High Stakes by John McEvoy

my ears open, hope to get lucky. What you’ve got here is some lunatic driving Midwestern highways at night going about what is obviously undetectable criminal business. I don’t know how you expect to stop this jerk. You can’t station twenty-four-hour surveillance at every veterinary school in the country.”
    It was Damon on the line now. “Of course we know that, Jack. Our only chance is to get a tip. Find an informant. With your racetrack contacts, you are apparently our best bet.”
    Doyle laughed. “Well, our government is in deep shit if Jack Doyle falls into its ‘best bet’ category.” He paused to polish off the Guinness. “Okay, folks. I’ll keep asking questions. Keep my eyes open, etcetera, etcetera. I have no intention of ducking out of the country on you. I’ll stay on it. Okay?”
    He could hear Damon’s obviously relieved exhalation of air in the background before Karen said, “Fair enough, Jack. Do your absolute best. Please.”
    ***
    He went to his couch, turned on the television. Too early for the Chicago Cubs’ night game. MSNBC was on, but Doyle was in no mood to listen to the bright, effusive host of this particular talk program, a man so determined to dominate the proceedings that he would ask his well-chosen guests a good question, then mainly answer it before allowing them a chance to do so.
    Still restless, he checked his watch. Early evening, maybe not too late to get in touch with Ingrid. He knew she usually went to sleep early because of her dawn appointments at the racetrack. She picked up on the first ring.
    â€œHi, Jack. I assume you heard the latest.”
    Doyle said, “Oh, yes. Bunch of messages from my pals, the distraught FBI agents. They’re getting heavy heat from above to find this killer. Anything new on your end? Rumors, scuttlebutt?”
    â€œNo, afraid not. Just wild speculation. Some people think it’s an embittered racetrack worker who was fired and is seeking revenge. Another theory holds that it’s a disbarred vet, also taking revenge. A third school of thought, if you can call it that, is that these ALWD people, it may be several of them involved, are dedicated to raising their profile by continuing the killings. From that standpoint, they’ve enjoyed success. Every news report on the dead horses mentions ALWD, although their leadership continues to deny any involvement.”
    She sighed and Doyle could envision her yawning. He knew she was at Heartland Downs every morning by five. “I won’t keep you,” he said. “If you hear anything, or anything comes to mind, call me on my cell. Any time.”
    â€œWill do. Will I see you at the track this week?”
    â€œProbably. ’Night, Ingrid.”

Chapter Sixteen
    Doyle finished his five-mile run along the lakefront shortly before eight o’clock. He felt great after shaking out the effects of air travel and his few exercise-free days in Ireland. Inside the vestibule, he picked up his copy of the New York Times , as well as the Wall Street Journal of his across-the-hall neighbor, an elderly crab named Hannah Hansen. The bane of his early existence in the condominium building, she had complained to the condo board about the “raucous terrible music coming from that Doyle’s place across the hall.” In response, he increased the volume on his CD player for a couple of nights before relenting and using earphones when he wanted to hear Dizzy Gillespie’s band roar. She never thanked him. The few times they met in the hallway, Hannah scowled while Doyle silently bowed in her direction. He still brought her paper up to her door whenever he saw it downstairs.
    One message on his answering machine. “Call Mr. Kellman, please.” He did. Kellman’s secretary Joanie Saltzman answered with a “Good morning, Jack,” and put him through.
    Moe said, “How about lunch today? We