Norbert cleared his throat. “This is Captain Henry Norbert. Also present are Chief Rocco Herbert of the Murphysville force and a man representing himself as Sean Hilly of Long Beach, Long Island.”
“I don’t represent anything. That’s my name.”
“You have been read your rights. Would you like me to repeat them?”
“I know my Miranda.”
“The police identification you carry and showed to Chief Herbert is a forgery.”
“No, it’s real.”
“There’s no Sergeant Sean Hilly listed with NYPD.”
“I was on the force until two years ago.”
“You resigned?”
There was a long pause as Hilly stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. “I was kicked off for being on the pad.”
“They bring charges?”
“They let me resign. Otherwise I couldn’t get my investigator’s license—which I got, along with a permit for the gun.”
“You still misrepresented yourself to Herbert.”
Hilly shrugged. “My client said that would be the best way to get in tight. Who the hell figured some boonie cop would check with New York?”
“What client?”
“Privileged information.”
“Are you dumb or just stupid? We’re talking more than a dozen counts of murder one here.”
“Murder? You got to be crazy.”
“A busload of people.”
Hilly shot to his feet. “Like hell! You got me on impersonation, some traffic counts, maybe a little assault on Wentworth; what’s this with murder?”
“Someone blew up that bus and now we know who.”
“Bullshit! You’re looking for a fall guy, and it’s not going to be me.”
“Who’s your client?”
Hilly looked blank and then sank back in the chair. “I don’t know. I honest to God don’t know.”
“That’s a dumber answer than before.”
“I got a phone call. The guy said he thought Wentworth was holding some valuable merchandise of his, or else knew where it was. He said that’s why Wentworth was carrying a piece on the bus that day. He wanted me to get in tight, stay close to him, and report back.”
“And on the basis of a phone call like that, you agreed? Come on.”
“He followed it up with a typed letter and two thou in cash. Hell, I needed the money. The fuckers are foreclosing on my house.”
“How do you report to this mystical person?”
“I write to him at a box in Tarrytown, New York.”
“What box number?”
“Seven-two-four.”
Norbert made a note on a legal pad. “We’re going to check that out.”
“Go ahead. I wrote one yesterday that should get there tomorrow morning.”
“What’s this merchandise you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know. I was just to report everything I saw concerning that jerk Wentworth.”
“You expect us to believe that you accepted money from an unknown client for an unknown job when multiple murder was involved?”
“There wasn’t any murder when I took the money. That bus thing happened when I was on my way from New York. Then it was too late. I’d already spent most of the money.”
“Come on, Hilly. You expect me to believe that?”
Rocco left the interrogation room and joined Lyon behind the one-way glass. “Well, what do you think? Is he the guy who gave you the gun?”
“I don’t know, but I would be curious to know if he ever wore a beard.”
“I’ll ask him when I go back in. You know, Lyon, it all fits with this fink. Suppose he’s telling half the truth, and was hired by some unknown client … hired to hit someone. He admits he was on his way to Connecticut when the bus blew up. His story stinks, but it fits.”
“The man who telephones me by name, he would have to be Hilly’s client.”
“Right.”
“Find out about the beard, Rocco.”
The large chief nodded and returned to the interrogation room. “You ever wear a beard, Hilly?”
“You’re not going to screw me with that bit.”
“We can find out, you know.”
“So, what if I did. I was working narcotics when I was on the force. It made good cover.”
“When did you shave it off?”
“I don’t know. A couple of months ago.”
A trooper corporal entered the room and handed Norbert a note. The captain left the room, leaving Rocco to continue the questioning. In a few minutes, Norbert entered the room where Lyon stood. With him were the two highway service station attendants Lyon had talked to the day the bus burned.
“You see that guy in there?” Norbert waved toward where Rocco bent menacingly over Hilly. “You recognize him?”
“That big guy?”
“No. The other one. Could he be the man you saw at the station talking to the tanker driver?”
“I don’t know. It was like the other side of the apron. I only glanced at him.”
“Take another look. Did you see him at the service station that day?”
Both men looked through the glass and then simultaneously shook their heads. “Not him,” the first one said.
“Could be this guy,” the second said as he pointed at Lyon. “He was there. I distinctly remember seeing him.”
“Me too,” the second agreed.
Captain Norbert turned red as he faced Lyon. “Wentworth, get out of here! Just get out of here!”
Rocco and Lyon sat at Sarge’s place. The booths had been restored and the aura returned to its comfortable seedy ambience. Lyon drank his second sherry gratefully.
Rocco threw down a neat vodka and signaled to Sarge for another. “Norbie’s never going to break that guy down. We’re going to be stuck with that mysterious client bit until hell freezes over.”
“Hilly fits the mold almost too easily.”
“And that bothers you? Like he was set up?”
“In a way, but perhaps I’m being too suspicious. I have a feeling that the man we’re looking for is careful, always careful. He’s a devious man who has used disguises before. Also, what is the merchandise they’re looking for? Why was a contract put out on the missing man?”
“Maybe Norbie has the answers.”
“What answers? All I have is questions.” Captain Norbert stood scowling by their table. “Can’t you pick a better place for a conference than this dive?” He plunked into a chair facing the bar. “I thought the town went for a bundle on the new headquarters, Roc. Which, as I recall, includes a conference room.”
“I don’t like the color scheme, we don’t serve booze at headquarters, and don’t call me Roc.”
Norbert sat rigidly in his chair. “What’s the sign outside? Says topless.” He peered toward the bar. “When they come on?”
“A little later,” Rocco said and kicked Lyon under the table. “What’s with the prisoner?”
“Initial check with New York says he’s what he claims. Ex-cop, licensed private investigator, gun permit in order, bad credit rating, and a wife and two kids on the Island. We’ve booked him on half a dozen charges. Your wife’s on the way home, Wentworth. New York will escort her to the Connecticut line and my men will pick her up from there.”
“Thank you. What about the post box in Tarrytown?”
“Like Hilly says. He’s mailed four letters and there are four letters there. We have it staked out, but I’m not hopeful. It’s going to be a long case. We have to place him near the bus. It’ll take time, but we’ll nail him.”
“Motive?”
“He was paid. He admits that.”
“By who?”
“We’ll get that information too—eventually.”
“Give me a lift home, Rocco. I want to be there when Bea arrives.” As they walked to the car, Lyon gave a last look over his shoulder. Captain Norbert still sat rigidly at the table—waiting. “How long before Sarge tells him that the da
ncing girls have been canceled?”
“A long time,” Rocco replied. “A long time.”
10
Lyon Wentworth made drinks badly, but worse, he kept forgetting the orders.
“A pink lady, martini, two stingers, and a scotch and water with twist,” a voice called to the kitchen.
He looked at the array of bottles spread across the kitchen table with their accompanying trays of lemon twists, olives, and maraschino cherries that he had laboriously laid out before the cocktail party started. He reached at the scotch, hesitated, and tried to remember the sequence of the order shouted through the kitchen door. What in hell was in a pink lady? He began to search for his bartenders’ guide.
Nutmeg Hill had been transformed. Cars lined the lawn and crowded the drive as a hundred people spilled through the house and out onto the patio where a professional waiter and bartender worked a portable bar. Lyon glanced through the window at the bartender on the patio. He was immaculate in white jacket and tie and held a cocktail shaker over his head which he shook with zest. They should have hired two bartenders.
Through the kitchen door he could see Bea in the living room, moving from one group to another with her head thrown back in laughter. One hand held an untouched glass of ginger ale, while the other was perpetually extended in greeting. A banner stretched across the room printed in wavering block letters that read OVER THE TOP WITH BEA. It was the last fund raiser of the campaign, and carefully planned with the utmost cynicism—pour on the drinks before the impassioned appeal for money to finance the final radio and television spots. It was hoped that, as in the past, checkbooks would be produced and checks written. For the unprepared, a supply of blank checks and BEA WENTWORTH FOR CONGRESS pens were available.
Lyon watched Bea in a corner talking with Maximus Popov and the blond girl he lived with. It was a seemingly benign scene, which made him wonder why he worried. Hilly was under arrest charged with the crimes of impersonation and assault. The combined forces of Connecticut and the city of New York were working to create the case necessary to charge him with the murders. It would be time-consumming and difficult, but they would probably succeed. So why was he worried about one of his wife’s supporters who coincidentally happened to be present at the balloon accident? Why did he still doubt Hilly’s guilt?
He dialed Rocco on the kitchen phone.
“Sounds like you’ve got a bash going on there.”
“Should have come.”
“On my salary I couldn’t contribute a quarter to Bea’s campaign, but tell her luck. And besides, you don’t know the work involved in applying for all these grants. Papers up the kazoo.”
“I appreciate your difficulties in obtaining your helicopter, but could you check something for me?”
“From past experience, that means you probably want to send me on a jaunt to Alaska.”
“Not this time. After the bus caught fire, the state police must have taken the names of all witnesses. All those from nearby cars, the service station, and the restaurant.”
“Sure. I have a list here that Norbie sent over.”
“Anyone we know on it?”
“Let me dig it out.”
Lyon glanced back into the living room while he waited. Bea had moved from Popov and his girl friend, and the bearded balloonist looked his way and waved a hand in greeting.
“I’ve got it,” Rocco said. “We know a lot of them, mostly rest area employees who live in Murphysville. A good many of the others are out-of-state people.”
“Anyone else?”
“Let me look. You know, Lyon, if Hilly were there, he probably used a false name. Any killer would.”
“Not if he were from this area and might be recognized.”
“Your buddy Max Popov is on the list.”
“He is?”
“Hell, so are sixty other people. Does it mean anything?”
“I don’t know. Thanks, Rocco.” He slowly hung up and walked back to his bar mixings, trying to remember the drink requests he’d been working on before the call.
“I once did a great piece for Esquire on the making of the true martini through the use of Zen.” Raven leaned against the door holding his cocktail glass upside down.
“I assume that means I don’t have the proper transcendental qualities to my barkeeping?”
The writer gave a sad shake of his head as he moved behind the bar and searched through the tray of martini olives. “First, one must find the proper olive. A fruit—or is it a vegetable—that holds the true essence of all olives.” He selected a small one and held it up between thumb and finger. “You see before you an example of absolute perfection in olives.” He plunked it into a glass and held the gin bottle high over the shaker and let a thin stream of the clear liquor pour into the cocktail pitcher. “Now, let the shadow of the vermouth fall across the shaker. Notice that the actual presence of the alien wine is not required, merely the essence of the vermouth.”
“I think your Zen manual is trying to say that I make them too weak.”
“Strength is not the requirement. Perfection is the goal.”
“Should the essence of vermouth falling across the pitcher be chilled?”
“You mock me, sir.” Raven tasted the newly mixed martini and sighed. “Now, there is perfection of nothing less than pure grandeur.”
“Can you make a stinger?”
“But of course.” He quickly began to mix the drinks. “Anything else?”
“Let’s go for a pink lady and a scotch and water with twist. Don’t know how you remember them all.” Raven mixed the drinks efficiently.
“Well, as Chief Herbert would say, you’ve got the bad guy in the slammer, what’s next?”
“You mean Hilly?”
“He always did look suspicious to me. Those little eyes sunk in a criminal face.”
“They haven’t formally charged him with murder, but that’s the direction in which they’re moving. Makes a rather neat ending to your article, doesn’t it?”
“I couldn’t ask for more. The Wentworths in their white hats triumph again. I must get some shots of you and Bea at home. Some casual but homey pics. You working on a book in the study, Bea in her garden, that sort of thing.”
“Then you’ll be returning to the city?”
“No, I thought I’d do the actual writing here in Murphysville. A sort of flavor-of-the-scene type of thing.” He finished the round of drinks, drank his own, and made another.
“I’ve never sold anything except children’s books. I suppose that with articles like you write, you only sell the North American serial rights?”
“I suppose.” He busied himself with the bartending as Kim entered the kitchen and sampled Raven’s martini.
She coughed. “Lord! A few of these and you’ll be doing handstands on the widow’s walk.”
“He says they’re Zen martinis.”
“I’ll bet. Back home we called that straight booze.”
Raven took the glass back from Kim and tasted it with a slow smile. “It’s a developed taste.”
“How’s it going out there?”
“One more round of drinks and we’ll put the touch on them.”
“By the way, Raven, where are you staying? The Dell Motel?”
“I moved from there. Now I’m just down the road a piece. What can I make you, hon?” he asked Kim.
“Down the road?” It was then that Lyon noticed that Kim’s hand lying gently on Raven’s with that casual touch of intimacy that men and women have only when they sleep together. “Oh.”
“My place,” Kim said and looked directly at Lyon as if to challenge him.
“Why not?” Lyon smiled at her. “Where’s the sherry?”
Maximus Popov was at the far end of the patio near the parapet overlooking the river. He had a small entourage surrounding him as he pointed skyward and explained certain fine points of hot air ballooning. His blond girl friend stood to the side looking slightly bewildered. Lyon beckoned to Popov wh
o immediately moved away from the group to join him. He grasped Lyon’s hand.
“You’re looking great. You’ve evidently pretty well recovered from the accident.”
“Ribs are still taped, but otherwise I’m whole. Mind if I ask you something?”
“Go ahead, except that if it’s about those leaking propane tanks, I still haven’t been able to find out how it happened.”
“About the bus …”
“The one that burned and killed all those people. I was there, you know.”
“In the service station or restaurant?”
“The men’s room. Which tells you why I pulled in there in the first place. When the bus went, right after the explosion, we all ran outside, but it was obvious that we couldn’t help anyone.”
“You know, Max, whenever we’re together we seem to only talk about ballooning. You teach economics, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to be some sort of expert on foreign exchange and arbitrage.” He looked out at the setting sun casting sheets of red along the river. “I could make a hell of a lot more money in the city in private industry, but who wants to leave this?” He gestured expansively over the valley.
“Do you travel a lot?”
“I do a good deal of consulting work for large corporations with foreign interests.” He turned away from the setting sun. “Are you interrogating me?”
Lyon laughed, but found that his voice lacked any ingenuous quality. “Come on, Max, you’re a fellow aeronaut.”
“Who was at the balloon meet when you almost died and who also was at the scene of the bus fire. By God, Lyon! I think you’re making me some sort of suspect.”
“They have this man Hilly under arrest.”
“But you think he didn’t do it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You know, old man, it’s not very good manners to invite a friend to a fund raiser for your wife and then accuse him of murder.”
“I didn’t accuse you of anything.”
Popov turned and walked away. “You didn’t have to.”
Lyon walked through the devastation of the party’s aftermath and shook his head. Nutmeg Hill was a shambles that now resembled a Barbary Coast bar after three whaling ships had disgorged their crews for their first leave in two years. He didn’t recall any fistfights or dancing on tables, which might have explained overturned chairs, broken glass, and dozens of partly consumed drinks. He began to empty overflowing ashtrays into a lawn bag.
The Death in the Willows Page 11
