The Last Private Eye by John Birkett Read Free Book Online

brown and she wore it pulled back from her face in a simple twist. She looked to be about Rhineheart’s age—thirty-five or so. Her features—oval eyes, high cheekbones, aquiline nose—were firm and clear. She had dark gray eyes, and when she smiled at Rhineheart, his heart quickened and his throat got full. It had been a long time since anyone had had that kind of effect on him. He was going to have to be cool and watch himself.
    The call to post for the upcoming race blared out over the public address system. A murmur swept through the crowded stands. Rhineheart looked down to the left and saw the horses begin to emerge from the paddock tunnel onto the track. They were picked up by riders on lead ponies and led single file up the track toward the quarter pole.
    Jessica Kingston said, “Are you a gambling man, Mr. Rhineheart?” Her tone was pleasant, conversational. It was, Rhineheart thought, as if they were about to have a social chat. Well, maybe they were.
    He nodded. “Once in a while, yeah.”
    â€œDo you have a pick in this race?”
    Rhineheart shrugged. He’d looked the race over in the Form, but he hadn’t been able to separate the horses. “Six horse doesn’t look too bad,” he said. “Who do you like?”
    â€œI don’t bet,” Jessica Kingston said. “My husband’s the gambler in the family.” She was silent for a moment, then she said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to come out here.”
    Rhineheart shook his head. “I don’t spend a lot of time wondering about things. I figured you had a reason, wanted to talk to me about something. That’s why I came.”
    She smiled. “You’re very direct. I like that. I’ll try to be direct, too. How’s your investigation going? Have you found Carl Walsh yet?”
    â€œHow’d you know I was looking for Carl Walsh?”
    â€œI have sources, Mr. Rhineheart. And a good deal of interest in the case. After all, Walsh works for us. For Cresthill.”
    A flash of brightly colored jockey’s silks caught the corner of Rhineheart’s eye. Down on the track the horses galloped past the finish line. They were headed for the clubhouse turn, then the backstretch, where they would begin their warm-up exercises.
    â€œIs that why you asked me out here, Mrs. Kingston? To find out about the investigation?”
    Jessica Kingston lit a cigarette with a slim gold lighter and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “No,” she said, “I didn’t ask you here to find out about the investigation. I want to talk to you about my husband.”
    Rhineheart glanced over at the infield tote board, which was flashing odds changes. The two horse was the 9 to 5 favorite. The horse he liked, the six, was a medium long shot at 7 to 1. At the bottom of the board the TIME OF DAY column read 1:53. The TIME REMAINING slot showed 6 minutes to post.
    â€œYou’ve never met him, have you?” Jessica Kingston asked.
    â€œNever had the pleasure,” Rhineheart said.
    â€œDon’t be so sure it’s a pleasure, Mr. Rhineheart.”
    He looked over at her. Her gaze was direct, steady. “You trying to tell me something, Mrs. Kingston?”
    â€œMy husband wants to see you, Mr. Rhineheart. This afternoon, if that’s possible. He wants you to come down to Cresthill. If it’s convenient for you.”
    Convenient? Was she kidding? There was no way he’d pass up a visit to Cresthill Farms. Like most of the other big thoroughbred horse farms—Spendthrift, Calumet—it was located some seventy miles down the road, in Fayette County, outside of Lexington, in that area of Kentucky known as the Blue Grass.
    â€œSure,” Rhineheart said. “What time?”
    â€œFour o’clock?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œI need to warn you about my husband, Mr. Rhineheart. He can be terribly