Black Diamond Page 6

  I walked her back to a chair and just let her collapse.

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  She just shook her head, almost too weak to say the word, “No.”

  “Stay there, Colleen.”

  I went into the kitchen and found the makings for what a physician friend of mine would have prescribed under the circumstances. I put four pieces of bread into the large toaster and turned the knob to “dark.” In a house with a child, it was no trick to find the peanut butter. Since one more cup of coffee would have eaten a hole through my stomach lining, I made each of us a cup of double strength tea, black with a splash of sugar for energy.

  When I came back to the living room with a tray, she gave it a glance that was less than eager.

  “You are about to be treated to my mother’s recipe for what’s ailing both of us. Peanut butter on toast, tea, and commiserating company to share it with.”

  She gave me a sidewise look.

  “I know your mother, Michael. She’d serve fried tortillas and salsa.”

  “This is the Irish equivalent. Danny would approve of the menu. In fact he’d insist that you eat. And you know it.”

  I set the tray down and took the first piece of toast. Reluctantly, she followed suit.

  I was glad to see her sit up straighter when she finished. It was approaching eleven thirty.

  When the mantel clock struck the half hour and the phone rang, we both jumped, even though it was what we were waiting for.

  “Let me take this one, Colleen.”

  She was on her feet beside me at the phone.

  “Okay, but I want to talk to Erin.”

  I steadied my voice for a quick hello.

  There was silence on the other end. All I could hear was slow breathing. In about four seconds I heard the sharp South Boston accent of Scully.

  “I said you had a death wish, lawyer. Looks like you’ve got a death wish for the kid too.”

  I wanted to go through the phone at him, but I wanted Erin’s life more. Besides, I’d clearly lost round one of physical combat with Scully. I prayed for control.

  “Nothing’s changed, Scully. You knew yesterday that I knew you were in on it. There are no police involved. If there’s any doubt, let me say it again. There’s only one thing in this world I want from you. I want Erin back unharmed. I’ll follow your demands to the letter. We both walk away, and no looking back.”

  Another four seconds before he spoke. I knew he was controlling an Irish temper that was aimed directly at me. He might also have realized that dealing with me was his best shot at avoiding a kidnapping charge, or God forbid, a murder charge in connection with Erin.

  “Ten thousand dollars. Cash. In a briefcase. Park Street subway. Wait at the bottom of the escalator. Eleven o’clock tonight. Exactly. You got that?”

  “I’ll be there. I’ll have it,”

  “The hell you will, lawyer. You’re out of it. The mother brings it. Alone. You hear me?”

  Alarms were going off like fire bells. Every nerve was screaming, Bad arrangement.

  “No. She’s been through enough. I’ll—”

  “Watch the papers tomorrow morning, lawyer. The police will have discovered the body of a kid.”

  “All right. All right. Whatever you want.”

  “Alone. One hint that she’s covered, and the deal’s off. Can you guess what that means?”

  “I know.”

  “That’s it. Eleven o’clock.”

  “Whoa. The hell that’s it. How do we get Erin back?”

  “That depends on how smooth the delivery goes.”

  “Scully, I’ve got two things you’d better hear. You’re on thin ice with Boyle. I think you’ve also screwed up with whomever you pulled this kidnapping for, because it clearly wasn’t Boyle. That ten thousand dollars is bullshit. You want that little girl off your hands as badly as I do. Get this. You have my absolute silence as long as we get Erin back unharmed. One small hint that it’s otherwise, and you can check the front page of the Globe for some publicity you can’t afford. That’s a promise.”

  “You make a lot of noise for someone who’s not holding any cards, lawyer. Don’t push me.”

  “Give back the girl, Scully, and I’ll have the pleasure of having nothing to do with you for the rest of my life. You have my word on that.”

  Another three seconds.

  “Eleven o’clock. Alone.”

  Click.

  Colleen was beside me trying to catch the conversation on both sides. I knew she caught the gist of it.

  “What about Erin? Is she all right? You didn’t ask to hear her.”

  “I’m sure she’s all right, Colleen. His life depends on it as much as hers. I don’t think she was with him or he’d have let us hear her to keep us in line.”

  What I didn’t say was that I didn’t press it because I didn’t want Colleen—or me—to hear her crying. It would tell us nothing about her condition. It could even have been a recording. And we needed to keep our emotions under control.

  “He wants you to deliver the money. I’ll put it together. Do you think you can go through with the delivery?”

  “Yes. Whatever it takes. How?”

  “Park Street Station tonight at eleven. I’ll pick you up here at ten.”

  My first stop was the in-town branch of my bank to draw out ten thousand dollars in cash. I figured I could get it faster than Colleen.

  I drew some comfort from the fact that Scully was clearly new to the business of kidnapping. He didn’t know enough to specify small denominations, old currency, unbound, unmarked, random serial numbers, no exploding dye—any of the usual precautions to prevent tracing. I was not about to educate him. The downside was that his inexperience could lead him to panic with Erin’s life if his plans went off track.

  I had the afternoon and evening to ride herd on nerves that were eating little craters in my insides. The best antidote was to accomplish something positive.

  I was at Suffolk Downs before post time for the third race. I checked the Globe and found that Alberto Ibanez, the jockey Vinnie Hernandez mentioned, was riding the favorite in that race. I watched the race from the rail as Alberto broke from the starting gate with his mount on top and went the six furlongs coast-to-coast, as they say, opening the lead steadily to win by four lengths.

  While Alberto went through the winner’s circle photo-taking with the trainer and the owners, I waited just beyond the weigh-in shed. I knew that as the winner, he’d be the last jockey to unsaddle. He’d also be the last to pass through the weigh-in scales to certify that the horse carried the right weight before the results of the race could be made official.

  I was alone at the rail beside the path Alberto would take to change silks for the next race. When he passed, I congratulated him in Spanish. He smiled and said, “Gracias.”

  I asked for his autograph and held out my program. Alberto was the second leading jockey at Suffolk, so the request was not unusual. He came over and signed his name with the pen I offered. I could see him reading the words I wrote over the place he signed: Vinnie Hernandez sent me. He said this could be the time you talked about. Can I see you?

  He handed the signed program back to me. I thanked him for the signature. He said, “De nada.” And nothing more.

  I watched him walk up the path, and realized that he’d be seeing Vinnie Hernandez in the jockey’s room.

  I was at the rail by the paddock for the saddling of the horses for the fourth race. Alberto never looked at me when he came out with the other jockeys to mount up. He just looked at the head of his horse when he rode by on the way from the paddock to the track.

  I stayed by the paddock rail, puzzling over a next move, when I saw Alberto’s groom, who sets out his change of silks and helps saddle his mounts, drift my way. He waived and said hello in Spanish like an old friend.

  I asked in a low, conspiratorial tone the question that is asked of grooms in the same tone fifty times a day by the bystan
ders—“Any good tips?”

  He responded in Spanish in the same tone, “Sure. Let me see your program.”

  He took my pen, wrote in the program, closed it, and handed it back. I saw what he wrote and must have reacted with a slightly stunned look. The groom just shrugged and went back to business.

  At exactly five thirty that evening, I paid the entrance fee and climbed the marble steps to the east wing of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. I knew my way to the room of Dutch masters. All of the tourists, copying artists, and class trips had abandoned the room in search of an evening meal.

  I could see the back of one man, seated on the bench in the center of the room gazing at Portrait of a Woman Wearing a Gold Chain by Rembrandt. He was alone in the room with the exception of the guard at the door. I sat on the bench beside him, although neither of us looked at the other. The guard was probably not within earshot, but we kept it in Spanish.

  “Alberto, my name is—”

  “I know, Mr. Knight. I spoke with Vinnie. You seem to have made an impression.”

  “Call me Michael. I’m representing Hector Vasquez.”

  “I know.”

  “Thank you for seeing me. You like Rembrandt?”

  There must have been just a taste of surprise in my voice. He gave me a sidewise glance.

  “What’s not to like? Tell you the truth, I’m more into Frans Hals. All those happy Dutch smiles.” He nodded to a Hals painting to the right. “You seem surprised.”

  I couldn’t help an uneasy smile. It seemed an occasion requiring truthfulness, even in details.

  “A little.”

  “Uh-huh. Jockeys are not supposed to appreciate art, right?”

  “I suppose they could. Nothing personal. I notice we’re not exactly surrounded by jockeys. I also suppose you picked this place because you figured it’s unlikely we’ll run into any other jockeys here, no?”

  He smiled. “Touché. Would it be offensive to notice that we’re not exactly up to our elbows in lawyers either?”

  This time the smile was real. Some ice had been broken. For some reason, I felt on steady ground talking to this man.

  “I wish I had longer, Alberto, but I don’t. Cards on the table. Hector is being charged with murder because Danny Ryan’s death occurred in the course of what the D.A. wants to call a felony. The felony is a form of racketeering. She claims the race was fixed.”

  “What did Hector say? I’m sure you asked him.”

  “Hector is scared out of his wits and protecting his hindquarters. If I asked him if he’d ever jaywalked, he’d deny it. I need the truth about the race. If I don’t get it, and I walk into that courtroom without it, the D.A.’ll blindside me in ways that’ll kill us with the jury.”

  “So you’re asking me?”

  “Vinnie Hernandez gave me your name. Let me tell you what I think. Whatever happened to Danny Ryan to knock him off that horse was connected to fixing the race. Hector’s horse won, so I have to believe that’s how it was set up. But Hector says he didn’t touch Danny. For no particularly good reason, I believe him. That’s why I took the case.”

  He said nothing, but his eyes were glued on me.

  “I need to know who was behind the fix. I figure if this race was set up, it’s not the first time. Quite likely, it happens on some regular basis. That would mean you jockeys, to give you the benefit of the doubt, are under the thumb of someone who can pull your strings whenever it suits him. How’m I doing, Alberto?”

  He looked back at the Rembrandt in silence. I gave him the slack.

  “You have a family, Mr. Knight?”

  “Michael.”

  “I’ll stick to Mr. Knight till I know you better. We’re not pals yet. Same question.”

  “I have people I care about.”

  He nodded. “So do I.” He stopped there.

  “I think I get the picture. You jump when you’re told to—which means pulling your horse—or there are threats. I assume the threats come from an organization you believe can carry them out. How do you and the others feel about that?”

  He looked around and found that the guard had moved to the adjoining room. Alberto was on his feet directly in front of me.

  “I hear you did some exercise riding, Mr. Knight. Ever ride in a race?”

  “No.”

  He nodded, and turned back to the Rembrandt.

  “Think about this. A Thoroughbred can hit forty miles an hour. We balance on two little strips of metal and ride so close to the cleats of the horse ahead they sometimes click hooves. When they do, one horse or the other usually goes down. That puts the jockey under the horses coming from behind. There isn’t one of us that hasn’t been in the hospital. Broken bones, worse. Could happen every time we take a leg up on a horse for a race.”

  “I know what you’re saying.”

  “No, you don’t. Hear the rest. We love racing, the sport, so much that there isn’t one of us would give it up for anything in the world. We love to compete for the win seven, eight times a day, and we forget the danger.”

  “Alberto—”

  “Just listen.”

  His emotion was generating a heat I could almost feel.

  “How would you like to sit on a horse in the starting gate, knowing you’re risking being crippled for life before that horse crosses the wire, and being told there’s no point to it. You have to lose the race. You’re asking me how we feel about having the thing we love enough to risk everything for turned into a damned toy for a bunch of gangsters.”

  I hesitated to push it, but it was all cards on the table.

  “I have to ask. Do you get paid to lose? Do you take the money?”

  There was a fire in his eyes when he said it. “Yes. Now ask me why?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Because if any of us didn’t take the money, they’d think we refused the fix. We could find one of our family dead. We know that.”

  I got up and stood close enough to whisper.

  “Alberto, you and Vinnie Hernandez talked about ending it. Suppose I could give you a way to do that. Suppose I could give you an assurance that your family would be safe.”

  “What kind of assurance?”

  “I’m working on that. Suppose I could satisfy you. Could you get the other jockeys to band together against this?”

  “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

  “So I keep hearing. I’m learning. I won’t come to you until I’m sure. When I do, will you work with me?”

  I could see the faintest light in his eyes, and the beginnings of a smile.

  “Who the hell are you, Mr. Knight?”

  “I’m someone who wants you to call him Michael”

  I held out my hand. He hesitated but finally took it.

  “I’ll say this much. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen, Michael.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I was back at the office just before six that evening for a muchneeded conference with my senior partner. I breezed into his office, oblivious to the head scabs I still carried from my tête-à-tête with Scully.

  “What the hell, Michael?”

  “Looks worse than it is. Little bar incident. Good as new.”

  I sat while he insisted on examining the dents. I sometimes wondered if he went to law school or medical school. When he saw fit to release me from the Devlin Clinic, I told him the whole story, beginning again with Boyle to put it in context, and ending with my quasi commitment to Alberto Ibanez. There was no point this time in not touching on the Scully run-in.

  “We have to see our client, Mr. Devlin. Can you get us past Billy Coyne?”

  “We’ll see. What’s your theory?”

  “I don’t have one. Yet. If Hector didn’t knock Danny out of the saddle, who did? There were riders behind him, but how could they reach him?”

  Mr. D. was leaning back in his desk chair in his heavy thinking position looking at Boston Harbor.

  “I’ve seen that race film a dozen times. I
can’t see how it happened.”

  “I’ve seen it two dozen times. I can’t either.”

  “Could he have been shot with something from a distance? He fell to the left, so it had to come from the right. Someone by the rail or in the stands?”

  “I thought of that. It had to hit him pretty hard to send him out of the saddle. That means it would have left a mark.”

  “Billy Coyne sent over the autopsy report this morning. I scanned it. No mention of a mark.”

  “They may not have looked for it if it wasn’t fatal. Can we get our own medical examination?”

  “We can and will. I filed a motion in court this morning to allow an independent examination of the body. Billy assented to it, and the judge allowed it. Dr. Gregg’s doing it this afternoon.”

  “Good. That could help clear Hector.”

  “It’s a dream, Michael. Don’t count on it. That would have been one hell of a shot at a moving target, in public. Besides, Billy Coyne’s sharp. I’m sure he had the coroner check for the same thing the first time around.”

  “It seemed like a good straw, and we are grasping.”

  “Granted.”

  “At least we know this much. The race was fixed for Hector’s horse to win. Hector was obviously in on the fix.”

  “Which he denies. Will you believe me now that clients lie to us?”

  The debate that started the first day I walked into Mr. D.’s office was raising its head for another round, with me on the short end.

  “Not to get sidetracked, Mr. Devlin, the next question is who was behind the fix.”

  He grinned at my end run, knowing he had scored a few points for his side. I pressed on.

  “From what Ibanez implied, I get the idea these race fixings happen with some regularity. Whoever’s pulling it is connected enough to have all those jockeys scared stiff.”

  “Smells like organized crime. But which group?”

  “That’s the twist. I’m certain Erin’s kidnapping is connected to that fixed race. We know Scully is up to his ears in the kidnapping. That should lead us to Boyle. But it doesn’t. As I read Boyle, he never heard of Erin Ryan.”

  “So what do you hope to get from our mendacious client?”

  “Maybe with a little pressure he’ll tell us who’s behind fixing that race. Behind all the fixes. And why the dead end at Scully.”