The Wizard of Death (6 page)

Lyon retreated across the room toward the bar where Danny Nemo stood smiling and holding a bottle of Dry Sack sherry in the air. He poured as Lyon listened to snatches of the argument taking place across the room by the fireplace.

“Welfare and higher taxes are inextricably tied together, Senator Wentworth.”

“The day I vote property over people is the day I retire to my knitting,” Bea retorted.

“Is that a promise?”

Lyon felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Wilkie Dawkins, who had moved noiselessly across the room in his wheelchair. “Can I see you in my study, Lyon?”

As Lyon followed the wheelchair across the room to the study, doors opened automatically and closed behind them after they had entered. The juxtaposition in this large house of feudal construction and electronic wizardry never ceased to amaze Lyon. He sat in a high-backed chair as Wilkie glided his wheelchair behind the broad oak desk.

They looked at each other for that brief moment of measurement and appraisal which determines the makeup of an imperceptible chemistry that would either attract or repel. Lyon found the brief span inconclusive.

He knew that after Dawkins's return from Vietnam as a cripple, there had been months of brooding within the castle, and then a total immersion in countless activities. Using the rather large fortune left from his father's insurance-company interests, Dawkins had founded the Murphysville Children's Museum and become the largest contributor to Bea's political party. And yet, Lyon felt, the rush of activities had only submerged the bitterness, not dissipated it.

He also felt that Dawkins considered him somewhat of an ineffectual person labeled “Bea Wentworth's husband”; a quiet man who shadowed his wife to political meetings, often seemed bored, attentive to his wife, but out of the mainstream.

“I thought perhaps you could give me a little help in dealing with Bea.” He smiled. “What are we going to do with her?”

Lyon looked at the man behind the desk and debated about returning the smile. He did smile. “I hadn't really thought about it tonight, Wilkie. Last week I considered turning her in for an eighteen-year-old blonde, but she objected.”

Wilkie pushed a tiled box across the desk and deftly flipped the lid to reveal small black cigars. Lyon shook his head.

“It's convention time,” said Wilkie. “With Llewyn gone, the whole party is up in the air.”

“He was a fine man and would have made a good governor,” Lyon responded.

Wilkie shrugged. “I agree with you, but I'm also a pragmatist. I lost too many friends in Vietnam; perhaps my sensibilities have been dulled. I have to deal with the ‘now' questions, and as a member of the state committee, it's my duty to create order and organization out of what's left.”

“And this is where we come to Bea?”

“She controls enough delegate votes to make her important. Not enough to clinch the nomination for her choice, but sufficient to constitute a swing element at the convention.”

“You know as well as I do that with Llewyn dead she leans toward Mattaloni.”

“Just as it's no secret that my full support goes to Ted Mackay. If Beatrice switches her support, we have a potential first-ballot victory on the gubernatorial nomination without any internecine party fights. Ted neatly walks away with it, and that means there's a strong possibility that Bea could be the next secretary of the state.”

“She's often a contender, never a nominee.”

“It would make the ticket stronger. We'll even let Mattaloni have the lieutenant governor's slot.”

“You heard them out there, Wilkie. She and Ted just don't get along. Bea takes strong positions and fights for them. Ted never makes a stand.”

“He'll be harder for the opposition to attack.”

“What's to attack?”

“I'm not asking them to crawl into bed. Just a switch of her support, and perhaps give the nominating speech for Ted.”

“You had better talk to her yourself.”

“I have. I thought I'd made a little headway, and then see what happens the very next time she and Ted get together.”

“Bea and I only have one rule of marriage, Wilkie. She doesn't write my books and I don't run her political campaigns.”

“Even if it meant Washington in two years?”

The Wobblies in the White House
as a possible book flashed to Lyon, He snapped himself back to reality and laughed. “Even so.”

The study door slammed against the wall as Ted Mackay strode into the room. “That broad's got to go!”

Lyon stood to face the irate state senator. “I find that in extremely poor taste.”

“Taste! Christ! She's ripping me apart in front of my own supporters. What is this, a debate?”

“Calm down,” Wilkie said. “There's an answer to everything, and it's a question of making the right deal for Bea.”

“You can't make deals with her. She's nuts.”

“She'd strengthen your ticket as secretary of the state.”

“Crap! I want no part of her.”

“I've had enough of that, Ted!” Lyon said as his anger rose.

Ted turned to him and smiled as he put his arm on Lyon's shoulder. Lyon back-stepped. “It's only politics, Lyon. You know that under different circumstances Bea is one of my favorite persons, but our chemistry is wrong politically.”

“Then we'll make it right,” Wilkie said.

“No.”

“What?”

Mackay sat back in an easy chair and looked levelly at Wilkie. “I said no, Wilkie. I've always appreciated your support, but on this I'm adamant.”

“You'll do exactly as I say, Ted—exactly.”

“Don't push me, Wilkie. I'm in no mood to be pushed.”

Lyon felt an interplay between the two men that to his knowledge had never before existed. He raised his glass. “I think I'll get a refill.”

As the study doors closed, he had a last glimpse of Wilkie Dawkins brooding behind the desk. He took Bea's arm and steered her toward a secluded corner away from the remainder of the group, which had broken into pro-Mackay or -Wentworth factions.

“Do you realize that you're blowing your chances of being the first woman President?”

“Dawkins got to you.”

“Right, he thinks I'd make a great first lady.”

“If I lay off Mackay and vote for him?”

“You're terribly astute.”

“Are you serious?”

“No.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bea said as she looked over Lyon's shoulder. “Your large friend is here.”

Lyon felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face Rocco Herbert. “How in hell do you always know where we are?”

“I've got two men following you, or hadn't you noticed?”

“Noticed? They're about as subtle as the seventh cavalry.”

“It worked,” Rocco said.

“You've got a feedback from the MVD computer?”

“On the nose. We ran a match on everyone who signed for thirty-caliber ammo and ran it against the registered motorcyclists.”

“And you came up with seven hundred names?” Bea asked.

“Would you believe one? Junior Haney, age twenty-eight, lives in Breeland. Three nolles for theft—auto and a B and E conviction on his record.”

“Address?”

“Current as of a month ago.”

“You bring him in?”

“You know I wouldn't make a move without you, Lyon,” Rocco said and laughed.

“You really think it's him?” Bea asked.

“It's all we have so far,” Rocco replied. “We'll see what we can turn up when we interview him.”

4

It was a black-and-white morning. The leaden sky cast a dull sheen across the road as Rocco accelerated the cruiser toward eighty. He drove effortlessly with one hand, and with the other, switched on the blinking roof light.

“Are you sure you don't want the siren?” Lyon grimaced as he clutched his seat belt.

“If my driving bothers you, why do you come?”

“I'm a masochist. If you're in such a hurry, we could have done this last night.”

“A name appearing on two lists hardly constitutes grounds for an arrest. An interview, a few questions—but there's no need to dawdle.”

A passing state police car blinked its lights in recognition of the Murphysville cruiser as the speedometer steadied on eighty.

Breeland was a factory town twenty miles from Murphysville. They'd checked the large map in Rocco's office before leaving, and Lyon had scribbled directions to the street that the motor-vehicle department had given as the last known address of Junior Haney.

As they exited off the Interstate, they crossed a rusting iron bridge spanning a muddy river. Breeland was a depressing town, one of many Connecticut cities formed in the early 1800s that now dotted the landscape between the hills along rivers that once were the source of power for textile plants and knitting mills. Connecticut tinkers no longer walked the land to the west, while knitting and textile mills had moved south years ago. Half the factories had closed; the remaining half manufactured precision tools and gauges. Clapboard houses spotted the hills in stagnant display.

As Lyon called off directions from his notes, Rocco slowed to a rational speed. When they made the last turn toward 2339 Halliburton Court, they found that the address was contained within a low-cost housing development. The grass between the peeling frame buildings was too high to be neat and not high enough to be termed overgrown. Sullen children stared at the police car with undisguised contempt.

The doorbell of 2339 was immovable, and Rocco knocked loudly. Dishes clattered inside the apartment and a small child began to wail. Rocco knocked again.

The young woman who opened the door had been pretty last year. She wore a brief halter and faded denim pants. A wisp of hair curled over her slightly perspiring forehead, and she pushed it back in a nervous gesture. Her eyes dulled as she looked past them toward the police car parked at the curb.

“Yes?”

“I'm looking for Junior Haney. Is he home?”

“He's at work.”

“I'm Chief Rocco Herbert. I'd like to talk to you. You're—?”

“Loyce Haney,” she answered in a low voice as she stepped aside for them to enter. “I told you, Junior's not here.”

The front door opened directly into a small living room; a kitchen area was visible to the rear, with an unkempt bedroom beyond that. The plastic-covered furniture had begun to show wear. A petulant baby dressed in a diaper sat in a playpen, half-crying as he looked at them. Dominating the far wall of the room was a large combination color television and stereo set.

As Rocco and Lyon looked toward the television set, Loyce Haney stepped in front of them as if to block their view of the baroque cabinet.

“Junior's got a receipt for the TV. He showed it to me.”

“Does he have a receipt for the rifle?” Rocco asked.

“Junior don't have no gun.”

“Someone told me he did.”

“Someone told you wrong. Hey, you're not Breeland police. That patch on your shoulder says Murphysville. You got no rights here.”

“I can call the locals if you want, Mrs. Haney.”

She shrugged, sank back on the couch and lit a cigarette. Lyon wondered how long she could have been married. Two years, three at the most; she couldn't be much over twenty. Behind her tired eyes he saw the girl she might have been two years ago. A girl riding behind Junior on his motorcycle, her arms around his waist, an overt sensuality about her, filled with the dreams of the times, until she offered Junior the poor girl's dowry—his child.

“Junior's been clean for months,” she said. “He's been working regular at the station.”

“What station?”

“The Exxon on Cumberland Street.”

“He's there now?”

“Since seven this morning.”

“He took his cycle to work?”

“Only way to get there; it's five miles from here.”

“The TV set new?”

“I told you. He has a receipt for it. The store even delivered it here themselves, adjusted the color and everything.”

“On a charge account?”

“It's all paid for. We got the receipt.”

“When?”

“The other day. It's brand new.”

“A thousand dollars?”

“Twelve hundred.”

“He must be working a lot of overtime.”

“He came into some money.”

“Where's the rifle?”

“I told you. No gun.”

“Where was he the day before yesterday?”

“At work. I'm not going to answer any more questions.” She crushed her cigarette out in a souvenir ash tray and crossed to the playpen, where she picked up the baby and held it tightly against her breasts. “Go away. Just go away and leave me alone. Junior didn't do nothing. He told me he didn't.”

Loyce Haney rocked back and forth, clutching the baby as though her maternity were a protective mantle.

“All right, Mrs. Haney,” Rocco said softly. “Thank you for your time.” He turned and strode from the apartment. Lyon stood in the center of the room for a moment, and as he looked at the tired young woman before her large television, he wished for her sake that it wasn't Junior. He turned and followed Rocco to the car.

They pulled onto the gas-station apron on Cumberland Street to find an El Dorado at the pumps. Its driver honked impatiently for service. Then with a screech of tires the El Dorado pulled away from the station.

The service-bay doors were open, a Chevy was on the grease rack, and the door to the office was unlocked. No attendants were visible.

“Anybody home?” Rocco called as he walked through the empty station.

“The phone,” Lyon said as he indicated the wall pay-telephone.

“She called him.”

“We should have expected that.”

“It still doesn't prove he's our man, although I'd bet a thousand to one that the money for the TV didn't come from working here.”