The Wizard of Death (18 page)

“Then for God's sake tell us.”

“I could be wrong. All I have so far is conjecture and probabilities.”

Rocco sighed. “Not enough for an arrest?”

“Not yet. But I think that before the morning is over, we'll have enough to take him.”

“Since you seem to be running the Murphysville, Hartford, and state police this morning,” Rocco said, “how about giving us our instructions?”

Lyon looked at the scrawls across the yellow pad. “All right, let's run through it. Registration is almost complete. In a few minutes I'll be going in. Do you have the field glasses and radio?”

Rocco handed him a pair of binoculars and a police walkie-talkie. “You're tuned in on the security band. Don't change the setting.”

“Good. Is Jamie ready for the run to Providence?”

“He should be across the street in one of our cruisers right now.”

Lyon made a check on his list. “When Collins comes with the list, will you see that the information gets to me?”

“Yes.”

Lyon turned to Bea expectantly.

“I'm all set,” she said. “No one except the chairman knows I'm here. He'll recognize me at exactly eleven forty-five to place Mattaloni's name in nomination.”

“And I take her in through the stage entrance and directly to the podium,” Rocco said.

“Security on stage?”

“We're using the podium built for the President's last visit. Bulletproof glass surrounds the speaker.”

“Excellent.”

There was a sharp rap on the camper's sliding door, and they gave a start as Rocco instinctively reached toward his holster. Lyon slid the door open a few inches and peered out. Satisfied, he opened the door further as Captain Norbert of the state police stepped inside and slid it shut.

“Will you tell me what's going on?” he asked Rocco.

“Protection for Senator Wentworth, Norbie. Told you that on the phone.”

“Then why the big secret?”

“I'll fill you in later. How's security?”

“I've got fifty troopers here; we've surrounded the building and have men posted inside. Nine hundred and eighty people are in the building as of ten minutes ago. That includes delegates, guests, news and media people. No one can get in or out without being checked and issued a registration badge.”

“They seem to go in and out all the time.”

“All the men have radios, and if a call is put out to watch for someone coming out …”

“You can grab him.”

“Thanks, Norbie,” Rocco said. “I'll see you in a couple of minutes.”

Captain Norbert shook his head and slipped out the sliding door. “No one tells me anything,” they heard him mutter as he walked away from the VW.

“It's time for me to go in,” Lyon said. Rocco nodded. “You know where I'll be.”

There was another sharp rap on the door.

“You know,” Bea said, “for a secret meeting, this is like Grand Central.”

Sergeant Pat Pasquale stuck his head in and handed Rocco a seating diagram of the auditorium. “Clear in the lobby if you want to go in now.”

Lyon leaned over and kissed Bea. “It's almost over now.”

Lyon and Rocco left Pasquale with Bea and entered the main lobby, which was almost empty except for several troopers, a manned credentials desk and a photographer.

Every delegate, journalist or guest had to pass the credentials desk, present identification, be verified; then he was whisked to the small photography unit in the far corner of the lobby. The photographer took an instant picture while his assistant typed a card, affixed the photograph to the card and ran it through the laminating machine. The final result was the delegate's registration card for the two-day length of the convention.

His name checked off as a journalist by the credentials clerk, Lyon was directed toward the photographer. He stood where directed, and his picture was taken twice in rapid succession.

The clerk looked up. “What periodical do you represent, Mr. Wentworth?”

“The
Weekly Reader
,” Lyon replied.

As his identification badge was being laminated, Lyon turned back to the photographer. “You have the duplicate pictures for us?”

“Right here, Mr. Wentworth, like you asked.” The photographer handed Lyon a bulky envelope.

“And this includes everyone in the building?”

“Everyone with a badge, which is everyone except the police officers.”

“There're nine hundred and eighty pics there,” Rocco said.

“Remove all the ones of women, blacks, and individuals over sixty or under twenty. I imagine there will be fewer than three hundred left.”

“And you think one will be Rainbow?”

“Yes, I do. How long will it take for Jamie to get to Providence with them?”

“Less than two hours, say another hour for the hookers to put a make on the photo, and then we'll have it.” Rocco hurried from the building with the envelope of pictures.

Lyon left the lobby by a side door that took him up a flight of stairs to the second floor. He walked briskly past various offices and down a long, narrow corridor that ran along the side of the auditorium and ended at a small door. The door opened onto a small platform suspended above the floor of the auditorium to the far left of the proscenium arch. In addition to the spotlights mounted on the frame of the tower, it was occupied by a TV cameraman and a technician with earphones. The camera panned across the noisy assemblage on the floor of the convention.

The technician pushed the earphones down over his neck and glared at Lyon. “You authorized up here?”

“Weekly Reader,”
Lyon replied, pointing to his badge.

The technician clamped the earphones back over his head.

The heavy suspended lights would create a glare that would make those on the tower vague shadows to those below. Lyon sat cross-legged near the wall, spread the seating diagram across his knees, and began to scan the auditorium with the field glasses.

The state nominating convention was a microcosm of the national convention. Cities and towns, identified by signs, were caucusing on the floor, while messengers ran from group to group rallying support. The drone of voices filling the hall attested to the intensity of the fight over the nomination of state candidates.

The tail end of a demonstration left the auditorium by a side door, the kilted bagpipers attempting, with one last skirl, to make an impression over the din.

“What's next?” Lyon yelled to the cameraman over the tumult.

“Gubernatorial nominations.”

“Good.” He scanned the audience again, looking for familiar faces.

It would be an open convention. The incumbent governor had decided to retire, and that, combined with the death of Llewyn, left a political void. Support, so many local pundits explained, was evenly divided between Mackay and Mattaloni, with a large block of uncommitted delegates. Bea's placing Mattaloni's name in nomination was her outward show of support and was bound to switch many of the undecided.

Lyon felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face a police officer.

“You Wentworth?”

“Yes.”

“They asked me to give you this, said it was from a Mr. Collins at the bank.”

Lyon took the neatly folded paper and thanked the officer, who disappeared behind the small door. He unfolded the sheet and ran his finger down the list of names. He was astonished at the number of people who, for one reason or another, saw fit to draw ten thousand dollars in cash from their accounts. He realized that he'd been looking sadly at the list of bank withdrawals for a long time. It was now almost complete; everything was falling into place. The din in the auditorium seeped into his consciousness, and he looked down at the audience.

“Who did they just nominate?” he asked the cameraman.

“Jeez, pay attention, will you? Ted Mackay.”

Lyon looked briefly at the seating chart and then trained the field glasses on row DD off center. He focused on the three men sitting near the aisle. Wilkie Dawkins, in his wheelchair at the end of the row, had a bemused look on his face and was making notes on a folded piece of paper. Danny Nemo, Wilkie's employee and perennial companion, leaned over and whispered something in the crippled man's ear. Both men laughed. Immediately next to Nemo, Ted Mackay sat slumped in his seat with his hands tented across his nose.

Lyon swiveled the glasses slowly over the auditorium and focused on the far wall, where a man stood near the exit doorway midway up the room. Captain Murdock, his arms folded across his chest, leaned against the wall. The last of the demonstration began to fade away as the chairman rapped for order.

The introduction of the next nominator began. As always, the name would be announced last, and the speaker would leave the wings and go to the podium.

The palms of his hands were damp. He realized that the source of his anxiety was not so much that they might be nearing the end of their search as it was fear over Bea's safety. If he was wrong, if his hypothesis was incorrect, her appearance on the podium would place her in grave jeopardy. He had to suppress the thought, and he trained the field glasses back on the audience.

“… Senator Beatrice Wentworth.” The chairman's rising voice was amplified through the hall.

Danny Nemo's hands grasped the edge of the seat in front of him as he slowly and incredulously rose to his feet. His face was colorless as he looked at Bea on the stage. He brushed past Ted Mackay, who looked up at him quizzically, and stepped into the aisle.

Wilkie Dawkins wheeled his chair to block his exit and grasped the edge of Nemo's jacket. Danny shook his head and tried to tear away as Wilkie's hands took a firmer grip. He shook his head vehemently, slipped out of his jacket, and gave the wheelchair a shove that sent it careening down the aisle, where it hit the side of a row and turned over to sprawl Wilkie across the floor.

Danny Nemo began to run up the center aisle as Lyon thumbed on the radio. “It's Danny Nemo. Do you read me?”

“I've got it,” Rocco immediately answered. “Danny Nemo.”

“He's going up the main aisle; Dawkins is near row DD.”

“We'll get them.”

As Rocco Herbert stepped through the double doors at the end of the center aisle, Danny saw him and turned back. Tandems of state troopers stepped through side doors and began to converge on the running man.

Drained of emotion, Lyon let the radio fall as Bea's voice echoed through the chamber. “I place in nomination the next governor of this state, Mike Mattaloni.”

The building became a pandemonium of shouting delegates as a band swirled through the side doors at a trot, playing fast ragtime as they attempted to circle the room. Onrushing state troopers were caught in the middle of the demonstrators.

Rocco had reached Wilkie Dawkins and righted the chair and was attempting to push it back up the aisle.

Danny Nemo leaped to the stage and disappeared around the edge of the curtain as a trooper clambered after him.

They would have him in a minute, Lyon thought, and then it would be over. The women in Rhode Island would identify the picture, a bank teller would remember Danny's withdrawing cash from Dawkins's account, and it would be over. He glanced down at the list of names on the bank withdrawal sheet, where he had underlined that of Wilkie Dawkins.

It all fitted, there would be enough for an indictment. He fumbled for the radio and thumbed the transmitter button. “Rocco, do you hear me?”

“I'm in the treasurer's office with Dawkins, but we have a problem.”

“He's raising all kinds of hell.”

“That too, but the problem is Nemo. We can't find him, but he can't get out of the building.”

14

Captain Norbert and Rocco Herbert were arguing outside the auditorium beside the VW camper. It was apparent that they were valiantly attempting to keep their voices subdued, but words carried, and nearby state troopers turned diplomatically away.

Lyon walked toward the two intense police officers. The strong feelings he had experienced on the camera tower had drained him; the temporary elation over the ending of the affair had been replaced by a deep lethargy. He walked between the two men, slid open the camper door, and sat down.

“I'm telling you for the last time,” Norbert said. “No one, but no one, got out of that building.”

“Damn it all, Norbert, take a look for yourself. People are coming and going all the time.”

“Right, and they have to go past my men at the two open doors, badges are checked, photos are compared to bearers, and no Danny Nemo left the building.”

Rocco looked over the state police officer's shoulder at the main entrance of the building. Small groups of twos and threes passed in and out of the building while officers, clip-boards in hand, examined everyone.

“And everyone has a badge,” Norbert said.

“Then he's got to be in there still,” Rocco replied.

“That's what I've been telling you. We're searching the inside now. If he's slipped back into the main auditorium, it will take longer, but he can't get out.”

“I saw him go over the stage and around the curtains,” Lyon said.

Captain Norbert glared at Lyon, obviously piqued at civilian intrusion. “Thank you, Mr. Wentworth.”

“I know what he looks like; I'll slip in and circulate,” Rocco said.

“Waste of time.”

Both police officers turned in puppetlike unison to look at Lyon. “What?”

“I said it's a waste of time; he's not in there.”

“How are you so goddamn sure?” Norbert asked.

Lyon stood to lean against the side of the VW. He was feeling better and wondered if there was coffee inside the building.

“Well?”

“Rainbow has been two steps in front of us the whole time. I doubt very much he'd make the grave tactical error of staying in the building.”