here calls the horse Boomer. I know that can’t be his real name, but I’ve not been able to find any record of him in the farm’s files.
“He’s a big, strong youngster, and from what I’ve seen of him, he can run like hell. But I don’t see that much of him, and that’s another strange thing.”
Doyle said, “What do you mean, you don’t see much of him?”
“You know that piece of the property I told you about called the Annex?” Bolger said. “It’s a couple of hundred acres about five miles west of here. That’s where Rexroth keeps his oldest mares and, for some reason, this horse you just saw working out. He’s got him hidden out there back of beyond.
“I don’t know bugger all about this Boomer-why he isn’t up with the racing stable, why he’s being kept here,” Bolger said. “I asked Rexroth about this. Twice, I did. Both times, he said that it was a matter of no concern to me. The second time he made it quite clear that he didn’t want to be asked again.
“So,” Bolger said, “I don’t know what the hell’s going on with him. The jock flies all the way down here from Chicago to work him at least once a week. But Arroyo won’t talk about Boomer, either. One day I tacked up the horse myself and had him ready for Arroyo when he drove in. Willie just nodded pleasant like at me and, when I asked something about how the horse felt to him, he motioned for me to give him a leg up to the saddle and trotted off, as if he hadn’t heard my question. S’truth, Jack, there’s something wonky going on with this horse.”
Doyle sat back in the leather chair, holding a half-finished can of beer. He let thoughts of the brown colt drift away as he attempted to review everything he’d seen that busy day. Then he said to Bolger, “If I remember a tenth of what I’ve heard and seen today, we’ll both be lucky.”
Bolger smiled at Doyle. “I know, it’s far too much to take in completely. And that’s for anybody, not just a city creature like yourself.
“The major piece of advice I can offer you, Jack,” Bolger continued, “is keep your mouth shut as much as possible. That will both enhance your learning and conceal your ignorance. No offense meant, by the way.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” Doyle responded glumly. “If I can pull off this caper, masquerade successfully as a knowledgeable horseman, well, I’ll deserve an Academy Award.”
“You deserve another cold lager just for listening to me all day,” said Bolger. “C’mon, lad, let’s go up to my place and put our feet up on the porch railing.”
Now, standing in the convenience store parking lot, Doyle wondered if the exasperation he felt was evident in his voice as he said, “There’s been no sign of anything out of the ordinary.”
He heard the click of another extension, then Damon’s voice. “Jack, you can’t rush this sort of thing. Just take it easy. Do the work that Bolger gives you to do. As I understand it, a lot of it will be clerical work and phone calls, done in his office-stuff you can easily handle. I know Bolger’s told his workers that you’ve been brought in to ease his burden of paperwork.
“Just go about your business quietly, with a strong hold on that Irish temper of yours,” Damon advised.
Doyle held the phone receiver away from his face. He looked at the setting sun, which had ribboned the invading dark with bold streaks of deep gold. He took a deep breath.
“If I need a lecture on rage-control, and I don’t think so, I wouldn’t ask for one from a representative of one of God’s most hotheaded tribes. Talkin’ to you, Tirabasssi,” Doyle said.
Karen said, “Jack, take it easy, we’re just.…”
“I’m doing the talking right now, lady,” Doyle said, still seething. “You’re up there in civilization, hundreds of miles from the inaction. Don’t lay this ‘take it easy’ crap on me.” He paused to exhale, then took another deep breath. There was silence on the other end.
“All right. Okay,” Doyle said. “Maybe that was a little harsh. But what you’ve got to keep in mind is, this is getting real old in a big hurry. Remember, I’m a city boy. Down here, the only bright lights are over the barn entrances. You hear what I’m saying, Damon?
“I’ve been out to eat five times, man, and let me tell you, there’s only so much chicken-fried steak, or steak- fried chicken, or mush puppies or whatever, that I can handle.
“You ever hear of something called a ‘Kentucky hot brown’?” he asked. “I didn’t think so. I’ll spare you the description.”
More silence on the other end. Doyle exhaled, feeling his blood pressure and anger levels descending steadily. He scuffed one of his western boots in the gravel of the parking lot. “Okay, folks,” he said in a normal voice, “I’m done. Rant’s over. Lost my cool, there, but it’s come back. Go ahead, either one of you.”
Karen said, “How about Bolger? How’s he doing with this? And with you?”
“Fine,” Doyle replied. “Actually, he’s a real good guy-and plenty sharp. He’s got it set up so that I never do any work that would reveal my astounding ignorance of the breeding farm business.
“To tell you the truth, though, I think he’s getting a little tired of babysitting me. And we don’t ever go out at nights, get off the farm, except Fridays. The rest of the time he pretty much stays home in his house there, with his sister and her kids.
“I’ve had dinner over there several times. Must say that I’ve enjoyed those family evenings, as alien to me as they might seem, if you know what I mean,” Doyle said. Damon coughed on the other end of the line, but said nothing.
Doyle paused as a red pickup, its truck bed replete with teenage boys, came to a sliding halt near where he was standing. He tried to wave away the cloud of dust thrown up by the truck’s wheels. The driver hit the horn twice to emphasize his arrival.
“What’s that?” Damon said sharply.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Just some of your local youths, stopping to pick up some suds.” What the hell else do they have to do out here in the country, Doyle thought to himself, ride around and count hay bales? He fleetingly recalled stories he’d read about a popular rural pastime involving tipping over cows as they stood, sleeping on their feet, in their pastures.
Damon said, “Jack, any sign of the ex-jockey we told you to keep an eye out for? Ronald Mortvedt?”
“Nothing,” Doyle said. “There’s plenty of those little guys around here, but they’re involved in breaking and training the horses. Aldous knows them all. I told him what you told me about Mortvedt, so he’s got an idea of what to look for.”
It was after Karen and Damon had returned from Louisiana and their trip to Cajun country, and prior to Doyle’s departure for Kentucky, that they had met with Doyle and briefed him on the background, habits, and criminal dossier of Ronald Mortvedt. The agents had not had any luck in locating Mortvedt, but everything they heard about Mortvedt had served to make him a possible suspect. He “profiled out big time” was how Damon phrased it.
“One of the New Orleans racetrack snitches told our man down there he heard Mortvedt was doing business with some rich Yankee horse owner. From what we’ve learned, Mortvedt could very well be the guy doing the horse killing for Rexroth,” Damon had said, adding: “And be careful if you ever spot this guy. He may be about half the size of Randy Kauffman, but from what we’ve heard of him, this little sucker may be twice as bad as that oaf.”
Over the Wildcat-Jiffy-Shopper phone, Doyle heard Karen ask, “How often do you see Rexroth?”
“Every two, three days.”
“Does he ever say anything to you? Pay any attention to you?”
Doyle said, “Not really. I’m not saying he’s not polite. He knows who I am. He always says hello. But he’s usually in and out of the barn area in a few minutes. Sometimes he’ll grab a cup of coffee in Bolger’s office, or have that Neanderthal, Kauffman, get it for him, but he never stays around to drink it.
“It’s almost as if Rexroth needs to take a quick inventory every day or so-you know, to make sure all his toys are in place.”
Karen said something, but Doyle couldn’t hear her over the noise made by the departing red pickup truck. It looked to Doyle as if the truck-bed attendance count had almost doubled. Maybe they’re on a recruiting drive, he thought, need some extra hands to help topple a big Black Angus.
Doyle said, “I’ve got one piece of intelligence for you regarding Rexroth.” Doyle was grinning now. He could almost feel the high level of expectation emanating from the two FBI agents.
He waited until Damon said, impatiently, “Well, what
“You know the poolside rollerblading setup I told you about before? With the naked girls? Rexroth’s secretary, Stoner, told me something interesting the other day concerning that.
“Aldous had asked me to go up to the big house to deliver some notes he’d made about broodmares, mares
