William Bernhardt - Murder One

His grandfather had been to the track often enough that he knew everyone, and after a while, they tended to treat Ben and his sister like the track mascots. Probably half of those people were organized crime figures, but Ben didn’t know that then. Not that it would’ve mattered.

His grandfather had died when Ben was fifteen, and after that there were no more trips to Taos … and things began to get really bad between Ben and his own father. It was probably just nostalgia, tinged by the tragedy of how things ended up with his dad, but Ben couldn’t help but look back at those days at the track with a certain rosy fondness.

He hadn’t been to Taos since his grandfather died, but in the interim, Oklahoma had legalized pari-mutuel betting. How his grandfather would’ve loved that, Ben had often thought. Today, his grandfather could spend an entire day soaking up the larger-than-life atmosphere, the sharks and touts and jockeys and all the other colorful characters, the smell of sawdust and horses and hot dogs—and still be home in time for dinner.

“Benjamin Kincaid! My old friend!” A hand slapped down on his back. “It’s good to see you.” The merry brown eyes suddenly telescoped. “I hope to God you’re not looking for me.”

“Actually, I’m not.” Ben had no trouble recognizing Alberto DeCarlo, gangland’s youngest godfather. He had inherited the role from his father, who had taken it from his own father. Ben had crossed paths—and he did mean crossed—with DeCarlo a few years before during a murder investigation.

DeCarlo had changed since then; he’d traded the ponytail for an equally fashionable, but somewhat more contemporary buzz and goatee. It looked good on him, and probably also deaccentuated the bald spot and receding hairline. Not that Ben was one to give people grief about their hairlines.

“But it’s good to see you,” Ben continued. “How’s Intercontinental Imports, Alberto?”

“Trey, call me Trey, remember?” Of course. Because he was actually Alberto DeCarlo the Third. “The company is doing wonderfully. Thanks for asking.”

When DeCarlo took over the family businesses, Ben recalled, he had tried to modernize them. He had created a corporate entity, Intercontinental Imports, and invested in a number of legitimate enterprises—banking, real estate, and so forth. He maintained that their operations were now entirely legitimate, although Ben knew many at the police department considered Intercontinental Imports a mere sham and cover for the usual mob activities—prostitution, gambling, drug peddling. “I’m into antiques now. Did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

“You must come down to our showroom, Ben. Near Utica Square. I would imagine a sophisticated man such as you could appreciate some of these treasures.”

“Sorry to disabuse you, but I wouldn’t know an antique if it socked me in the face. And to tell you the truth, Trey, I’m rather busy these days.”

A concerned expression came over DeCarlo’s face. “I have read in the papers something about your troubles, Ben, and I’m sorry. I know what it is to be wrongfully persecuted. Could I help in some way?”

Ben’s eyebrows rose of their own accord. Was he offering to fix the case? Buy off the judge? Or maybe have him eliminated? “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass.”

“You know, Ben, I may not have told you this, but I was very appreciative of how you handled that nasty business after Tony Lombardi was killed. I’m sure you suspected I was responsible. I know the police did. Nonetheless, you treated me no differently than you did any other suspect. I won’t forget that. So if there’s any way I can help you …”

Well, that was an offer he couldn’t refuse. So to speak. “Do you come to the racetrack often?”

“Actually no. I don’t enjoy it much, plus, if I’m at any gambling establishment, people always suspect it’s a mob operation. It’s a cliché, but there you have it. Some people can’t get past the old stereotypes.” Gazing into those deep-set brown eyes, Ben could almost believe he was sincere. “My grandfather loved horse racing. Actually, he loved all kinds of gambling, which I suppose is what first brought him into his, uh, line of work. But the horses were his favorite. Always he would drag us out to Raton to see the horses. Every summer.”

“Taos. With my grandfather, it was Taos.”

“Really. Well, you see, Ben? We have more in common than you imagined.” His smile faded a touch. “I miss my grandfather. Despite what you may have heard, he was a good man and he cared about people. I could never say two words to my own father without starting a fight, but my grandfather always understood. You know what I mean, Ben?”

He certainly did. Life was full of surprises. He’d never expected to find himself standing around a racetrack waxing philosophical with a Mafia kingpin. But there you have it.

“But enough of this talk. You must be here for a reason. If I may be so bold as to inquire …?”

“I’m looking for Antonio Catrona. I’m sure he’s surrounded by security, and I probably don’t have a chance, but I had to try—”

“You want to see Tony? Say nothing more. I shall arrange it.”

DeCarlo took Ben by the arm and led him like a dog on a short leash through the stadium. A phalanx of horses sped past on the track beneath them, and a few moments later, half the stadium rose to their feet, cheering and shouting. It was a close finish, and some of the spectators seemed pleased with the result. But most, Ben noted, tore their tickets into pieces and pulled out their wallets to count what was left.

After taking the elevator to the top level, DeCarlo led Ben to a private glass-enclosed booth. He knocked twice. A burly man at the door let him in. Ben saw the security man give him a stony look, but apparently the fact that he was traveling with DeCarlo was good enough.

Ben peered through the huge glass window at the track below. These had to be the best seats in the house, and just to make them all the better, closed-circuit monitors had been placed all around the room, affording everyone an up-close view of the track. The booth was air-conditioned and sported a fully stocked bar. An attractive woman in a short black skirt stood at the side, waiting to fill orders for one and all.

DeCarlo tapped the shoulder of a large man sitting at the front. He turned, and Ben instantly recognized him from the photos in the police file. It was Antonio Catrona.

DeCarlo pointed Ben out, and a few minutes later, Catrona ambled toward him. He was not fat, not exactly, but he was large and Ben got the impression that walking was not as easy for him as it once might have been. His hair was thinning and gray, but it seemed appropriate to his rugged, scarred exterior.

“Hope you didn’t bet the favorite,” Catrona grunted.

Ben wasn’t sure what to say. “No. I didn’t bet at all.”

“Smart man. No one ever got rich at the racetrack.” An angular, lopsided grin broke out. “Well, no one but the owner, that is.” He focused his eyes on Ben’s face. “Al tells me I should talk to you, even if you are a lawyer.”

“Al’s a generous man.”

“Yeah. Bit of a wimp, really, but he’s smart as a tack, and frankly, these days we need all the smarts we can get. So what can I do for you?”

Ben swallowed. Maybe he’d just seen The Godfather too many times, but there was something about the man that was keenly intimidating. “My name’s Ben Kincaid. I represent Keri Dalcanton and I’m investigating—”

“Yeah, yeah. I already know all about that. So you’re asking if I know anything about that cop getting killed.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“And what would make you think I knew something about it?”