillars in front of Cresthill.
The entrance was guarded by a half dozen blue-uniformed guards who wore side arms. The patches on their shoulders read THOROUGHBRED SECURITY. They looked Rhineheart’s invitation over closely, but finally waved him through.
The party looked to be in full swing, the huge striped tent was ablaze with lights. The blacktop farm road was lined on both sides with big expensive cars.
“God damn,” McGraw said, looking around in awe.
Rhineheart nodded. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
He pulled up near the front entrance to the tent. A parking attendant wearing jockey’s silks opened the door for McGraw, then ran around and opened his door. The attendant wrote the license number on a ticket, handed it to Rhinehe
art, hopped into the Maverick, and peeled off.
McGraw pointed up the hill. “Is that the house?” The huge mansion was outlined against the night sky, its tall white columns lit by floodlights.
“That’s it.”
“Jesus.”
As they strolled up to the tent entrance, Rhineheart made the mistake of saying, “When we get inside, try to be cool, okay?”
McGraw looked offended. “What do you mean, ‘try to be cool’? I’m always cool.”
“All I’m saying,” Rhineheart said, “is watch how you talk inside. You swear a lot, McGraw.”
“I swear a lot?”
“Yeah, and these people might not go for that.”
They entered the tent and came abreast of another couple, middle-aged, dressed to the teeth.
In a loud voice, McGraw said, “Rhineheart, you think I’m going to go around and call everybody a motherfucker, or something?”
The couple’s heads swiveled in unison. Rhineheart grabbed McGraw’s arm and steered her over to an unoccupied table, covered with a white linen tablecloth. At the surrounding tables, the men were all tanned and healthy-looking, the women glamorous and bejeweled. He and McGraw were encircled by the rich and the powerful. In evening wear and glitzy gowns, the rich and powerful looked rather formidable.
Rhineheart looked around the tent. Brightly colored balloons hung from the ceiling. The tent poles were festooned with intricately tied crepe paper. There were half a dozen large buffet tables filled with food. And half a dozen bars stocked with bottles of the finest booze and wines. Sumptuous was the word.
There was a dance floor in the center of the tent and a twelve-piece band was playing. Twelve middle-aged white guys. They sounded, to Rhineheart, like Lester Lanin. The dance floor was crowded.
“Your kind of music,” he told McGraw. “Want to dance?”
McGraw shook her head. “I’m too nervous.”
Waitresses wearing jockey’s caps and short fluffy skirts scurried in and out among the tables. Rhineheart ordered bourbon and water. McGraw asked for a mint julep.
“No beer?”
