The Significant Seven (21 page)

Chapter Forty-One

August 11, 2009

Doyle walked into Petros’ Restaurant, waved at Darla the waitress, and went to his regular booth. Minutes later, Damon Tirabassi hurried through the door and slid into the booth across from Doyle, who said, “Coffee?” Doyle signaled Darla.

“Where’s Karen?”

“She’s in D.C.,” Tirabassi said, “meeting with the director about one of our cases.”

“Obviously not the sponger case, since we’ve gotten nowhere with that.”

“Obviously,” Tirabassi said.

They sat in silence until Darla brought their coffees and took their breakfast orders. Then Doyle said, “What other case?”

Tirabassi frowned. “You think I could tell you if I wanted to? Forget it. Just keep in mind that various segments of Illinois politics will keep FBI agents busy here for years. The newspaper business may be dying. Not the corruption business.” He set his cup down. “That’s enough talk about that. What did you want to see me about?”

“Well,” Doyle started, “I’ve been up and down the Heartland Downs backstretch every day in the past few weeks. I’ve talked to trainers I know, some I didn’t, plus grooms and hot walkers and security people. You can add on bartenders, waitresses, mutuel clerks, veterinarians and their assistants and, in one case, Travis Hawkins, a blacksmith. The entire result of this research has been
nada
. Major
nada.

“Whoever is doing the sponging must be like a ghost. Never seen, never suspected. It
has
to be somebody good with horses. That,” Doyle said, finishing his coffee, “narrows the list of suspects down to about two thousand. Damon, I’ve got to say it: this assignment you’ve given me is a no-hoper—unless the sponger makes a major mistake. And I wouldn’t bet on that happening.”

Tirabassi spun his coffee cup, eyes down, shaking his head. “The Bureau brass in D.C. are laying a lot of pressure on our boss here, Dave Goodman. And he’s transferring it to Karen and me. The big boys hate to read about fixed races. Some of them in D.C. go back almost to days of J. Edgar, who was a big horse-racing fan.”

“He had reserved boxes at racetracks all around the country is what I’ve read,” Doyle said. “And he was a big bettor.”

“And an occasional night-time cross dresser,” Tirabassi replied with an embarrassed grin. “You didn’t hear me say that, Jack,” he added.

“Say what?”

Tirabassi nibbled at his raisin toast as Doyle concentrated on Petros’ new special-of-the-house breakfast offering, “A Greek burrito, with gyros and goat cheese and olives and etcetera,” as it was described on the menu.

“I don’t know how you can eat like that and still move your limbs in the afternoon,” Tirabassi said.

“Hey, if I didn’t eat like this, I wouldn’t be able to,” Doyle said.

Darla swept past, dropping the check in the middle of the table, like a hockey ref letting go of the puck at the start of a period. Doyle reacted at once, sliding the piece of paper on to Tirabassi’s place mat.

Tirabassi shrugged and picked it up. “The Bureau can expense this out,” he said. “Ready to go?”

“No. Let me ask you something. You have any thoughts or theories about all these horse-racing partners, The Significant Seven, dying off so rapidly? “

Tirabassi said, “Sure, I’ve read about that. Very strange. But there’s never been a criminal complaint that I know of. Nothing has come to us. How many have died?”

“Five. In the span of a couple of months. Pretty fucking weird.”

Tirabassi waved Darla back. “One more coffee refill, please,” he said. She was quick about it.

Tirabassi said, “I’ve had a few cases where partnerships went very bad. Old friends, new friends, acquaintances, whatever. One of them would wind up killing another of them, or trying to get somebody to do it for him, or burn down the failing business. It always, always, had to do with money. One partner needed cash badly for whatever reason—women, gambling debts, escape from his boring life. He’d try to get it by somehow stealing, or raiding, or getting control of the partnership’s assets. In the worst sort of way. There is crap like that going on all the time.”

“I can’t see that applying to this Significant Seven stuff,” Doyle said. “I mean, these guys were friends since college, and on. Years and years. And starting what, six, seven years back, they started making tons of money in horse racing. All divided up equally from what I know.”

Tirabassi said, “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe the divisions of the spoils, or profits, is not as much as some of them, or maybe one them, wants. Greed plays a big role in these scenarios.” Tirabassi made a weak attempt to slide their breakfast check back to Doyle, but Jack caught his wrist and stopped him. Doyle said, “I’ll take care of the tip.”

Tirabassi gave Darla his Bureau-issued credit card. He signed the receipt and placed his copy in his well worn wallet before saying to Doyle, “You know what a Tontine is?”

“Say again?”

“Tontine.”

Doyle laughed. “My old man used to tell me about the Lone Ranger and his faithful companion Tonto. Is that what you’re talking? Are you kidding me?”

Tirabassi’s jaw set. “Would you pay some attention to me, Jack? I’m serious about this.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Back in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, there was a brilliant banker in Italy. I think Naples. Maybe not. Anway, his name was Leonardo Tontine.”

Doyle said, “I thought Italy only had one memorable Leonardo.”

“Don’t be such a smart-ass. Now that I think of it, I’m sure the man’s name wasn’t Leonardo, it was Lorenzo. Lorenzo Tontine. You want to hear this or not?”

Doyle said, “Damon, please proceed.” He sat back in the booth, arms crossed, a model of receptivity

“Lorenzo Tontine’s brilliant idea was for a money fund that a group of people would contribute to over the years. It was kind of like insurance, or a lottery. That kind of idea was pretty rare back then. From what I’ve read, Lorenzo couldn’t get his scheme going in Italy, so he went to France with it, and he found people there who were interested. The idea was that the last surviving member of the group of contributors to the fund would wind up with all the benefits. He was able to get quite a number of people, rich people only, of course, interested and involved in this. Naturally, Tontine took a cut of the action.”

Doyle said, “So, people put in money. Monthly? Annually?”

“I think Tontine had different programs for different groups. Listen, this guy was a tremendous hustler and salesman. He made plenty setting this thing up. As I said, he sold it as a form of insurance, an annuity. And it worked. People liked it. Especially the last man standing. Tontine got a whole bunch of these deals going before he died.”

“Did he invest in them?”

Tirabassi said, “Not that I know of. But I guarantee you that Lorenzo skimmed his percentage off the gross. Very bright guy.”

Doyle sat back in the booth, arms extended over its back, thinking. He said, “What we’re talking here with this Tontine set-up is, essentially, one final winner. Right? The so-called last man standing gets all the money in the deal they created?”

“From what you’ve told me about The Significant Seven’s deal, yeah, I guess it is a Tontine situation. Among people who trust each other. They must have thought they were doing the right thing when they set this up. They were very fortunate men who made a lot of unexpected money in horse racing, deciding to give back to the sport, right? I’m sure they never imagined that the Tontine would be so, well, accelerated by all these deaths. Weird,” Tirabassi said. He got up out of the booth.

“Beyond weird,” Doyle said. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Chapter Forty-Two

August 14, 2009

The message Doyle found on his home machine was barely understandable, punctuated as it was by muffled coughs and long pauses. After two replays, he figured it out. Arnie Rison was asking to see him. Doyle called Cindy and cancelled their plans to attend that night’s White Sox-Red Sox game at the Cell. “There’s some urgency to this,” he told her. “I’ve got to do it.” She said she understood.

It was almost seven when Doyle drove his Accord up the long circular driveway leading to Rison’s Palos Heights home. The red sports car he parked behind was recognizable to him by the vanity license plate that read “Cool Grl.”

She opened the front door before he rang the bell. “Thanks for coming, Jack. Come in.” Renee wore a yellow sun dress under a light black sweater she had thrown over her shoulders. Following her down the hallway, Doyle felt a blast of air conditioning.

Renee preceded him up the wide stairway of the expansive Tudor home to the second floor. At the end of the corridor, a large bedroom overlooked the back yard and pool. “Hello, Mr. Doyle,” said a woman who identified herself as “Audrey Hartman, Mr. Rison’s hospice nurse. He was hoping you’d come tonight.”

Doyle momentarily stopped in his tracks when he saw Rison. The lanky horse owner was propped up in a hospital bed, as pale as the pillow on which his head lay. He had lost dozens of pounds just in the few weeks since Doyle had seen him at Heartland Downs. Rison carefully removed the oxygen mask from his face and whispered, “Thanks for coming, Jack.”

Audrey Hartman said she’d go down to the kitchen and get coffee. “Fine,” Renee said. She closed the bedroom door behind the nurse and walked over to stand next to her father’s bed. She motioned Doyle toward the large arm chair nearby.

“Go ahead, Jack, sit down. I’ve been sitting all day.”

It took an effort for Arnie Rison to elevate his back and head to address Doyle. “As you can see, Jack, I’m in the home stretch.” He smiled briefly. “Of a great life. With a great daughter at my side.” Each sentence was followed by a gasp for air.

Doyle leaned forward. “What can I do for you, Arnie?”

Renee helped her father take a few sips of water through a plastic straw.

“I need only one thing from you, Jack. A promise to protect Renee. When I’m gone.”

They waited as Arnie applied the oxygen mask for a minute. Doyle found it hard to watch. Renee walked over to the window and looked out, arms crossed. Like Doyle, she didn’t want to witness this struggle for waning life.

Arnie removed the oxygen mask and motioned them to listen. “Jack, if something happens to Mike Barnhill, God forbid…And I wind up as the last of our guys, The Significant Seven…My daughter will be in charge of the monies from our partnership once I’m gone…I am afraid for her…Whoever has caused these deaths, and I am positive it’s somebody’s sick, sick plan…may target my Renee as the last survivor….I want her protected, Jack Doyle. I’ll pay you a lot of money to do it…if you would.”

“Where is Barnhill now?” Doyle said.

“He and Peggy are in England, Yorkshire…On a walking trip with some group…Mike said he had to get away from here with all this happening.”

“Dad, when do the Barnhills get home?”

“Early next week. He’s having some kind of exterior security system put in while they’re gone…Electrical fence around the sides and back of his property, I think…Peggy and Mike are both damned worried…Why wouldn’t they be?”

Doyle said, “This whole scenario is off the charts. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Renee said.

Doyle thought of what Damon Tirabassi had told him. He said, “Do either of you know what a Tontine is?” They said no. Doyle recounted what he’d learned from Tirabassi about this financial arrangement. “Actually,” Doyle concluded, “the deal with The Badger Express amounts to a Tontine. Doesn’t it? Last man standing is the big winner?”

“No,” Rison said, coughing. “The big winner was never going to be one of us. It would be the horse industry, the salvaging of old retired thoroughbreds from slaughter and…shipment to Europe for food. We all just…hated that stuff. How racehorses were sold…at auctions…for cents per pound…Then shipped to slaughter houses…We, all my guys, loved horses…We couldn’t imagine discarding them the way so many people do…That was the whole idea of the contract, the foundation.”

Renee said, “This is crazy. Each of the five men now dead apparently had no enemies, no reason to pass away at their ages. If this Tontine thing is what you say it is, my Dad and Mike Barnhill are the last members of the partnership alive. And, Dad…” She turned away and broke into tears. Doyle stood up and went to put his arm around her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pained expression on Arnie’s face.

Nurse Hartman poked her head in the door. “Do you need me? Can I get something?”

“No,” Renee murmured. “We’re okay, Audrey. We’ll be done soon.”

Not soon enough for me, thought Doyle. He said, “Arnie, I’d like to help you. But I am obligated to my work with Ralph Tenuta. I can’t drop that and start shadowing Renee, something I probably wouldn’t be much good at anyway. When she comes to the backstretch, of course I’ll be on my toes.

“I suggest,” Doyle continued, but Rison waved him off. “You do what you can…at the track…I’ll be satisfied. That’s all I’m asking of you. The pay…”

“Forget the pay,” Doyle barked. “I’m not charging you for anything.”

He sat down in the chair again next to Rison’s bed. “Here’s a suggestion, Arnie. I’ll talk to Moe Kellman. There’s a guy he knows, I’m sure between the two of them they could come up with some major league security talent for you and your daughter.”

Rison reached out his hand and placed it on Doyle’s wrist. His smile was evident even behind his oxygen mask. “You watch out for my Renee at the track,” he whispered. “I’ve get her covered otherwise. I’ll talk to Moe. And a guy my son Cal knew in the SEALs has an agency now…does private security work…He contacted me when he read about the deaths of…of the other Significant Seven. Very nice young man…smart…said he knew our Cal over in Iraq.”

Rison’s head dropped back on the pillow.

Doyle said, “What’s this guy’s name?”

“I think Dad has talked enough,” Renee said. “This is exhausting for him. Audrey,” she called out.

Surprised at this abrupt dismissal, Doyle stood. He put a hand on Rison’s bony shoulder.

“He’ll do a good job,” Rison said, “this fellow that my son Cal knew… His name is Sanderson… Scott Sanderson. He works with another ex-SEAL in the private security business…”

Rison paused to summon strength. “The other man…I don’t recall his first name…last name is Orth.”