Part 1 (2/2)

There was no better time to come out of hiding than the day after Christmas, when the betting pool was fattened by a grandstand packed with first timers and other fish who always pick the favorite. If Edith's people had such designs, her jockey would air it out in today's workout, and he could do so without the usual security precautions because Aqueduct was closed on Christmas.

Practically swollen with antic.i.p.ation, Charlie hit the buzzer outside Aqueduct's administrative offices. His friend Mickey Ramirez appeared at the door. Mickey worked security here because, like most everyone else who worked at the track, he liked the horses too much. Otherwise he would have still been a successful private investigator in Manhattan. He was forty-two, of average height, and, because the refreshment stand eased the pain of bad bets, nearing three hundred pounds. His single attractive feature*thick and satiny black hair, worn long*emphasized the defects of the rest. His default setting*gloomy*worsened at the sight of Charlie now.

'You can't come in,' he said through the gla.s.s.

'Happy Christmas back at you,' Charlie said, unruffled.

'So you know it's Christmas?'

'No, I say that every day, just in case.'

'You do know it's the one day of the year tracks are closed, right?'

'I didn't want you to have to spend it alone, old friend. Also, by the by, I want to see the workouts.'

'It'd be my a.s.s if I let you in, man. You know that.'

'I know, I know, but here's the thing: I've had a run of rotten luck lately*'

'Don't get me started on hard-luck stories.'

'*and I'm into Grudzev for twenty-three G's.'

Mickey softened. 's.h.i.+t.'

Charlie breathed some warmth back into his hands. 'a.s.suming Phil at the p.a.w.nshop has the holiday spirit, I'm short by north of fifteen. If I don't have it by tomorrow night, Grudzev's going to fill a cup with sand.'

'And make you drink it?'

'Why would I care if he's just filling a cup with sand?'

'That could kill you, couldn't it?'

'Either way, it's a decent threat, don't you think?'

'f.u.c.k, borrowing from a dude like that*what were you thinking?'

Charlie felt foolish. 'That the horse was going to win,' he said. He could have cited several times that Mickey had been in a similar predicament. Once he not only bailed Mickey out, he paid his rent. Which, come to think of it, he'd never gotten back.

'I hear you, man,' Mickey said. He opened the door a crack but didn't move to let Charlie in. 'You'll cut me in, yeah?'

This meant Mickey would allow Charlie inside if, in return, he related anything he saw that might affect the outcome of a race. Charlie bristled at the notion. For him, the thrill of winning was being right when everyone else was wrong. Where in the world but the track can a person get that? The thrill was diluted when other handicappers copied his homework; for the same reason, he was loath to bet based on another horseplayer's tip, even if it were to come by way of the horse's mouth.

'Cutting in' had a cost too. Odds at the track aren't set by the house, like at casinos, but rather by the money bet per horse*the more bet, the lower the odds. By cutting someone in, Charlie was lowering the odds on his pick, which was tantamount to giving away his own money, which was tantamount to nuts.

He thought of it simply as the price of admission today. Mickey could blab to everyone in his wide ring of tip traders, and still Great Aunt Edith would pay ten to one, more than enough for Charlie to pay off Grudzev and*what the h.e.l.l*give him a Christmas bonus.

There were train compartments bigger than Mickey's office. Charlie huddled with him by a monitor that showed a skewed, gray-green security camera feed of Great Aunt Edith's supposedly private workout. The filly was running even slower than usual, like she resented having to work on the holiday. Charlie came to the nauseating conclusion that Gulfstream had been a fluke.

Mickey turned to him and asked, 'What do you care about Edith for anyhow? I wouldn't bet her if she was the only horse in the race.'

A jolt of excitement deprived Charlie of the ability to reply. The filly had accelerated to the point that a bullet would have had difficulty keeping pace.

4.

'My name is John Lewis,' the man said with certainty. He'd been just as certain a minute ago that he was Bill Peterson. is John Lewis,' the man said with certainty. He'd been just as certain a minute ago that he was Bill Peterson.

'Do you know where you live?' Helen asked.

The man shrugged.

'Do you know where you are now?'

'Geneva?'

'The town in upstate New York?'

'Don't know it.'

Despite two sweaters, social worker Helen Mayfield sat huddled against her tiny desk at Brooklyn's Prospect Park Senior Outreach Center; at least the piles of folders full of lost causes provided a buffer against the draft. And the draft was no bother compared to the square dance cla.s.s. The wall between her office and the rec room was so thin, it felt like the dance caller was hollering directly into her ear.

Not unrelated was the migraine, like a railroad spike through the base of her skull and into her left eye. Then there was the pharmacy three blocks away, where she might obtain a remedy. Closed December 25, sure. But also today, December 26.

For St. Stephen's Day!

She could help the man sitting at her desk, though. So everything else was relegated to minor annoyance.

He looked to be in his early sixties. Five-ten or eleven, weight about right, plain features. He had a moderate amount of white hair and an average amount of wrinkles and spots. His muscles were firm, but not so much that anyone would notice, except on close inspection. He'd spent the night here after volunteers in a Meals on Wheels van spotted him wandering Brooklyn yesterday afternoon in just the flannel pajamas and bedroom slippers he still wore. He had no wallet, no watch or jewelry, no identifying marks. And then there was his accent, or, really, the lack of one. He could be anyone from anywhere.

Still, Helen wasn't without clues. Each year the center cared for more seniors with neurodegenerative conditions than a neurologist typically saw in a career. Although he was relatively young, she suspected her John Doe had Alzheimer's. Its trademark was damage to the memory-retrieval process, manifested by a veil over the past and present. Symptoms also included humming and rocking without self-awareness. Mr. Doe: all of the above.

And the wandering was a cla.s.sic. Alzheimer's caused minimal motor impairment. Ten years from onset, patients could tie a tie, bake a cake, even create a Web site. Driving a car was nothing for them. Except now and again, they departed for the corner store, only to be found halfway across the country. Such spells of disorientation often were prompted by unfamiliar surroundings. Out-of-towners visiting relatives frequently wound up as Does.

'Do you, by chance, have family in the New York City area?' she asked.

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