The Wizard of Death (11 page)

And yet, the day on the green had shattered into a thousand shards when a rifle cracked from the church, and she had missed death by inches. On another day, in their own kitchen, a similar weapon had been fired from across the river.

He experienced a surge of feeling that made him want to reach toward her in an unseen grasp. He wanted to kneel in the dirt by her side and hold her. He knew his wife was independent, at times prepared to battle the world if necessary; and yet now he saw and loved another quality.

He bent over and kissed the back of her neck.

“OH, MY GOD!” Bea leaped to her feet with the trowel extended in a parrying position. When she saw who it was, her body sagged. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“You looked so cute, I wanted to kiss you. Except now your knees are dirty, and what are you doing?”

“Propagating weeds.”

“I thought weeds were capable of propagating themselves.”

“KNOCK IT OFF, WENTWORTH. WHERE IN HELL WERE YOU LAST NIGHT?”

“Would you believe I was getting drunk with a motorcycle gang?”

“From you—yes. I am now the only member of the legislature whose spouse has protested the helmet law. I'll believe anything.”

“Ted Mackay knew Junior Haney.”

Bea placed her trowel on the patio and brushed her knees. “That doesn't make sense. I know he sometimes travels in strange company, but are you trying to tell me that the senate majority leader of this state was friends with a convicted felon who was a member of a motorbike gang?”

“I didn't say friends, only that he had met Junior and was alone with him for at least five minutes during the last helmet protest.”

“Have you told Rocco?”

“Not yet. I'm going to phone him now.” As they started for the house he put his arm around her.

“Lyon, I've heard about those bike gangs, and how they have old ladies or debs, or whatever they call them, and they all go … and did they, or did you, or …”

“No, but after I call Rocco—your weed propagation has given me a great idea.”

He awoke to a heavy pounding on the door. “Who is it?”

“The man is downstairs and won't go away,” Kim said from the hallway. “He says you two take an awful lot of naps.”

Bea moaned deliriously and turned to Lyon. “What's up?”

“Rocco's downstairs.”

“And pacing like a bear,” Kim said. “But tell Bea to wash the dirt off her knees.”

Rocco paced the long country-style kitchen as a glaring Kim sat on a stool with her arms akimbo.

“Damn it all, Kim. I haven't used a rubber hose in weeks.”

“On the blacks or whites?”

“Only the blacks; the bruises don't show so easily.”

“Comes the revolution, you're going to the wall—if we can find a wall high enough.”

“Come on, you two,” Lyon said as he poured coffee from the electric percolator.

They squeezed into the breakfast nook while Lyon, balancing his coffee cup, paced. He recounted the previous day's events. He started with the helmet protest and the fact that Mackay had met Junior Haney, and then continued with Fizz Nichols's admission that he had acted as backup during Junior's first meeting with Rainbow, and had in fact seen Rainbow and followed him back to the hotel.

“What are Fizz and Wiff doing now?” Rocco asked.

“They promised me that as soon as they were in shape they'd cruise Hartford to try to locate the hotel where Fizz trailed Rainbow. Then they'll call me.”

Rocco drummed his fingers on the table as Kim stared icily at the thumping hand. “We have a motive for Mackay already, and now we have knowledge that Mackay knew Rainbow. We could probably find witnesses to that effect.”

“For the first time we have a living witness who actually saw Rainbow.”

“Now that we know that Mackay and Rainbow are one and the same,” Bea said.

“It's possible,” Lyon replied. “It could be happenstance. After all, Mackay was the one the state police took me to see. Then again, it is a further step toward Mackay.”

Rocco brought his fist down on the table. “Damn it all, I think Mackay is Rainbow! But how do we prove it? You say Fizz saw Rainbow?”

“It could be Mackay,” Lyon responded. “Except for an age discrepancy. He says Rainbow is about thirty-five.”

“But he saw him from a distance,” Bea said. “A little hair dye, a change of clothes …”

“Could be,” Lyon said. “Do we have any pictures of Ted in the house?”

It didn't take long for Bea to find several pictures of Mackay. Ted and Bea during the signing of a bill, Ted at a political rally. On the assumption that the shot that killed Llewyn and the one that missed Bea were politically motivated, Ted stood to gain the most, Lyon thought.

“Fizz thinks he can I-D Rainbow?” Rocco asked.

“He thinks maybe.”

“Then we show him the photographs,” Bea said.

“As soon as they call me,” Lyon replied.

“He sure in hell has a motive,” Rocco said. “That is if he wants the nomination bad enough to kill for it.”

Lyon sat before his typewriter and bit a nail. The residue of the hangover was still sufficient to cast a dull film over his thought process, and his mind seemed to go in aimless patterns without coherence. How do you write for children about benign monsters when the true monsters of the world are sitting on your doorstep?

The phone rang. It was Rocco. “They've got your playmates in the Hartford jail,” he said.

“What in hell for?”

“Do you want to make notes?”

“Come on, Rocco!”

“Two counts of breaking and entering, possession of an M-16, two live hand grenades and a loaded flare pistol.”

“Oh, my God. They were going to kill Rainbow.”

“‘Burn the mother fucker' is the exact quote.”

Detective Sergeant Pat Pasquale was leaning against the wall outside his office. He put his thumb on his nose and waggled his fingers at Rocco.

“How's the angle of the dangle, Pasquale?” Rocco asked.

“Surviving, Rocco. Surviving. Do you know who I've got in my office? The beast has arrived.”

“Captain Murdock?”

“None other. The civil libertarians' composite of police brutality.”

“What's he doing here?”

“We called Breeland as a matter of courtesy when we picked up those two jokers. He was down here like a shot.”

They crowded into Pasquale's small office, where Captain Murdock was already sitting with his heavy thighs straddling the small folding chair underneath a hovering cloud of cigar smoke. He waved the cigar at Rocco and Lyon as Pasquale sat down behind the desk.

“Now, will you all tell me what in hell is going on here?” Murdock rasped.

“I understand Pasquale has picked up Wiff Stamen and Fizz Nichols,” Rocco said.

“With a small arsenal,” Pasquale replied. “A little over an hour ago, a cruising unit was passing the Arriwani Hotel when the room clerk ran into the street yelling bloody murder. Your two friends were on the second floor, weapons in hand, kicking in doors. When we booked them, they kept yelling for you and Lyon.”

“This is all tied in with the killing of Junior Haney, and I want to know how,” Murdock said.

“Simple enough,” Rocco replied. “Fizz was with Junior the first time he met a man known as Rainbow.”

“Who paid for Llewyn's murder,” Murdock said.

“Exactly.”

Murdock shifted his weight and stamped out his cigar on the floor. Sergeant Pasquale glared at the smudge. “All right,” Murdock said as he stood. “Let's discuss the matter with those little bastards.”

Fizz Nichols bent double and crumpled to his knees when Sean Murdock's extended fingers jammed into his solar plexus. Pasquale grabbed Murdock's coat and spun him around.

“I'm telling you only once, Captain. Cut that shit out in this town. Understand?”

“I was just opening the conversation,” Murdock said as he backed across the interrogation room and leaned against the wall.

Still gasping for breath, Fizz glared at the fat police captain. “Get him out of here. We'll talk to Wentworth, not pig face over there.”

“Fizz, you're going to highly regret you said that,” Murdock said softly.

“Knock it off,” Pasquale said. “Murdock—out.”

“They're from my town, Sergeant. I want to know the deal.”

“I said out.”

Murdock glared at the diminutive Hartford sergeant. “You'll regret that too, wop.”

Pasquale took a step toward Murdock with raised fists. Rocco stepped between them, parried the blow, turned Pasquale around and propelled Murdock from the room. Pasquale shook himself as if to shake off obscene things and then turned toward Fizz and Wiff.

“Now, let's hear. Why in hell were you two breaking into hotel rooms with guns?”

“We were going to waste the son of a bitch.”

“Who?”

“Rainbow,” Wiff said. “Fizz figured out where the room was. He killed Junior with his colors on.”

“Who killed who?”

“Rainbow killed Junior.”

Pasquale turned to Rocco. “Obviously Rainbow wasn't there, or we'd have these guys on homicide.”

“Look at these pictures,” Rocco said as he handed Fizz several photographs they had taken from Bea's collection. “In this first one there are three men. Do any of them look like Rainbow?”

Fizz took the pictures and examined them carefully. He moved across the room to stand under a light and looked again.

“Well?” Pasquale asked.

“I'm not really sure. You know, I didn't get a hell of a good look at him. Maybe it's this guy in the center.”

Lyon, Pat and Rocco moved quickly to peer over Fizz's shoulder.

“Good Christ!” Pasquale said. “That's the governor.”

“Well, I knew he looked familiar,” Fizz replied.

“Could it be either of the other two men?” Lyon asked, knowing that Ted Mackay was to the right of the governor.

“These guys have gray and white hair,” Fizz replied. “I did see that Rainbow had sort of brown hair.”

“It could have been dyed,” Rocco pressed.

“Maybe. I just can't be sure.”

“I'd put them in the high-risk category,” Rocco said as they drove in the Murphysville cruiser from the Hartford police station to the Arriwani Hotel. “I don't know that I'd have posted their bond.”

“I owe them something,” Lyon replied.

“And I still owe you guys from last time,” Pasquale said. “I'll try and get the charges reduced.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

The Arriwani Hotel was a long, narrow building stuffed between a new office building and an ancient theater that now showed X-rated movies. In its more affluent days it had probably housed vaudevillians playing the theater; now its clientele consisted of welfare recipients, pensioners, and gray-haired men and women wearing loose-fitting clothes and purposeless expressions. The room clerk had obviously been recruited from the last-named group.

The clerk's skin was pulled tight across his balding head, and his rheumy eyes looked at the entering men with a mixture of fear and distrust.

“Your name's Warren, right?” Pasquale asked.

“I thought you were all through with me, Sergeant.”

“These men want to ask you some questions. I expect you to cooperate with them fully.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The room that was broken into—who was it rented to?” Rocco asked.

“There were two. A Mr. Jones rented them both and paid a month in advance.”

“Come on, Warren,” Pasquale snapped. “Jones? You can do better than that.”

“No law says I have to ask for identification. Jones he said, Jones I wrote down. He paid in advance and had two suitcases.”

“Why two rooms?” Lyon asked.

“Mr. Jones said he was expecting friends.”

Rocco stepped closer to the desk and loomed over the clerk. Warren retreated until his back was against the mailbox slots. “I didn't do anything.”

“Did Mr. Jones's friends arrive?”

“Arrived. Stayed a few days and left.”

“Who were they?”

“I don't know, just a couple of bimbos. Jones rented the rooms. I never did get their last names. Real lookers; you'd hardly know they was hustling.”

“First names?”

“Penny and Boots.”

“Tell us about Jones.”

“He came in about two weeks ago, rented the rooms and paid in advance, like I told you. He was hardly ever there; then, when the girls came, they had men friends. I figure he was pimpin' for them.”

“Did you see who they … entertained?”

“No. Around here it don't pay to look too close.”

“Describe Jones.”

“About late thirties, medium build, wore so-so clothes—just a guy.”

“Could you identify him again?”

“I don't know. He wore sunglasses, the kind that go far around and have mirrors in them.”

“Look at these.” Rocco spread the photographs on the desk. “Do any of these men look like Mr. Jones?”

“They all look older than Jones. I'm not sure.”

“Do you know anything more about the girls who came to the second room?” Lyon asked.

“They was just bimbos, mister. Young, good-looking, they didn't—wait a minute, there is one thing. When they first checked in they was ordinary enough, but one night I was on the second floor and their door was open a crack and I could see in. The room was filled with stuffed toys. You know, teddy bears, dolls, stuff like that. And the two dames had on little girls' clothes. It was weird—they looked like they was twelve years old or something.”

“Let's see the rooms.”

The two rooms Jones or Rainbow had rented were on the second floor on the street side of the building. The wood on both doors had been shattered when Fizz and Wiff had kicked them in, and at Rocco's touch the doors yawned open.