by John McEvoy
He pulled on his tee-shirt and briefs. She was at her desk, computer open, eyes riveted on the screen and its Flash News Story.
“Good God, woman, it can’t be even seven a.m. What’s the rush? Did Texas secede from my nation? Don’t tell me the Chicago Cubs are again vowing to win their first pennant since 1945!”
The look on Nora’s intense face quickly convinced him that whatever had her interest was not to be joked about. She scrolled rapidly to the bottom of the page. Turning to him, she said, “A neighbor found the body of a prominent Cork City businessman last night. An apparent suicide. Oh,” she said, hands at her ears, drawn face shaking from side to side, “this is terrible tragic.”
“Aw, hell,” Doyle said. He backed up a few steps and sat down on the couch. “Tony Rourke, right?” he said softly.
“Yes. ‘Anthony X. Rourke, longtime Shamrock Off-Course Wagering Corporation executive,’” she quoted. “‘Age fifty-two. Widower. Survived by one daughter. Garda officials have ordered an autopsy to confirm what appears to be a drug overdose.’”
Doyle took a deep breath and got to his feet. He went to the front door and opened it. The remnants of that morning’s mists trailed away toward the sea. Nora came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, left cheek buried against his back. He turned around and hugged her.
“What a sorry, resentful, bitter little fellow Tony Rourke must have been,” Doyle said. The whole depressing chain of recent events must have felt like it was tightening around his chest. Jack could easily imagine Barry Hoy arguing that “What we did in catching him out doesn’t make us responsible for what Tony did in the end.” Which was probably true. But it didn’t make Doyle feel all that much better.
Nora relinquished her hug and moved around to face him. “Do you still intend to take your flight in the morning?”
“Yeah. I’ve got things to do back home. But first I have to talk to Niall.”
***
The Kinsale phone was immediately picked up. “Jack,” Hanratty said, “I just heard this terrible news from Barry Hoy who heard it on the radio. Crushing news! First, what Barry had told me yesterday about you and him seeing Tony with that thug in Dublin. Now this. I can hardly believe it.”
Doyle heard Hanratty pause to say, “Sheila, leave me now. I’m talking to Jack.” There was the rattle of a cup being dropped before Hanratty said, “I can’t fathom it, Jack. My good little friend Tony taking his own life. I’m gobsmacked. What could have prompted him to do it?”
“Niall, I can’t answer that with any confidence. But I would guess it was an accumulation of things. His beloved wife’s death. His depression following that. And,” Jack said, “your unfulfilled promise to him.”
Hanratty erupted. “What? Are you mad, man? I was paying Tony the exact equivalent of a partner’s share. I’ve always been fair with him about the money since we started together years ago as junior clerks in that dinky little betting shop in Bray. I saw the opportunities, and grabbed the main chance, and brought Tony’s brilliance for figures right along with me. We did great out of it. We both made gobs of money!”
Hanratty paused before saying, “This is beyond me. After all our years together, and our success, I thought I knew the man. And then he sets out to try and kill me before killing himself!”
“Niall, I don’t think what burrowed into Tony Rourke’s mind had anything to do with money.”
Silence. Then Niall said, “Well, Mr. Chicago psychology expert, what the hell was it about then?”
“I think it was about the fact that you never came through with the partnership in Shamrock that you promised him.”
Hanratty said, “Jack, I don’t get it. Why would the partnership promise, which I admit I forgot, and never considered to be very important, why would it mean any more to Tony Rourke than the money I was paying him? He was getting an equal share with me. What the hell do you mean?”
“What I mean is something you did not understand, my friend,” Jack said softly. “With Tony Rourke, his complaint, his smoldering resentment, was probably never about the money. It was about respect. The respect that he thought he’d never gotten from you.”
Another brief silence before Niall said, “Whatever it was, Jack, I am terribly sorry about what Tony tried to do to me. And what he did to himself.”
It was later that week, when Jack was back in Chicago, that the Internet headline “Exclusive Account of Bookie’s Demise” leapt out at him one morning. “Well, of course,” he said to himself. “Scoop Sheehan at work.”
Chapter Forty-nine
With his summer course work finished, straight A-plus as usual, W.D. Wiems turned his attention to the lucrative task ahead. Heading toward his senior year with a perfect career 4.0 grade point, he had been urged by his University of Kansas counselor to plan for grad school in quest of advanced degrees. He ignored the suggestion, convinced he would know all he needed to know about the intricacies of computers and their advanced programming by the end of his senior year. If he hadn’t already.
It was a typical Kansas summer, torrid and potentially cyclone or tornado-ridden, so Wiems looked forward to his Chicago trip and the twenty-thousand-dollar payoff it would produce. Then, he hit a snag.
Through his Internet wizardry, Wiems had gained access several weeks earlier to Jack Doyle’s e-mail address and the e-mails that went to and from it. Not much of a challenge for a young man who had already hacked into the supposedly protected inner sanctum computer files of dozens of major financial institutions not to mention several departments of his nation’s government. But not much in Jack Doyle’s tiny sliver of the Internet world was very informative. Wiems was disappointed to find only very occasional entries, usually just briefly described planned meetings with Doyle’s friends, the review of racing results, an occasional exchange with [email protected], and visits to a popular boxing website to which the opinionated Doyle sometimes contributed comments.
“This guy must mainly communicate by phone or snail mail,” Wiems disgustedly concluded. “What a throwback.”
At the start of the week, when he felt himself primed and ready for action, it pissed him off to access Doyle’s e-mail and find the message I am unable to respond to your e-mails the week beginning today. I will be away.
Aggravating, but what the hell. Wiems had learned that Doyle’s absences were never lengthy. Patience was called for, so patience it would be. Wiems devoted his days to adding to his impressive compendium of underground slasher/porno movie highlights that he intended to package and sell to a select clientele he’d already unearthed on the Internet. Most nights he spent at Cartridge Central sharpening his shooting skills, after which he took lengthy night Harley rides on quiet country roads far outside of Lawrence. These were on primarily empty roadways, their dark borders marked only infrequently by farmhouse lights. The Harley could easily hit ninety miles an hour on these empty stretches. During each ride, Wiems at least once even briefly topped one hundred mph. But most of his time was spent at more moderate speeds, guiding the machine with his right hand on the Harley’s steering wheel accelerator control and practicing deadly pistol shooting with his gun hand.
Twice early during that week of Doyle’s absence, Wiems rode a couple of hours through the night before ending it with a brief visit to Shorty and Lammy’s Saloon where’d had done his initial business with Marco Three. That increasingly impatient employer had stopped phoning Wiems after Wiems finally made clear to Marco “that, if you don’t, I’ll kill you for nothing. And stay out of Shorty and Lammy’s until I tell you. I don’t want to be seen with you yet.”
“Okay, okay. Do it your way. Geez. I leave it to you.”
This Thursday night, Wiems took his usual stool at the end of the bar. He put his riding gloves down on the mahogany with a slap. Seats nearby him quickly emptied, one by a bleary-eyed senior citizen named Roscoe who usually drank there after his week
ly AA meeting, the other by Sherri, tonight an off-duty Shorty and Lammy waitress he recognized. Randy, the regular night bartender, nodded at Wiems and reached down into the cooler. All three of them knew him.
Wiems drank half of the Corona with one extended gulp before saying, “How’d the Royals do tonight?”
“Led into the eighth. Boom. The bullpen collapsed. What is else is new?”
Wiems finished the Corona. He got off the stool, reached into his jeans, and, as always, left a tip on the bar for Randy. As Randy had told his fellow employees, “Exactly one dollar and fifty cents each damn time! For more than a year now! I’ve got no fuckin’ idea why. I just say thank you and good-bye. Motorcycle Man is one strange cat, I’ll tell you that.”
Randy took a wet rag to the old, scarred, wooden bar. “That guy, Moto Man,” he said to Sherri, “he ever talk to you? Hit on you?”
Sherri grimaced as she sipped her Bailey’s and cream. “Are you kidding? I’ve never seen him even look twice at any woman in here, much less me. Only person he ever talks to is You Know Who.”
Randy nodded, not surprised. Motorcycle Man’s only conversations he’d observed from afar were with Marco Three. He didn’t permit curiosity, ordinarily a good bartender’s stock in trade, to factor in here.
Chapter Fifty
The day after the news of Tony Rourke’s suicide, another smooth and timely Aer Lingus flight enabled Doyle to get to O’Hare Airport, then his Chicago condo just before eight p.m. He unpacked, fired up the microwave on a pair of frozen beef enchiladas, cracked open a beer, and read his e-mail. There wasn’t much. He sent a message to Nora that he was back home safe and sound and copied it to Moe Kellman, Karen Engel, and Ralph Tenuta’s wife Rosa. She was in charge of the trainer’s at-home communications. He asked her how things were going at the stable. Rosa answered right back. “Jack, glad you’re back. Ralph would like you to come to the track tomorrow. He has some very good news to share.”
Doyle replied that he would like to, but said he couldn’t “make it tomorrow. Tell Ralph I’ll see him out there Wednesday afternoon.”
***
In his Kansas apartment, all of these messages were captured and memorized by W.D. Wiems as he continued to access Doyle’s computer. Wiems felt himself getting pumped. He quickly packed his small backpack, tucked his Glock .44 in the shoulder holster under his black jacket, and hurried out to his Harley to begin his lengthy trip north. He’d been eagerly looking forward to this new challenge. He was glad to see not a hint of rain clouds in the early evening Kansas sky.
In the years since he had murderously dispatched his despised mother and step-father, Wiems considered himself to be a very lucky young man. And that luck, all of his own making, as far as he was concerned, continued in the course of the next ten and a half hours that saw him cover the five hundred and sixty miles close to his next day’s destination: Heartland Downs and the parking lot near Ralph Tenuta’s barn to which he had trailed Jack Doyle weeks earlier.
Wiems cycled I-70 from Lawrence to Kansas City where he picked up 1-35 to Des Moines. The weather was still clear, the traveling easy. He occasionally amused himself during the long night by veering sharply in front of one of the several hundred trucks he passed. He smiled at every horn blast from each indignant trucker.
He stopped for gas at a Shell station on 1-80 just inside the Illinois border. Filled his tank, emptied his bladder, and bought a half-dozen power bars and two bottles of water, paying with a credit card in one of his fake names. That whole stop consumed less than twelve minutes. Three and a half hours later he switched to 1-88 near Rock Falls. Took that to 1-355N, then 1-290 toward Rockford after which he exited onto IL-53 only a few miles from Heartland Downs. He pulled into a Marathon station to buy gas and more water, paying with yet another phony credit card.
Wiems had been on the road for nearly ten hours, the last two driving into the early morning sun. He wasn’t tired. He never was on such occasions that involved the thrill of a hunt. But he knew he should rest. He could not permit even a hint of fatigue to compromise his expertise.
Nearing Kirchoff Road in Palatine, he pulled into a forest preserve parking lot that was empty of vehicles this early in the day. He slowly rolled through it and drove his bike gently up over the curb and across the dewy grass where he parked beneath the shade of a towering oak tree. A pair of grackles on a limb overhead loudly protested his arrival. Wiems hurled one of his half-empty water bottles up at them and they flew off, complaining further.
He removed his helmet and folded his jacket and placed it on the grass at the base of the tree for use as a headrest. He tucked the Glock underneath the jacket and lay down, head on the jacket, gloved hands folded across his chest. Wiems was asleep in less than three minutes.
Chapter Fifty-one
Well-rested, ignoring jet lag, Doyle was up early for his morning run. He was surprised at his energy level when he returned to his condo and ripped off one hundred sit-ups followed by one hundred pushups. Breathing heavily as he got up off the floor to go for a bottle of water out of his fridge, Doyle said to himself, “Travel obviously agrees with me.”
Showered and dressed, he checked in with Damon Tirabassi. “I can easily tell you’re relieved and delighted that I am back on native soil, right?”
“No comment. If you’re calling to ask if we’ve made any progress in the horse killer case, Doyle, the answer is no. Karen is out of the office this morning, trying to track down a lead. After that Ness woman put up the fifty grand reward offer, we’ve been inundated with calls. And, as always, most of them worthless, just two or three worth following up. Karen is working on those. What are you doing? Now that you’re finally back, I mean.”
“Do I detect a note of criticism there, Damon? The kind of snide aside you’re too often given to? ‘Finally back’? Do you think I was on vacation over in Ireland? Bouncing about from Dublin pubs to Connemara pony rides? I had serious business there. Jesus, man! Can you ever be capable of looking past your bureaucratic nose at other people’s lives?” He turned off the phone. “What a sorry fucking way to start the day.”
***
Doyle decided to shake off his irritation with Damon by going out to Heartland Downs that afternoon as he’d promised Rose Tenuta he would do. His mood was immediately improved by the happy vibe he felt after his arrival at Ralph’s barn. Ingrid was there standing beside the trainer in front of stall one. Cheerful greetings exchanged, Doyle said, “Is that who I think it is in there?”
“None other than Mr. Rhinelander, Jack. He was released from quarantine this morning, pronounced virus free,” Ingrid smiled.
“Ready to go back into training,” Ralph added. As Tenuta patted his forehead, the friendly colt nickered in apparent agreement. “We’re all glad to have him back, nobody more so than the Burkhardts. Those happy people,” Ralph said, “are going to host a celebration kind of cookout here this evening after the races. They’re bringing Wisconsin brats, beer, and cheese for my whole staff. Even fried cheese curds, whatever the hell they are. Of course, Ingrid is invited. She did a terrific job treating this horse. And you’re invited, too.”
Doyle glanced at his watch. It was 4:35. He was feeling the first hint of fatigue from his trip back from Ireland and his Chicago workout. “Naw, I don’t think so, Ralph. I’m a little worn out. I’ll take a pass on this, but be sure to thank the Burkhardts for me. Ingrid, you have my congratulations.”
Ingrid walked with him to the parking lot behind the barn. “Is that right, Jack, that you were back in Ireland? That’s what Ralph thought.”
“Indeed I was. Some business, some pleasure. It wound up working out pretty well. How about you, Ingrid? Anything new on the horse killer front?” “
“No, I’m afraid not. But at least there hasn’t been a killing since that one in Michigan a couple of weeks back. Maybe this campaign is over.”
Doyle said, “Th
at, I doubt. Once a fanatic gets going, it’s hard to stop him. Or her,” he added.
“You’re probably right,” Ingrid murmured. She opened her truck door and quickly got behind the wheel. “Take care, Jack,” she said.
With a wave back at Tenuta, Doyle got into his Accord and drove to the track exit he always used. He nodded at the security officer in the booth who was in charge of opening the doors of the tall wire gate. He turned onto Wilke Road heading for Willow Road just a few miles away. Traffic was beginning to thicken. A huge procession of rain clouds had begun moving west from Lake Michigan. He could see them in the darkening distance to his right. Then it began. Moist pellets started to ding across the Accord’s roof. Doyle turned on his radio which, as always, was set on 90.09, the Chicago area’s major jazz station. He was just in time to hear emcee Bruce Oscar introduce a cut from “young piano star Aaron Diehl’s debut CD.” Doyle smiled as he heard the first minute of “Bess, You Is My Woman Now.” He caught the light and turned right at Wilke’s intersection with Willow, not noticing the black-clad motorcyclist tucked in four cars behind him.
Chapter Fifty-two
Leon Haukedahl, a fifty-seven-year-old veteran of nearly twenty-one years as a long haul trucker, shook his head, blinked, reached into the truck console for his Dexedrine stash in its folded over plastic baggie. Empty. Goddam. He was one tired son of a bitch, a hungry and thirsty one as well. He’d almost not cleared the yellow light at that last intersection, Willow Road and something. He’d turned off the Prime Country station on his SiriusXM radio a half-hour earlier, its songs serving mainly to make him feel more tired than anything else. He loved country music, but country was best heard long after work was done, the miles behind him, a cold brew or two in hand, not while a guy like Leon was struggling to keep in motion and earn some badly needed money by operating far over his legal limit of daily trucker driving hours.
