The Wizard of Death (5 page)

The supposition would be verified when Rocco's men made molds of the tire marks and compared them to the ones found in back of the church. It also gave them one more fact to work with—an additional fact that might allow them to make another conjecture toward another fact.

He was in a hurry to get back to town. He started the motorcycle and decided to avoid the difficult trail through the meadow by going down the road to Route 90 and back that way to Rocco's office. The escape route was verified, and there was also an additional lead among the things he had heard today.

With its operator lost in thought, the motorcycle failed to negotiate the sharp right turn, crashed through a thin wooden retaining fence and shot off into space. Lyon found himself separating from the mottled red cycle as they both dropped into the waters of an abandoned quarry.

“Those wet clothes are going to mark the bench,” Rocco Herbert said as Lyon scowled.

It had been a two-mile walk to Sarge's Bar and Grill, off Route 90. He had ordered a double sherry and called Rocco from the pay phone. Now, as the chief sat across from him in the scarred wooden booth and nursed a beer, Lyon heard himself squish loudly as he shifted position.

“That quarry's dangerous,” he said. “Kids could get killed out there.”

“To my recollection you're the only one who ever ran a motorcycle into it. Who in hell do you think you are—Evel Knievel?”

“I was thinking.”

“Oh, Jesus, typical. You know, of course, that we'll never get your plaything out of there.”

“Well, it wasn't much of a machine anyway.”

“I've sent two men out to make a cast of those tracks you found, although I don't see how it's going to help us.”

“One more thing to work with.”

“All right, you took a ride over the meadow, probably duplicated the killer's route. You found cycle tracks stopping next to the tracks of another vehicle … fine, he probably loaded the trail bike onto a covered van. That would get him past any check points we managed to set up. I still don't see where that puts us.”

“What about the rifle?” Lyon asked.

“Stolen three days ago from a home in Hartford.”

“Was ammunition taken at the same time?”

“Ammo? I don't know.” Rocco pulled a Xerox copy of a report from his pocket and quickly scanned it. “This is a copy of the investigating officer's report concerning the theft. Nothing at all was taken except the rifle and scope.”

“It's unlikely that the burglar knew exactly what kind of rifle he was going to get.”

“True.”

“Which means that he wouldn't necessarily have the proper caliber ammunition available, nor the time to make a trip out of state to purchase some.”

“So, you can buy ammo at most hardware stores, discount houses, sporting-goods stores … there's probably tens of dozens of places in a fifty-mile radius.”

“Exactly,” Lyon said. “And only dozens.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Let's create a matrix of probabilities. Now, when you buy ammunition you sign a register.”

“And can easily use a false name.”

“Why bother? The dealer asks to see a driver's license as identification. Why bother with false ID when you're buying something that's seemingly as innocuous as ammuniton that's available to anyone?”

“So our killer buys thirty-thirty ammo, signs the book with his own name. How in hell can we track that down when we don't know who he is?”

“Hear me out. In this state, hunting is illegal with anything but a shotgun.”

“Right.”

“In addition, buying shells in July for a trip to Maine to hunt bear or deer which are out of season is unlikely. That means our killer is one of a few who are buying that type of cartridge at this time of year.”

“Someone could buy a rifle in preparation for the hunting season and buy cartridges at the same time, or a nonhunter, a marksman, might want ammunition at any time of year.”

“That's only part of it. Operating a motorcycle requires a special kind of license from the motor vehicle department.”

“Yes. I
am
a police officer, Lyon.”

“Now, suppose we get a list of persons who've bought thirty-caliber ammunition in the northern part of the state during the past several days and run those names through the motor-vehicle department computer to match with licensed motorcyclists.”

Rocco drummed his fingers on the tabletop and stared off into space for a moment. “He could be from out of state, not a licensed cyclist; a lot of variables.”

“It's all we have,” Lyon said.

“Damn it, you've got a point. There can't be that many places selling thirty-thirty ammo at this time of year, and matching those names against the registered cyclists won't be difficult. It just might work.”

Lyon sat back and sipped on his sherry. “Then you'll try it?”

“Damn right, I will.” Rocco Herbert pulled a summons pad from his breast pocket. “Just one thing.”

“What's that?”

“Do you have a cycle license?”

“Of course not.”

Rocco wrote out a ticket and handed it across the table. “Circuit Court Fourteen in two weeks. Driving without a proper operator's permit.”

3

“YOU WHAT WITH THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS AND THEN DROPPED IT IN THE QUARRY?”

Lyon Wentworth drove with one hand, reached across the seat toward his wife and turned up her hearing aid. “For a good cause, darling.” He turned his eyes back toward the road and steered the red Datsun through the light summer rain.

Bea gave a slight groan and leaned back against the headrest. “I wanted to re-cover the living-room couch,” she said in a small voice.

“To make it short, Rocco is running a check against everyone who's bought thirty-thirty cartridges since the theft of the rifle and comparing that list against the registered motorcyclists in the state.”

“Don't forget to take out a state lottery ticket; your odds are better.”

“Not really. If you break it down, how many people in a small state like Connecticut can fall into both categories?”

“I hope you're right. I'm getting tired of having our friends in blue always around.”

As Lyon glanced in the rear-view mirror he could see the prowl car following them at a not-so-discreet thirty yards. “If we'd stayed home tonight instead of going to this party, we wouldn't have an escort.”

“They'd be out in the bushes.”

“Maybe we should be thankful. Hey, do we really have to go to this thing? Damn, I hate cocktail parties.”

“You mean you hate political cocktail parties.”

“With us, it's always the same thing.”

“How about those literary things you drag me to in New York?”

“That's only once a year. Who's going to be there tonight?”

“Our fearless majority leader, Big Mouth Mackay.”

“Rustling support for his candidacy?”

“They don't even wait for the body to get cold. Everyone knew I was backing Llewyn, and I've already had calls asking me to switch support to Mackay.”

“Well,” Lyon said as he turned into the long driveway, “I do get a kick out of Dawkins's Castle; the evening won't be a complete loss.”

Dawkins's Castle wasn't a castle, although it pretended to be. Built fifty years earlier by Colonel Dawkins out of massive blocks of rock from a nearby quarry, it perched on a high promontory over the river and was a skewed cross between a Rhine castle and something angry children might build on a sandy beach.

The colonel had been dead ten years, and now the house was occupied by his son Wilkie, who, although not adding to the massive stone exterior, had filled the interior with an abundance of electronic gadgetry.

Lyon stopped before the lighted portico, and together he and Bea ran through the summer rain toward the protection of the house. Lyon raised the heavy knocker and let it fall while Bea peered at the several cars parked in the wide drive. “Mackay's already here.”

“Advance and be recognized,” a voice said from a speaker above the door.

“The Wentworths,” Lyon replied, and almost instantly the large double doors swung open. The couple stepped into a long hallway where recessed lights in the stone walls cast a dim illumination across the tiled floor.

A wheelchair swung into sight at the end of the hall. The man in the chair pressed a small button on the arm, and the massive doors swung silently shut behind them.

“If Igor takes my raincoat, I'm leaving,” Lyon said.

“Be quiet and act political or something,” Bea whispered.

Wilkie Dawkins waved to them. “Welcome to the sanctuary, you two.” Like many other paraplegics, he had a massive torso and muscle-knotted shoulders, and his useless legs dangled on the supporting rim of the chair. In his late thirties, he had a calculating look, with piercing eyes that were often disconcerting, and a shock of dark hair that jutted over his forehead. He extended a massive hand toward Lyon. “Lyon, you rat fink, when are you going to write some decent pornography instead of that juvenile crap?”

“Next week,” Lyon replied as he tried to slide his fingers from the crushing grip.

“How are you, Wilkie?” Bea asked as she bent over to be bussed.

“Fine, fine.” Wilkie's chair whirred quietly across the carpet, through another set of doors that opened automatically, and into the living room.

A small group of somber people stood by the huge fireplace holding drinks and talking in low tones. Lyon recognized Ted Mackay, senate majority leader; Congressman Dolan, a state committeeman, and the minority leader of the House. The group peeled open as Bea approached, and as plankton are gulped by large fishes, she was absorbed immediately into the conversation.

Lyon crossed to the built-in bar at the corner of the room, where Danny Nemo was efficiently shaking cocktails. He smiled as Lyon slipped onto a stool.

“Dry Sack, Mr. Wentworth?” he asked with a smile. Danny always seemed to be smiling. Like the former tennis player and surfer that he was, he affably and ingenuously radiated health and exuberance. He had been a noncom in Wilkie Dawkins's Vietnam infantry company, and after Dawkins had received massive shrapnel wounds from an enemy rocket, Danny had carried him through enemy fire to the evac helicopter. Since then, he had remained in Dawkins's employ as butler, social secretary, barkeeper and friend. He placed Lyon's sherry on the bar and picked up his shaker.

“How's everything, Danny?” Lyon asked.

“Couldn't be better in some ways, but everyone's still upset over Randy Llewyn getting it.”

Lyon nodded as Danny placed several cocktail glasses on a silver tray, expertly poured until liquor brimmed the rim of each glass and, with Lyon following, carried the tray toward the main group.

Congressman Dolan snatched a glass from the tray and sloshed liquor over his fingertips. “It's a damn conspiracy,” he said. “Those radicals ought to be tracked down like dogs and annihilated.”

“No one has ever proved a conspiracy since Booth's attempted coup against Lincoln,” Bea said evenly.

“I think we should consider preventive detention for the far-out groups,” Ted Mackay said.

“Come on, Senator. Even you don't really believe that,” Bea said.

“I'm reflecting some of the thinking of this group, Beatrice.”

Wilkie Dawkins held up both hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don't know if there's a conspiracy involved here or not, and for the time being I believe we should leave the whole matter in the hands of the proper authorities, where it belongs. We're here tonight to fill the void left by Randy Llewyn. The convention's in a few days, and unless we're careful we'll have floor fights that will divide the party—and we all know what happened last time we were divided. The opposition walked over us in November.”

There were nods of assent. “I'm with Ted Mackay,” Dolan said.

“Ted appreciates that,” Wilkie replied. “Now, with Randy gone, we all know how it breaks out. Support is evenly divided between Ted and Mattaloni; the deciding factor rests with Senator Wentworth.”

“This isn't fair, Wilkie,” Bea said. “You invited me here for a discussion on convention planning. You have no right to put me in this position at this time.”

“I never knew you were afraid of taking a position on anything, Senator Wentworth,” Ted Mackay said with a smile.

“Nor you to avoid taking one,” Bea retorted.

“Like the welfare laws, Senator?”

The majority leader had subtly moved toward the fireplace and assumed a pose that was an effortless but effective way to dominate the group's conversation. His shock of dusty white hair, his gleaming teeth and his rugged features made Ted Mackay look like a candidate for a cigarette commercial, or, physically, like the perfect political candidate.

“That's a good example, Ted,” Bea said. “Your position on the flat-grant welfare laws …
you
try to live in Darien, Connecticut, on three forty a month; you can't even rent a store front in Darien for that.”

“If you're on welfare you sure as hell shouldn't live on the gold coast,” Ted said.

Bea turned toward the rest of the group. “Well, our leader has at last taken a stand. An untenable one, but at least a position.”

“Call it what you want, Bea, but at least it's consistent. You seemingly want to increase social programs and yet reduce taxes. Now that doesn't make any sense.”

“I'm for a more equitable distribution.”

“Soak the rich.”

“I didn't say that.”

“With your pendulum record, Senator, I don't know what you're saying,” Mackay said with a half smile.

Lyon watched his wife approach the majority leader, and he mouthed her next remark silently as she spoke it aloud. “Now wait just a minute, Senator.”