by John McEvoy
Karen said, “It’s not much different from the other ones. According to your college security report, there was no evidence that the attacker had been here?”
“None. And whoever it was must have been quick,” Oettinger said, “because our night security patrols are closely spaced and, especially now of course, rigorously maintained. But,” he sighed, “as you can see, all these precautions are long after, well, the horse has left the barn.”
Karen handed the veterinarian her card, thanking him for his time. Walking back toward the barn office and parking lot, Dr. Oettinger turned to Jack. “Mr. Doyle, I take it you aren’t a member of the Bureau. What is your…in what capacity are you here, if I might ask?”
“Ask away,” Doyle said. “Crack Assistant would be the answer to that.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Ingrid McGuire finally arrived home after a long, draining day at work. Trainer Buck Norman’s favorite stable pony had suddenly come down with a bad case of colic. But Ingrid’s treatment had saved the old horse. Then, driving home in the dusk, she had received another call from Jack Doyle about the veterinary school horse deaths.
Had she heard anything at all about this matter when at the track?
“No. Sorry, Jack, but no.”
“Ingrid, I know you’re busy day after day. And you sound worn out as hell right now, and I’m sorry to bother you. But I’m asking that you please try to keep this on your front burner. The FBI agents are getting tremendous pressure to find this criminal. And they keep pressing me. So, I’m just passing on this request again. Okay?”
“I hear you, Jack.”
Minutes later, she entered her Palatine townhouse, washed her hands and face, and went to her favorite living room chair. Put her head back. Thought about going to Netflix for a movie. Thought about quickly reviving and driving the two miles to her favorite barbeque restaurant. Thought about those horses now back from pasturing and in their stalls for the night in veterinary school barns, either already feeling the effects of experimental drugs or soon destined to do so. “Criminal,” Jack had said, describing someone who obviously had gone against the grain in trying to prevent these practices.
She walked into her kitchen, wineglass in hand, filled it, entered the bathroom and ran tub water. Minutes later, that day’s dusty, soiled, work clothes tossed into the hamper, she stepped into the tub and lowered herself into the still rising hot water.
Maybe it was the second glass of wine, something Ingrid rarely resorted to. Maybe it was the tremendously stressful hours she had spent working on Buck Norman’s cherished old pony, saved for now but not with many more years in front of her. She lay back, head propped on the tub’s back, and closed her eyes, trying to scrub all thoughts of horse from her mind—at least for a while.
Chapter Twenty-five
Parking his four-year-old brown Volvo in the graveled space in front of his white bungalow, he turned off the ignition and sat back in his seat. Anthony Xavier Rourke, wizard accountant of the Shamrock Off-Course Wagering Corporation, felt “bone tired,” as his father used to describe the feeling. Difference was that Da made his lifelong living prying peat from the Wicklow hills and selling it to people in need of fuel. He pictured that uneducated, country-strong exemplar of industry home from another long day’s work, filthy overalls discarded inside the back door of the cottage, sitting after a hasty scrub-up in fresh clothes with his tea, responding to a claim of “bone tired” with a laugh. “Ya can’t get bone tired unless you lift things by the hour.”
But there was no denying Rourke was exhausted, both from a terribly busy day at work and from the increasing succession of sleepless nights of the past months.
He locked the car and carried his raincoat and briefcase to the bright blue front door of the cottage that, except for his depressed presence, had been empty for the last seventeen months. Moira’s death at age forty-five, twenty-five years into their marriage, the result of tardily detected and then viciously advancing cervical cancer, had sucked the life out of their neat home, and out of him. He hung his suit jacket up in his bedroom closet. Then, as usual, he reached for the nearby doorknob of Moira’s closet. It remained full of her clothes and shoes and hats, none of which he had been able to bring himself to discard despite the entreaties of their only child, Bridget. “Da,” she repeatedly said, “you must begin to let go. Ma would want you to.” Their conversations were via long distance. Bridget had married a fellow Trinity College student, computer whiz Ross Malone, and moved with him to California’s Silicon Valley the previous summer. He had not visited the U.S., and Bridget and Ross had returned to Ireland only for Moira’s funeral since emigrating.
Rourke inventoried his refrigerator’s freezer and took out a Salisbury steak, regarding it with little enthusiasm. Food meant little to him, now. He opened a bottle of merlot, poured a glass, and took it and the bottle out the back door onto the tiny patio that faced the small back garden. In this tranquil, twilight setting, he felt his fatigue combine with frustration and the persistent resentment he could not seem to shake. He drained his wineglass, refilled it, and sat back in the lounge chair, again reviewing the disappointing events of the last few months. His goal was far from being achieved. His fault, really, since he’d employed an aged thug whose criminal skills had evidently seriously eroded. The results were amateurishly unproductive. He needed a true expert. What he knew was called a “hard man.” Eighteen minutes later, decision made, he picked up his cell phone and dialed the Dublin number he’d been given.
Chapter Twenty-six
The howl of the daily six a.m. wake-up horn was the first thing that really horrified Harvey Rexroth during his introduction to life at Lexford Federal Prison. As someone who during his days as a free man had thrived on a nocturnal schedule featuring, as he proudly put it, “booze, broads, and bawdy happenings,” Rexroth had been accustomed to rising at the stroke of noon. Shaving, leisurely bathing, then slowly moving into the business part of his day. That was the routine whether he was in residence at the Montana ranch founded by his robber baron great-grandfather; his Manhattan penthouse or Bahama estate; or, had been most often the case for most of the year, at Willowdale, his palatial thoroughbred horse farm near Lexington.
Widely acknowledged to be in the upper echelon of America’s most brilliantly rapacious commercial leaders, Rexroth had inherited much, and then increased it to much more, primarily through his media empire. It included popular magazines, a chain of newspapers, plus television and radio stations. Among his immense holdings had also been Racing Journal, which he had launched in hopes of driving out of business the venerable Racing Daily, so-called Bible of thoroughbred racing, thus creating a lucrative monopoly in that field of sports journalism.
The one hundred twenty-five-year-old Racing Daily had been justifiably dismissive of Rexroth’s efforts. As a power-wielding CEO of his various companies, Rexroth’s intelligence, ambition, and ruthlessness had served him well. Those were qualities he’d been born with that were then buffed by the training he received from his late father or that tycoon’s able assistants. But daily journalism was a field in which Rexroth had never previously set foot prior to Racing Journal. When he did, his feet sank in a swamp of debt and his start-up publication failed concurrently with the last appeal of his fraud and racketeering conviction.
At 6:05, Rexroth exchanged his electric blue silk pajamas for his drab khaki uniform. The inmates were permitted to provide their own night wear. Rexroth’s head butler at the Park Avenue residence had shipped three pairs of expensive silk pajamas to his employer, all emblazoned with small, tasteful horse head designs. The irony of this, his involvement with equines having led directly to his imprisonment, was lost on the hard-headed multimillionaire.
His prison accommodations in the Eight-Building also angered him greatly, starting with his earliest Lexford days. How often he thought longingly of his Manhattan bedroom suite, with its circula
r, king-size bed beneath a widely mirrored ceiling, yards removed from the expansive windows overlooking nearby Central Park. Now, he awakened on a single bed near a simple chair, wall locker, and bulletin board, and next to a small table atop which rested his radio, turned to one of the dozen stations he owned, his favorite actually, the one headlined by bombastic commentator Rance Lamburgh, easily Rexroth’s favorite among his thousands of employees.
Next to the radio stood a two-picture frame, the prison allotment. Rexroth’s original entries were of two of his coterie of young, gorgeous, near naked female employees skating around on the specially built indoor track at Willowdale Farm. After one glance at those photos on Rexroth’s first afternoon in residence, his Unit Counselor called for the immediate removal of these colorful souvenirs of Rexroth’s past life. After that slap down, Rexroth left the picture frame empty.
Rexroth cautiously took his time before first visiting the communal bathroom having himself published several harrowing accounts of penal penetration. But he actually never felt uncomfortable there, or while showering, convinced that there was “None of that don’t drop the soap and bend over bullshit in this higher-class facility.” Like all Lexford inmates, he had until seven thirty to sweep and/or mop his small room. He usually finished these chores before breakfast. Prisoners were allowed ten to twenty minutes for that meal as well as the other two meals served in the large cafeteria during the day. Following his usual intake of syrup-drenched pancakes and three cups of cream-laden coffee, Rexroth visited the prison library to read the day’s newspapers. His job hours were twelve thirty to three thirty p.m.
Rexroth and Aldo Caveretta had arrived at Lexford the same week. Like all new arrivals, their first work assignment was in Indoor Maintenance. Coming down a long Administration building corridor from different ends wielding brooms one Monday, backs turned, they had bumped into each other at the midway point. “Watch where you’re going,” Rexroth shouted, his face turning the color of a hydroponically grown tomato. It was his normal reaction to the unexpected.
Caveretta calmly stood back. “Why, Harvey Rexroth, nice to meet you.” He leaned on his broom handle, smiling and composed.
The surprised Rexroth said, “Who the hell are you? How the hell do you know who I am?”
Caveretta frowned as he regarded Rexroth’s blood-infused features. “Know who you are? Why, you’re a famous sort of fellow. By the way, I’m no doctor, but I’d say, about 180 over l40.”
Rexroth said, “What?” He stomped his foot, turning his right ankle on the broom’s bristle block. “Ouch” was followed by “Damn” succeeded by “What the hell numbers are those? And who are you?”
“Aldo Caveretta, Kansas City,” said the tall man. “Those numbers? That’s my estimate of what would be your current blood pressure reading.” He shook his head. “That temper won’t stand you in good stead around here, my friend. You should settle down.”
Rexroth, still smarting, said, “I suppose you don’t have a temper. And you are like the rest of these losers in here, an ‘innocent man wrongfully convicted.’”
“Why don’t we finish our work before we earn demerits? We can have a talk today at dinner. I’ll look for you.” Caveretta turned his back and resumed his sweeping.
***
Dinner hour at Lexford was four o’clock. Caveretta spotted Rexroth pushing his way into the cafeteria line and smoothly moved to join him. “What’s on the menu today?”
“Monday, must be some kind of spaghetti and that awful collection of steamed veggies,” Rexroth replied. He shook his head in disgust. “The American taxpayer is not getting his money’s worth with this dismal fare.”
Caveretta said, “What are you talking about?”
The irritated Rexroth replied, “I am talking about the fact that each one of us here in Lexford, and each person in every other federal prison, costs thirty-six to forty-thousand dollars a year to maintain. Every fed joint serves the same lousy meals on the same day. Think of it. Thousands of us forcing down similar crap simultaneously. Talk about Big Government Ripoffs!”
Caveretta thought about suggesting that such punishment was perhaps what prison was for, but instead he reached for a Caesar salad. “I don’t agree with you, Rexroth. I don’t think the food is all that bad. Burger Day is okay. So is Fried Chicken Day. Tuna Salad Fridays, yes, you’re probably right on that. But, my friend, Thursdays, with the baked ziti, not bad at all. Not like home, but not bad.”
They filled their trays and took a small corner table. Rexroth said, “That’s what you call that dago slop on your plate? ZBT? There were kikes in a college fraternity near mine called that. Or, excuse me, is that Italian cuisine?”
Caveretta slowly chewed his mouthful of the heavily sauced pasta before saying, “That attitude you’ve got, it’s no wonder you wound up in here. You arrogant prick. It’s called ziti. Pass the pepper.”
Rexroth’s face flushed again. He struggled to remain composed. “Being an arrogant prick in this place would be nothing out of the ordinary. And that includes you.”
“Probably does,” Caveretta said. “Aren’t you going to at least try your ziti?”
“No.”
“Well, then, hand it over here.”
Rexroth scraped the pasta from his dinner plate onto his companion’s. “Did they put this stuff on the menu in honor of the wops in here? Excuse me, Italian-Americans?”
“I have no idea. Maybe they were trying to appeal to all The Sopranos fans they’ve locked up. Who cares? I like it. It beats that WASP crap they shove out to us most days.”
Rexroth sat back, quiet for a few moments until he said, “There’s a good idea for a Rance Lamburgh radio essay. Which over-reaching Big Government son of a bitch, maybe a Study Team of them, determines what we are given to eat? Probably D.C. bureaucrats dining like kings on the taxpayers’ dollars.”
“I somehow doubt that, Rex. Hand me that salad you don’t want.”
Rexroth said, “Now that we’re both finished with Maintenance Duty, what’s next for you?”
Caveretta said, “I’m going to give Italian lessons. Mornings, Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I’m told six guys signed up. I’ll probably know some of them. What about you?”
“I registered for classes in leather crafting. Why not, as long as I’m here? I’m getting tired of paying top dollar for my guinea-made, oh pardon me, Italian-made shoes and belts. Maybe I’ll learn something useful like how to make them. Belts at least.”
This conversation went on during the third week of the shift from Maintenance to Electives for this Lexford class. Talk at the other dining room tables was also about choices to be made from such possible curriculum items as Landscape Design, Computer Graphics, Personal Fitness, Horticulture, and How to Make Stained Glass.
“Now,” Rexroth said sternly, “Aldo, I would like…” He paused to look over his shoulder. “I would like a progress report on Our Agreement.”
“I’m sure you would, Harvey. But nothing’s set yet. I’m going to use some of my phone time tonight. Maybe I’ll know more by tomorrow.”
Rexroth knew the attorney was referring to his PAC, the personal access code number issued each Lexford inmate for use in making outside phone calls, maximum usage limited to fifteen minutes per day per inmate. The media baron had been using his daily calls to upbraid, upset, browbeat, bully, threaten, and issue directives to the top-ranking managers of his empire. These regularly badgered but well paid executives were used to Rexroth’s manic management technique and actually found the PAC phone time limit to be a boon to their health.
“All right. Let’s talk tonight,” Rexroth said. He walked to the refuse container and slid in most of his tray’s remaining contents.
***
They met in the nearly deserted prison library at seven o’clock. Caveretta pulled a novel from a shelf, Rexroth picked up a copy of one of his company’s mag
azines. They sat across from each other at a small, otherwise deserted table.
“Well?”
Caveretta sighed. “Harvey, were you ever equipped with any social graces? To answer your abrupt and, I might say, impolite query, things are in motion.”
“Elaborate, Aldo. For fifty grand, I expect more information than that.”
“You haven’t yet transferred a damn dime to that offshore account number I gave you. Until the entire fee shows up there, you will be getting only minimal information. Capice?”
Rexroth leaned forward to whisper, “I’ll set the money in motion tomorrow. Just assure me again that this pro you people are providing is good, no I mean excellent, at his job.”
“You expect a four-color brochure dossier of his achievements? For God’s sake, can’t you take anything on faith?”
“The last time I did involved that fucking Jack Doyle. And it landed me in here.”
Caveretta said, “I’ll know more within a day or two. My man in Kansas City assures me the talent he’s contracted is the best, the very best available. Details will follow as to the methodology and timing. The people involved see this dealing with you as a great opportunity.” And so do I, thought Caveretta.
He stood up and replaced the novel on the shelf. “I’ll tell you more when I know more, Harvey. Good night.”
***
They didn’t speak again until morning exercise hour the next day, Rexroth scurrying to catch up to the long-striding Caveretta who was touring the running track at his usual brisk pace.
“Aldo,” said Rexroth, breathing a little heavy after his five-pancake breakfast, “I made the call. The, uh, transfer has been transferred. Did it early this morning.”
Caveretta stopped to tie a shoelace. “Good going. Things will now be in motion. Let’s take a break, sit down over there.”
