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  DISAPPEARANCE OF PENNY

  Penny is the daughter of one of the owners at Staten Island Downs, a popular New York race track. Everyone agrees that she’s a knockout. When she disappears, her father calls in a favor and Henry Po, an investigator for the Racing Commission, is asked to find her. But as Po begins to dig he finds more than a missing girl. He lands in the middle of a feud between Penny’s father, the self-absorbed Benjamin Hopkins, and his former partner and self-styled lothario, Paul Lassiter. He also finds a jockey being hounded by a shadowy gang of thugs, possibly part of an ongoing race fixing investigation. Could the two cases be connected? And what about the lady jockey, Brandy, who suddenly seems so interested? Is she all that she seems? Po has more clues than he knows what do with, and they may just add up to murder.

  The Disappearance

  of Penny

  A Henry Po Horse Racing Mystery

  BY ROBERT J. RANDISI

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter FIFteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Also Available

  CHAPTER ONE

  Finding missing persons is really not my particular bag, but when your boss says that a friend of his needs help finding his daughter and he wants you to supply that help as a favor to him, then you do it. It doesn’t hurt, either, if you happen to like your boss and don’t mind doing him a favor — which I did (like him) and didn’t (mind).

  Now horses are my bag. If a horse was missing, I could get involved in that with some degree of confidence. As a special investigator for the N.Y.S.R.C. — The New York State Racing Club — I deal mostly with horses, horse racing and racing people.

  Well, this did kind of fit in. The man who needed the help was Benjamin Hopkins, owner and trainer of Penny’s Penny, Hopkins Stables Triple Crown hopeful for 1980. The colt had been named after Benjamin Hopkins’ daughter, Penny.

  “Penny won nine out of ten races as a two year old, Mr. Po,” Hopkins told me proudly. “His only loss was to Paul Lassiter’s Bold Randy — ”

  “Who’s only loss as a two year old was to Penny’s Penny,” I finished for him. “I keep abreast of the thoroughbred scene, Mr. Hopkins.” Hopkins and Lassiter were chief rivals in the world of thoroughbred horse racing. “Could we get to the real reason I was asked to come here?”

  We were at Island Downs, Staten Island, New York — nine races daily, including the daily double (the first and second races), 3 quinellas, 3 exactas and the ninth race triple. I had spent many a day at this two-year-old race track, usually for business but sometimes for pleasure.

  This was not a pleasure.

  I had disliked Benjamin Hopkins on sight, a reaction I rarely have to people. I usually give them a good chance to give me a reason to dislike them.

  We were at Island Downs’ “Breakfast with the Thoroughbreds” program, where the N.Y.S.R.C. invites the fans — parking and admittance on the house — to buy breakfast and watch the thoroughbreds work out. There’s usually a young lady with a microphone, pointing out horses and jockeys of particular interest, and they offer a tour of the stable area.

  Behind us I could hear the voice of the girl droning on into the microphone, for the most part unintelligibly, but then I wasn’t really listening to her.

  I watched the horses as they thundered by us on the track, hooves pounding the ground, their breath rushing from their nostrils each time hoof met ground, with a force you would have to be there to believe. Just imagine the sound your breath would make escaping from your body if someone punched you in the solar plexus, then triple it.

  We were standing at the rail, waiting for Penny’s Penny to appear for his morning workout.

  It was September, and eight-thirty in the morning, and I was starting to wish I had brought my gloves.

  “As I explained to Howard on the phone, Mr. Po,” Hopkins began, referring to my beloved leader, J. Howard Biel, president of the New York State Racing Club, “she left the house yesterday afternoon and has not yet returned. She’s never done this sort of thing before. I attempted to report her missing to the police, but they informed me that she is too old to be missing.”

  Simply stated, but not entirely correct.

  “What they meant is that she is between the ages of eighteen and sixty-five and therefore they cannot take a missing persons’ report on her unless there is some evidence of foul play,” I tried to explain, “or a history of mental illness.”

  He waved his hand impatiently “Yes, yes, they explained all of that to me. They also suggested I hire a private investigator. I didn’t know any and did not wish to pull one at random from the phone book, so I called Howard, who is a friend. He advised me to forget that idea and allow him to put one of his investigators at my disposal. He assured me that he would send his best man.”

  Good old Howard, I thought. Being considered the best “man” out of four investigators — one of whom was a woman, at that — was not really thrilling. Besides, I happened to know that I was the only one available, so I took the remark with a grain of salt.

  “That’s one of mine,” he told me, changing the subject.

  He was talking about a chestnut filly who had just cantered by and was turning around for her workout. She was small, probably a two year old, and she was fighting her rider, who did not appear to be an experienced jockey.

  “Who’s on her?”

  “Nobody. An exercise boy. It’s all she rates right now. She’s had two starts, ran second and then ran out of the money. She’s got a lot of potential but as you can see she’s not easy to handle. She’s by Dr. Fager and, with blinkers, she should win next time out.”

  “Which is?”

  “Two days from now, on Sunday. If she does what I think she can do, she’ll go in a baby stakes in a couple of weeks.” “Baby Stakes” was a term used for stakes races featuring two year olds.

  She was loping around the track. When they reached the six furlong pole the boy would begin to run her in earnest.

  “Can we get back to your daughter?” I asked.

  “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to find her for me and bring her back,” he told me, taking out
his stop watch. He was still watching the filly, concentrating on her, not me.

  I waited.

  When she reached the six furlong marker he clicked his watch and she was off. She seemed to run fairly easily, but she was so small. Could she really run with some of the bigger fillies?

  As she came out of the turn into the stretch she was hugging the rail and the boy let her out. Thoroughbreds are beautiful animals at any time, but never more beautiful than when they are thundering down the stretch to the finish line.

  As she crossed the finish line the boy stood up on her and began to ease her. Hopkins clicked his watch and cursed.

  “That’s the last horse he’ll ever work for me, “he snarled.

  “Why?”

  He showed me the stopwatch.

  “Fifty-nine and change. I told him not to work her in under a minute. That cunt,” he snapped, pointing to the girl with the microphone, “will probably tell everyone what a sparkling workout my filly had. That jerk,” he continued, indicating the rider again, “has hurt my odds already.”

  The girl made a prophet out of him the next moment by announcing into the microphone, “That was Benjamin Hopkins’ Stable’s Dancing Necklace, working six-eighths of a mile in a sparkling fifty-nine and two.”

  “Cunt,” he muttered.

  He put the watch away and I took that as my cue to continue with business — my business.

  “Your offer is very generous, Mr. Hopkins.”

  “Huh? Oh, yes, a thousand dollars,” he said absently.

  I went on, undaunted. “I’ll try and find your daughter, but as a favor to Howard Biel. All I can do, however, is find her. I cannot bring her back. If I find her I’ll let you know where she is and if she’s okay, but I won’t leave myself open to a kidnapping charge. Getting her to come back will be your problem.”

  He didn’t like that, having someone else lay the ground rules, but he swallowed it. ‘Acceptable terms. Now, the first thing I want you to do — ”

  “Whoa, hold on!” I snapped. “We’d better get something else straight before I start. I’ll look for your daughter, Mr. Hopkins, but I’ll do it my way. I don’t operate under anyone’s direction. I’m an investigator, not a puppet.”

  His lips tightened and paled. He was tall and stately looking, with plenty of snow white hair, big shoulders and a barrel chest. He must have cut a hell of a figure twenty years before, but most of that barrel had since fallen into his gut. He was sixty-five and looked every day of it, but at that moment he looked like he wanted to take me on.

  “I don’t think I like your attitude, young man. How would you like me to call Howard Biel — ”

  “Fine, call him,” I encouraged. “He’ll tell you the same thing. It’s my arrangement with him. Now, if you want someone else on this, please feel free to call Mr. Biel and let him know.”

  If there had been a phone close at hand, he might have grabbed it, but since there wasn’t he had some time to think about what I’d said.

  “All right, all right, agreed, “he finally relented. “I won’t insult Howard by refusing the help he’s offered me. Do it your way.”

  He checked his wristwatch. “I’ve got to meet Penny in the paddock,” he said, referring to “Penny” the horse, not his daughter. “Stick around a couple of minutes and watch her work.”

  He started for the paddock and then stopped and turned around.

  “Find my daughter, Mr. Po, “he said, then continued on.

  The concern in his voice did not ring true to me. He must have had something for Howard Biel to call him his friend, but what it might have been completely escaped me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The night before had been spent with a girl named Daphne, who was veddy, veddy British and veddy, veddy good in the sack. That morning she had fixed me an early morning breakfast — we were both too exhausted to sleep late — of potatoes and eggs, ham, toast, coffee and juice. I was about to take my first bite when the phone rang. I wondered who the hell would be calling me at six thirty A.M.

  “Damn,” Daphne snapped. She was the only girl I knew whose accent could come out in one word.

  “Easy, English,” I told her. I went to the wall phone and picked it up. I said the customary hello and the voice that answered me was that of my boss, J. Howard Biel.

  “Hank, it’s Howard. Sorry if I woke you.”

  “No problem. I was having an early breakfast, with a friend,” I told him.

  “Oh, then I’m really sorry,” he added, and he meant it.

  I laughed. “No sweat, boss. What’s up?”

  Biel did not make a habit of phoning his investigators at home. When he did it was not usually good news. I wondered if the board of directors had finally decided to yank the grant that paid my salary and Biel was calling me to tell me that I was out of a job.

  “I need a favor, Hank,” he told me, which surprised the hell out of me. Even rarer than his home phone calls were his requests for a favor.

  “Could you come to my office now? So we can talk?”

  I looked over at dark-haired Daphne and all that delicious food. “Is it really important, Boss? I haven’t had breakfast yet and — ” and it was Saturday, but he interrupted me before I could say it.

  “I’ll have something waiting for you,” he promised. “I would really appreciate it if you would come right down.”

  I looked at the ceiling, but there was no help there. I looked at Daphne, but she showed me what was beneath a terrycloth robe of mine that she was wearing, and that didn’t help either. She seemed to have gotten the drift of the conversation and had no intention of making my decision easy for me.

  There was no help anywhere.

  “I’ll be right there, Boss,” I told him, and hung up.

  “You’ll be right where?” Daphne demanded.

  “Got to go to work, English,” I told her, going to the closet for my jacket.

  “‘ere now, what the ‘ell do you mean — what about all this food?”

  When she gets pissed Daphne’s accent gets heavier — and a lot cuter.

  “You’ve got such a cute accent, especially when you’re mad,” I told her, kissing her on the cheek.

  “I am not mad,” she told me, “dogs get mad. What I am is good and pissed!”

  “That’s what I meant,” I told her. “Look, eat as much as you can and leave the rest, okay? And don’t forget to lock up when you leave.”

  I was halfway to the door when I remembered Griffin, my cat.

  “Oh,” I said, turning, “and the cat, let the cat out. Thanks, English.”

  “Get the bloody ‘ell out of here, you — ”

  I didn’t hear the rest. I was too busy getting the bloody ‘el out of there, and missed it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had traded in a complete breakfast with a beautiful young lady for a stale doughnut and a lukewarm cup of coffee with someone who was anything but beautiful.

  My boss was in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He had slate gray hair, a bushy mustache, high cheekbones and deeply sunken, blue eyes — eyes not easy to trust, unless you knew him.

  I knew James Howard Biel as well as anyone.

  When his grant was finally approved for four special investigators — a request brought on by the infamous “sting” incident, where a champion thoroughbred was substituted for a cheap claimer in a triple race, resulting in an exorbitant payoff — I was the first one he chose, and he was in turn guided by me in his choice of the other three. That was just over a year ago.

  I had been running a one-man agency for a few years after a hitch in Vietnam and had done a job for Biel, something personal, not connected with his position with the N.Y.S.R.C. He had remembered. He offered me the job, not a high-paying job, but a decent and steady paying one — and I was hungry. Maybe someday I would go back on my own — I had even maintained the rent on the office — but right now I was getting a steady salary to do what I liked to do: investigations.

  “Tha
t’s breakfast?” I asked him. Actually, it was more of an accusation than a question. I was pointing at the doughnut, which I could tell was stale just by looking at it, and the coffee, which had no steam rising from it.

  “You could stand to lose some weight, Hank.”

  I resented the remark, but kept my reaction to myself. Maybe, just maybe, I was getting a little heavy, but I was almost thirty.

  I took a seat and sipped my coffee. After making a face I asked, “What’s it all about, sir?”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir’,” he told me seriously. “Look, a friend of mine needs some help, Hank. He’s been to the police, but they cannot do anything for him. He was going to go to a private detective, but I don’t want some shyster ripping him off.”

  I frowned, wondering if I hadn’t somehow just been insulted, but he jumped in before I could comment.

  “Not all private investigators are as honest as you are, pal.”

  “Unfortunately,” I remarked. I decided to try the doughnut and regretted it after one bite.

  “Who’s this friend of yours, sir, and what’s his problem?” We were friends, but he was also my employer. I never called him anything but ‘sir’.

  “His name is Benjamin Hopkins. I’m sure you know the name.”

  I did.

  “Sure, he’s one of the top trainers in the business. Owns and trains Penny’s Penny. I didn’t know he had any friends.” That is, if I was to believe all of the bad press he got.

  Biel smiled at that.

  “He doesn’t have very many, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “We became friends at an earlier time, when we were both much younger and different people,” he continued. “Old friendships die hard, Hank, isn’t that what they say?”

  I couldn’t remark on that. I didn’t have any old friendships. Shit, I had damned few of any kind.

  “In any case, Benny’s problem is his daughter.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s missing — or at least, he thinks she’s missing. She left the house yesterday afternoon, around twelve, and hasn’t returned. He went to the police last night, but they told him they couldn’t do anything and suggested he hire a private investigator.”