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up and walked over to the door. He had to look up to meet Borchek’s eye. The goon was three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier, and standing next to him, Rhineheart could feel the man’s brutality emanating from the man, like body odor.
    â€œTell me something,” Rhineheart spoke to Kingston.
    Kingston waved the cigar expansively. “Anythin’.”
    â€œWhat do you think happened to Carl Walsh?”
    â€œI got no idea, Mr. Rhineheart.”
    â€œYou think Howard Taggert might know?”
    Kingston looked surprised. “Howard Taggert?”
    â€œYou know who Howard Taggert is, don’t you?”
    â€œSho. As a matter of fact, Howard and I are old friends.”
    â€œYou happen to know if Carl Walsh ever worked for him?”
    Kingston shook his head. “Why don’t you go and see Howard and ask him your ownself?”
    â€œI might just do that,” Rhineheart said. He started to leave, then stopped. “One more thing.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œYou don’t mind if I talk to your stable help, do you?”
    â€œNot at all,” Kingston said. “Talk to anyone you please, Mr. Rhineheart.”
    Rhineheart stepped out into the hallway. The library door swung shut. The maid appeared at the end of the hallway and as he followed her back through the house, Rhineheart remembered the photograph of the Kingstons he had seen on Walsh’s wall. They said pictures never lied, but he couldn’t see much resemblance between the handsome smiling couple in the photo and the two people he had met this afternoon.

CHAPTER TEN
    On the drive back to Louisville Rhineheart thought about the case, trying to form some picture of it in his mind. What it reminded him of was the design of a crazy quilt he had once seen, a mixture of elements and ingredients that didn’t seem to fit, yet appeared to be somehow related.
    The disappearance of a stable hand and his wife. A dead man in a motel room. A story that would “blow the town wide open.” Duke and Jessica Kingston. Howard Taggert. A pair of Derby horses. A bookie’s telephone number. A locker key. A syringe. What the hell did it all mean?
    Rhineheart didn’t know. He was the first to admit that he wasn’t hitting on much when it came to solving puzzles. His talent was for hanging in there, plodding along, poking around, and uncovering things. It occurred to him that he was going to need some help on this one. Farnsworth, Rhineheart thought. If there was anyone who could help him find the answers in this case, it was old Farnsworth. Everything Rhineheart knew about detecting had been taught to him by Farnsworth.
    Tomorrow, Rhineheart decided, he would go and see the old pro, talk to him about the case, hear what Farnsworth had to say. Just thinking about bringing the old man in on it improved Rhineheart’s mood. He switched on the radio and found an FM station that featured old-timey jazz. He drove back to Louisville with the tinny sounds of a 1920 New Orleans jazz band beating against his ears.
    It was after five when he got back. He stopped at a gas station near the expressway and telephoned Cresthill’s head trainer, John Hughes, but there was no answer.
    He ate dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Jeffersontown. Moo Goo Gai Pan, fried rice, and hot tea. Dessert was a scoop of ice cream and a fortune cookie. The paper in the cookie read, The star of riches will soon shine upon you.
    He called McGraw at home. The news on the syringe was negative. Frank Parker couldn’t identify whatever substances were in the syringe. He was going to have to run more tests. He wanted Rhineheart to call him.
    â€œYou find out anything about Walsh?” Rhineheart asked McGraw.
    â€œYou bet your ass I did,” McGraw said. “You were right. Walsh worked for River City Stud for two years. He left there to go to Cresthill. I got all this from a clerk at Thoroughbred Employment.