Authors: John McEvoy
The smooth, tree-shaded country road wound past pastures dotted with horses of every shade that thoroughbreds come in. Frisky yearlings romped in fields separated by white fences from those occupied by their mothers, who were now occupied parenting this year's foals. Doyle slowed the Accord and crossed a narrow, stone bridge over a slowly flowing creek. The directions he'd been given were precise and accurate. He turned off the highway and onto a long, curving drive that led up to an impressive white mansion. Gables, balconies, shutters, chimneys, tall wide windows. “Tara Midwest,” he said to himself.
Doyle parked between a white Rolls-Royce and a red Jeep, both polished and gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. He tossed his car keys on the floor of the Accord, closed its door, and paused to look back and take in the array of flower beds that divided the long, wide, green lawn leading to the entrance.
Up three marble steps to the broad oak door, he was met by a traditionally dressed maid, white pinafore over black outfit, who told him “Ms. Esther” could be found “down at the stables behind this house.”
Walking down the gravel drive, Doyle heard a horse nicker nearby. The pleasant odor of new-mown hay hung in the warm summer air. The drive circled around an island of green grass. On each side of it there was a one-story white brick stable with six stalls. Watching him approach from in front of one of the wood-lined stalls was a diminutive woman wearing a white tee-shirt, brown jodhpurs, and dark glasses perched atop her head of auburn curls. She had large, brown eyes widely spaced in a narrow face. Her bare arms were tanned and taut. The long face of a chestnut horse rested on her right shoulder. She was nonchalantly massaging the horse's nose with her left hand.
“Ms. Ness? I'm Jack Doyle. Good afternoon.”
She paused before answering, looking him up and down.
“When Pat Caldwell called to tell me you wanted to speak with me, I was at first reluctant. Then I thought, what the hell? I haven't met an interesting man in ages. By the way, how is the âVoice of Heartland Downs'?”
“Mr. Caldwell is in fine fettle. He sends his regards. As for me, I don't know how interesting you're going to find me. I just need to ask you a few questions. As I think Pat Caldwell told you, I am helping authorities trying to find the person or persons killing thoroughbred horses at vet schools.”
He saw her wince at his mention of the dead equines. She composed herself. Giving the obviously pleased horse a final pat, she said, “There's a nice bench around the corner. It sits under a willow and overlooks our creek.”
Doyle swatted at a buzzing mosquito near his right ear. “Damn. I'm a target for these damn things. Could we sit inside someplace instead?”
Esther smiled. She had a confident look about her, Doyle thought, that would fend off any impertinent insects. “Let's go to my office.”
She strode rapidly slightly in front of him without saying anything. He glanced several times at her face, which seemed to him to be right on that interesting border between pretty and plain. It was an intriguing face, warranting repeated looks. She turned for a stride or two to glance back at him, apparently amused by his interest.
The office was around the back of this barn in a long, wide, obviously added-on extension. An elderly, brown-skinned gardener looked up from his trimming of the thick hedges outside the building's door.
“Buenos tardes, Pedro.”
The man doffed his wide-brimmed hat in response and moved to open the door, but Esther waved him off with a smile.
Doyle said, “Dress Pedro in white shirt and pants, he'd look like one of the Mexican peasants in the old movie
Viva Zapata
.”
She pushed open the door and walked in ahead of him. “Pedro is a valued employee, Mr. Doyle. He has been here since my father hired him more than thirty years ago. Still doing the same excellent work on our grounds as he always has. There's nothing âpeasant' about him. His two children are both college graduates.”
Doyle considered asking “if Pedro would thank Cesar Chavez for that, or just your beneficent daddy?” but refrained.
***
The office air conditioner was a model of efficiency. Felt good to Doyle.
Esther sat down behind her large, paper-littered desk and picked up the phone. She began to dial, saying, “I've got to make a quick call. Please relax for a minute, Mr. Doyle.”
He used the time to eye the walls covered with photos of his hostess aboard horses in numerous equine competitions. He figured she must have been a young teenager in the early shots of her wearing white shirt, black coat, black helmet, aboard a succession of impressive looking horses. She was advancingly older in other frames, but still poised and sure on different steeds.
This photographic panorama covered three walls of the paneled room. Along the forty-five-foot long fourth wall stretched glass cases packed with trophies. He heard her say, “Great, my darling. I'll meet you there at seven,” before she hung up the phone. She sat back in her desk chair, placed her booted feet upon the desk top, and laced her hands across her waist. “Now, then, I know why you're here, Mr. Doyle. It's about those horses dying at vet schools.”
“Call me Jack. Did Pat Caldwell mention to you that I was aiding the FBI in this matter?”
“The Voice of Heartland Downs is not my sole source of information, Jack,” she said sharply. “I know very well why you are here.”
Doyle sat back in his chair and turned to toss his sport coat up toward a nearby coat rack that sported a black porcelain horse head on its top. His coat covered it. “I'll make this quick, Ms. Ness.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “I think you, Esther Ness, ex-debutante, current socialite and equestrian and charity ball fixture, might well be involved in these murders of horses you claim to love so well. That's why I'm here.”
Esther yanked her boots off the desk and jerked forward in her chair. Her face was flushed beneath its tan. “Murders?” she hissed. “You call those events, those horse deaths, murders?”
She caught herself and sat back in her chair, taking a deep breath. Her confident small smile reappeared. She waited.
“I've never been a champion at semantics,” Doyle said. “Some animal dies involuntarily, it's either disease, or accidental death, or murder as far as I'm concerned. Maybe somebody else would term them mercy killings. Maybe even somebody like you.
“I've seen this impressive place of yours,” Doyle continued. “I've seen the evidence of your long and continuing involvement with horses. All I'm here for today is to find out if, perhaps, you know something about these âevents' as you term them. Or âhorse fatalities.' Maybe you could point me, and the FBI, in some kind of useful direction looking for the villain. Or villainess.”
Other than the tightening of Esther's lips, there was no reaction. He pressed on. “Look, I kind of understand the stated philosophy behind this ALWD movement. Nobody likes to see horses being hurt. But the ones in these vet school studies aren't being harmed by the experimental treatments. They are well cared for animals. They're not suffering. Until, that is, the mysterious killer sneaks up on them.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Doyle. That's your view?” She stood up and walked the few steps to a window overlooking the back paddock now occupied by a pair of her showhorses that were calmly grazing. Back turned to him, she took another deep breath. Then she pivoted to face him, brown eyes blazing.
“You don't think that the probing, prodding, of helpless, captive horses is intrusive and against nature? I don't care what they say that the potential useful results of such research could be! It's still something horses should not ever be subjected to. That's my opinion.” Doyle saw she was fired up. He waited.
“That doesn't mean I completely countenance the mercy killings,” she concluded as she returned to her chair, composure regained.
“You don't âcompletely' countenance them? What the hell does that mean?” Doyle snapped. “Do you partially approve of them?”
She sighed. “I would have thought that my putting up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of your âkiller' would be enough to show where I stand.”
“And where
is
that?”
“I'm primarily on the side of the horse. Always have been. But, no matter how much I abhor these wonderful creatures being treated like helpless lab rats, I do not necessarily agree when ALWD declares the murders to be justified. They
are
attacks on property that does not belong to anyone but the schools to which the horses have been donated, or the owners of the horses who donated them.”
Her phone rang. She said, “Just a second, Barb, I'm with someone.” Putting the receiver down, she said, “That's all I have to say about this matter, Mr. Doyle. So, if you'll excuse me⦔
“So, we're back to
Mr.
Doyle.” He stood up and plucked his coat off the top of the rack. “My FBI agent friends might have a few more questions for you, Ms. Ness.”
“If they do, they can contact my attorneys. I'm not a fan of such interviews.”
Doyle, irritated, said, “Well, the government has lawyers, too.”
Esther laughed. “Oh, I'm well aware of that. When my father was involved in a spurious case years ago, his lawyers knocked down the government opposition like, well, like tenpins. You get what you pay for,” she added.
Doyle stood up. “I'm going to give you my cell phone number. I'd appreciate it if you'd call me if you happen to get any information about the horse killer. Okay?”
She wrote the number down before saying dismissively, “Couldn't I Twitter you if I hear anything?”
“Esther, I don't look at Twitter. I decided long ago that was a waste of my time. Reading a lot of those messages, it seemed to me they were being written by thirty-five-year-old bachelors who had never made it anywhere. They'd like to beat their dogs, but they don't even have dogs. So they tweet.”
Back in his Accord, he sat back in his seat, irritated with himself for being so irritated with this woman. F. Scott Fitzgerald's Daisy Buchanan, he remembered, had a “voice full of money.” Ms. Ness' monied voice to him sounded full of confidence, privilege, and invulnerability.
All the natural beauty visible on his drive out of Barrington Hills was lost on Doyle. He didn't like the fact that he had, really, nothing useful to report to Karen and Damon. The reward that Esther Ness, possible suspect, had offered could be for real, or could be a smokescreen.
On Highway 14 going toward the Edens, his phone buzzed. Caller ID showed it was Nora. He said hello, wait a second, and pulled into a 7-11 parking lot. “This is a kick. I don't get many international calls. What's up?”
Nora said, “I can't talk now. But I've sent you an e-mail you should look at as soon as you can. Where are you?”
“Fleeing the boonies. I'll be home in about, oh, forty minutes. Did you get that info I asked for?”
“Heh, heh. Is poteen the water of life? Of course I did. You're dealing with a trained reporter here. Got to go. I'm on assignment as a stringer for the
Irish Times
. Some clerical big shot is going to announce another grand settlement in a series of priestly child abuse cases. They're not doing this in Dublin. I'm on the outskirts of Limerick.”
Doyle said, “If an admission of guilt is forthcoming far away from the capital, will it be heard?”
“If
I've
got anything to do about it, and I do, it will. Talk to you tomorrow after you've digested my report about the Shamrock Off-Course Wagering corporate structure. It will give you quite a bit to chew on. In fact, Jack,” she giggled, “I would not be at all surprised to see you back here in your ancestral homeland pretty darn quick. Bye.”
Aer Lingus flight 582 approached Cork International Airport poking through a layer of thick, early morning fog that obscured the landscape below.
“Not unusual, you know,” remarked Jack Doyle's seatmate, a slim, well-dressed septuagenarian who had introduced himself as Seamus Scanlon soon after their takeoff from O'Hare Airport the night before. Doyle initially feared he was going to be in the seven-hour presence of a too-talkative Irishman. But that was not the case. After a minute or two of introductory chatter, Scanlon plugged in earphones and soon went to sleep. When he awoke an hour later, he yawned, smiled at Jack, and picked up his paperback copy of an Edna O'Brien novel and began to read. Another bit of chat during dinner was the extent of their conversation until now.
“Cork Airport is a bit more than five hundred feet above sea level,” Scanlon informed. “Sometimes, like this morning, it's prone to foggy conditions and low cloud ceiling. This can cause delays, like this one. We are circling now, as I'm sure you're aware. If the fog doesn't give us an opening, we'll be diverted to either Shannon or Dublin. That happens every so often.”
Doyle said, “You must be a veteran of these weather-related maneuvers. You don't seem too concerned.”
“Aw, sure, this has happened to me before,” the little Irishman smiled. “It's not what you would term a Big Deal. You learn to live with it.” He turned back to his book.
There was the
thunk
of airplane wheels being dropped. “Ah,” Scanlon said. “Good. We're going to land here in Cork.”
Once the plane was on the tarmac and parked at the gate, Scanlon rose first and opened the overhead bin. “Do you have something up here?”
“It's a dark green carry-on,” Doyle said. “Thanks. But I'll get it.” Scanlon deftly snatched Doyle's carry-on out of the bin and presented it to him.
Standing in the aisle, they waited while passengers in front of them, many young folks, wrestled down lunks of luggage. Three young women had to be helped retrieving their bulging carry-on cases. Doyle and Scanlon waited patiently.
“You've observed this irritating drill before, I assume,” Scanlon said.
“All too frequently,” Doyle sighed. “All the time spent struggling with these heavy carry-ons could undoubtedly be better spent awaiting the checked items at the carousel inside.”
Scanlon checked his watch as they waited in the aisle. “So, Mr. Doyle, are you here for business or pleasure?”
Doyle smiled as the line finally advanced. “Pleasurable business is what I hope it will be, Mr. Scanlon. Great meeting you.”
***
The Cork Airport Customs Line for non-European citizens moved more briskly than its Dublin counterpart, Doyle thought. The heavyset, middle-aged woman examining his passport looked up and smiled, “You're back quite quickly now, are you not, Mr. Doyle?”
He leaned forward to peer at her identification badge. “Aw, Maeve, you just can't keep me away from this treasure of a country.”
She stamped his passport and pushed it through the slot. “On with you now,” she said with a laugh.
***
His suitcase retrieved, Doyle bought a bottle of water from the first concession stand he saw. His flight had landed almost thirty minutes prior to the arrival time he'd given Barry Hoy. He found an empty bench near the Arrivals Entrance where Hoy said he would look for him. Ignoring the happy chatter of travelers being enthusiastically greeted in this foyer area, he unpacked his laptop and reviewed once again Nora Sheehan's e-mail.
“Here's the Shamrock information you wanted,” she'd written. “Hope it helps. Hope to see you soon.”
The detailed report that followed was what had so quickly caused Jack to return to Ireland, seriously fearful for Niall Hanratty's life. The previous failed assaults on the bookmaker had not stimulated in Doyle the level of concern this document had.
Nora's research revealed that Niall's bookmaking empire Papers of Registration had not been changed since the original filing at the inception of the company fifteen years previous.
At Shamrock's inception, Hanratty owned eighty-eight percent of the privately held stock in this now extremely prosperous firm. Two percent had originally been assigned to Barry Hoy “in perpetuity.” The remaining ten percent had been designated for Anthony X. Rourke, with a codicil stating that Rourke's percentage would be increased by five percent to be deducted annually from Hanratty's after every one of the company's first five profitable years. Also, as Nora had bold-faced, “Anthony X. Rourke was to be made a partner with ownership in one-third of Shamrock if and when the company recorded ten profitable years in succession. In the case of Niall Hanratty's passing, managing control of Shamrock Corporation would go to A.X. Rourke.”
Nora emphasized at the end of her e-mail, “This âmanaging control' bit is the stick-out item. That could lead to the âmanaging controller' transforming the setup completely. I can't believe this thing is so loosely written. I guess because it was based on a great deal of trust between Hanratty and Rourke. Always, from what I've observed, a mistakenly way of doing business.
“Obviously,” Nora concluded, “Niall Hanratty had enormous faith and trust in Tony Rourke when this document was signed. And, vice versa. But the papers were never amended to show that Rourke received his full partnership.”
Doyle turned off his computer. Could anything in this document represent a motive for murder?
Sure
, he thought, if
the promise to Rourke of a full
partnership was not for some reason kept.
A talented man's ambition thwarted?
Hell, yes, that could develop into a motive for revenge.
So lost in thought was Doyle that he turned only an instant before Barry Hoy's hand gripped his shoulder. The big Irishman was grinning. “Must be the jet lag that's slowed you down so, Jack. For a man usually so wary, you caught nary a glimpse of me sneaking up behind you.”
They shook, Doyle's right hand nearly disappearing into Hoy's grasp. Neither of these two former boxers was at all interested in macho hand shaking. Too many past busted knuckles involved. “I didn't see you coming, Barry. I was lost in what for me counts as thought.”
Hoy snatched up Doyle's bag. “We're over this way.”
“I don't know how you ever lost a bout with those huge mitts you've got, Barry,” Doyle said as they walked out of the terminal.
Hoy laughed. “Hands of Stone I was called in my early boxing days in Dublin's fight clubs. Like a Hibernian version of the great Panamanian fighter Roberto Duran. And there was at least a bit of truth to that. I could flatten them if I could hit them. What observers failed to add, and I had to take in from painful experience, was that âHands of Stone,' in my case, also was found to have âChin of Glass.'”
Doyle smiled as he looked at the rueful expression on the big man's face at these recollections. “You've got to laugh a bit, Barry, having a ring career that could be summed up on the slips of paper in a couple of fortune cookies.”
They walked to where Hoy said he was parked in a marked area that was being watched over by a youthful airport traffic officer.
Hoy waved at the man. “That's a cousin of mine. I got him the job here.”
Settled into the front seat of the black Ford Escort, Doyle buckled up as Hoy sped onto the airport exit ramp.
“I'm not positive that our man is going to be off to Dublin. I think so, but I'm not sure. That's why I want to watch for him up on the E-20. Outside our Kinsale office the other day, I heard him whispering into his cell phone about an afternoon meeting today up there. He mentioned the exact time, and I remembered it. He never noticed my overhearing. He'll have to go out of Cork on this road to get there.”