Raven Marsh was slumped over the kitchen table sound asleep, while Kim chortled happily in the study as she listed the night’s receipts and totaled them on a pocket calculator. When he reached the patio with his bag, he found Bea at the parapet looking out over the night.
“Seemed pretty successful,” he said as he emptied a particularly distasteful ash collection into his container.
“God, I hate asking for money.”
“It’s part of the system. Do you know any other way?”
“I haven’t been able to come up with one yet. You know, Lyon, I fib a bit. They ask me my stand on a particular issue, and if I know their predilection is contrary to mine, I fudge a bit or become evasive. I don’t out and out lie about how I feel, but I come damn close to it sometimes.”
“You must be one of the few politicians who don’t lie.”
“I hedge.”
“Do you know any other way?”
She turned with a tired smile. “I haven’t come up with the answer to that one either. What did you say to Popov? He left rather abruptly in a huff.”
“He seemed to resent my asking him about his coincidental appearance at the bus accident.”
“Oh, Lyon, it’s over! They have Hilly in jail. Do you have to insult our friends?”
“I didn’t intend to be insulting. Did you know that Kim and Raven are having an affair?”
“Where have you been the past few days? It couldn’t be more obvious.”
“Has she talked to you about it?”
“No, and I haven’t asked. It’s too new. She’s still unsure and uncertain over whether it’s a transient thing or one more lasting.”
“I wonder about him, too. That business about Playboy magazine …”
“Why don’t you call Rocco and have him give Raven the hose treatment or whatever they use these days? Kim would love that. However, I’ll save you a little time. There isn’t any contract with Playboy. Kim passed that on to me. Raven concocted that in order to gain access and get our cooperation. He’s evidently been having trouble with editors because of his drinking and has been blackballed from a few magazines. He thinks that selling the article about us will get him back in good standing.”
Lyon looked through the kitchen window to where Raven was slumped over the table. “I don’t see much movement toward reform.”
“That’s Kim’s problem, not yours.”
“You let him go!”
“Not me. The state police.” Rocco Herbert picked up a file from his desk and admired a photograph. “You know, I think I’ll get a duck.”
“A what?”
“This kind of duck.” He handed Lyon a photograph of an army amphibious craft. “Government’s offering them cheap to law enforcement agencies. If I write my grant application properly, I might swing it.”
“Spare me. Right now, I want to hear how Hilly got out.”
“It’s one of your liberal, bleeding heart, pinko deals called bail.”
“How much and who paid it?”
“Ten thousand put up by a bail bondsman for the usual percentage.”
“That seems lenient for all the charges against him.”
“He was licensed to carry a gun, he didn’t actually kidnap you, so what they had on him is still bailable.”
“How about material witness?”
“He didn’t witness anything that Norbie can prove.”
“He’s still involved in murder.”
“You know that, I know that, the state prosecutor knows that, and Mr. Hilly knows it. But the guy still claims he was legitimately hired.”
Lyon sat dejectedly. “Somehow it doesn’t seem right.”
“I can go down to Sarge’s place and recruit a seedy lynch mob.”
Lyon looked sharply at his friend. “Since when did you join the forces for constitutional rights? I seem to recall a few incidents when you really bent things.”
“Call it facing the inevitable. All right, this one is a murder case, yesterday it was a bicycle. Not that I equate the two, but the problem is the same. Jamie Water’s new ten speed was ripped off from in front of the Congregational Church. I found it stashed in Herbie Smith’s mother’s garage. Herbie claims he bought it from a guy for ten bucks. We all know Herbie stole it, but I can’t get a warrant.”
“Receiving stolen property.”
“Sure, and I throw Herbie’s seventy-year-old mother in the can.” Rocco studied the architect’s rendering of the new station that hung on the wall. “Through quirks in federal and state grants I’ve got enough equipment to fight a minor war, but there’s something wrong and I don’t know the answers.”
“Okay, if we can’t solve the problem of law and order in this country, I’d like to get on with finding two missing bus passengers. What’s the latest?”
“Norbie’s been in touch with New York. There’s no trace at all of the man who gave you the gun. He’s disappeared into the proverbial thin.”
“What about the one who called himself Collins?”
“Last seen leaving the hotel that morning.”
“He was coming to New England. I think that he’d continue, perhaps by another means of transportation.”
“They covered the airlines, trains, and bus depots.”
“Rental cars?”
“They’re pros, Lyon. The news photo glossy has been shown to rental car people throughout the city. Hell, he could have hitchhiked, had a friend drive him, or for that matter, still be in the city.”
“Then there are no leads at all?”
“They thought they had one, but it fizzled out. An airport limo driver thought he recognized the photograph.”
“Did they follow up?”
“Of course they did.”
Lyon stared at the ceiling. “If you get me the name of that limo driver, I’ll start there.”
“You’ll start nowhere.”
“What?”
“In the first place, what makes you think you can do something the combined forces of Connecticut and New York can’t do?”
“Sometimes I have an intuitive sense about things.”
“Like the time you were the only junior officer ever to argue with General MacArthur at a staff meeting.”
“I was right, wasn’t I? The Chinese did cross the Yalu.”
“And you received the fastest discharge on record. And besides, I can’t protect you if you leave Murphysville.”
“That explains why you had Officer Martin wandering around the cocktail party last night with a flat beer in his hand.”
“I’m shorthanded because of vacations. Play it cool and we’ll turn up something.”
“As long as we had Hilly there was a chance, but I’m not seeing any forward movement.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“Yes, it is,” Lyon said softly. They peopled his dreams and haunted his everyday thoughts, and always would until it was over and he had fulfilled his responsibility to them. “I’m going, with or without your cooperation.”
Rocco looked at him steadily. “I was afraid you would. I’ll get the name.”
The homogeneity of the borough of Queens was a startling thing to Lyon. The streets of identical row houses, each with small front plots fenced by low chain link fences with three steps to the stoop, had an antiseptic quality that he felt sure must affect the dreams and aspirations of the occupants.
The cab stopped midway down a block. “Here you are, buddy.”
He paid the driver and walked through the gate of number 3333, crossed the tiny yard, and climbed three steps to ring the bell. A vacuum cleaner ceased its whining hum as the door opened to the extent of the chain lock.
A gaunt, slightly jaundiced face of a woman of middle age peered through the opening. “Whatcha’ want?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Coin. Billy Coin who works for Carter Limousine.”
“He ain’t here.”
“They told me he was off today.”
“Who you collecting for?”<
br />
“I’m only trying to locate Mr. Coin.”
“He’s at the neighborhood.”
“Isn’t this his home?”
“The neighborhood, the neighborhood. Don’t you understan’ English?” She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead with a tired gesture.
Lyon turned from side to side to look down the rows of identical yards. “It seems to be a fine area.”
“The bar. The local, you know? Henny’s around the corner on the boulevard. Go in all the way to the back. You can’t miss him, mister, you sure can’t miss him.”
The door was shut with a note of finality and Lyon retreated down the walk and turned toward the boulevard. His empathy for the woman behind the chain lock filled him with an ennui that he attempted to dissipate by striding quickly toward the main thoroughfare.
The opaque front window of the “local,” or Henny’s Bar and Grill, contained two beer signs, a sloppily printed ERIN GO BRAGH, and a large paper cutout of a green shamrock. Lyon entered and coughed at the overwhelming smell of stale beer.
A half dozen men and one lone woman sat at the bar with draft beers and an occasional shot before them. Half looked at a wall TV playing “The Price Is Right,” while the other half looked across the bar at faraway places unseen by others.
Lyon ordered a sherry and asked for Billy Coin.
“In the back. You can’t miss him.”
A gargantuan laugh echoed from the rear of the premises and Lyon followed the sound. A pool table under a wide hanging lamp dominated the room. A fat man, the owner of the laugh, held a cue stick in triumph while his opponent, a smaller man in overalls, uttered low curses.
“D-fucking-vastation,” the fat man bellowed. “You’re dead, Charlie.”
The thin man scratched his final shot and hung his cue in the rack with a disgusted snort and went to the bar. Billy Coin laughed again in short guttural snickers.
“Mr. Coin, may I speak to you a moment?”
“Play pool?”
“Only a little.”
“Rotation. Dollar a ball.”
“Mr. Coin, I really …”
“Listen, buster. This is my day off. This is my time away from the old lady. So I have a couple of pops and shoot some rotation, right?”
“I guess.” Lyon took the first cue from the rack and chalked as Billy Coin racked the balls.
“Dollar a ball and I break.”
“Please do.” He watched the fat man remove the triangle and sight. “I wonder if you’d look at a picture I have, Mr. Coin?”
Lyon’s remark coincided with the shot. The cue ball slithered to the side and hit limply to the right of the number one ball. Coin turned to him with a reddened face.
“D-fucking-pressing. Can’t you keep quiet?”
“Of course.” Lyon saw that he had a good shot at the first two balls if he banked properly with a little English. He handed the glossy print of Collins to Billy Coin and lined up his shot. “Have you seen this man?”
“Take your turn,” the fat man said impatiently.
As best Lyon could remember, the last time he had shot pool was years ago in an officers’ club in Seoul when the liquor ran out. He took the shot.
The cue ball slonked the two ball into the far right pocket, spun, and hit the one resolutely into a side pocket. He turned away from the table with satisfaction.
Coin’s jaw dropped and his voice lowered four octaves. He lay the end of his pool cue along the top of Lyon’s hand. “We don’t like hustlers in Henny’s, buddy. Last guy tried that got his fingers busted.”
Lyon knew that his shot was one of astronomical luck, perhaps the first piece of true luck he’d had since the whole thing started. “Continue the game, Mr. Coin. A dollar a ball, or shall we double our bet? Or would you rather just talk to me a few minutes?”
The fat man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and signaled for a drink.
“We’ll call it a draw and talk.”
They sat in a secluded booth where Coin looked at the photograph. “I already told the cops that maybe this was a guy I had on a trip. I couldn’t be sure. You know how many trips I make a day to the airport and back? Plenty. Now, the airlines like us to watch out for the screw-fucking-balls in case they’re possible hijackers.”
“You work out of the East Side Terminal?”
“Make the run to Kennedy. Cops checked it out, what more can I tell you?”
“I understand they did a thorough job.”
“You talk funny for a cop.”
“I’m not.” With dejection he realized that his slender lead had been well investigated. New York had probably mounted a thirty-man task force to check out rental agencies, airports, and bus terminals. And he had developed nothing further than they had. He had to do more. “Mr. Coin, the day you saw this man on your bus was twelve days ago. You were working the seven-to-three shift. He probably boarded the limousine in the morning. Would you tell me about that day? From the first thing you did when you got up that morning.”
“Crazy. Why should I?”
“Or finish our game.”
“Get me a drink and tell me what you want to know.”
Lyon got the fat man two doubles and had him relax in the booth. Slowly, softly, he led him through the day: his awakening, dressing, what he had for breakfast, the drive to work. It was a stumbling, seesaw affair, and perspiration popped out across the man’s forehead as he tried to recall the day and all its minor events.
“… second trip of the day. Musta’ been about ten in the morning. He was first on. Real nervous, ordinary-looking guy. Never would have noticed him if he weren’t shaking so bad. Dropped his book, picked it up. Sat right behind me. I remember that because on the Pulaski Skyway he had a coughing fit and I wanted to throw the bastard through the window.”
“What?”
The fat man opened his eyes. “I told you the whole bit. He got off. He left. O-fucking-kay?”
“Pulaski Skyway?”
“How else can you get to Newark?”
“You work out of the East Side Terminal.”
“That day I filled in for a guy at the West Side and took runs to Newark all day. Cross the fucking meadows and back again.”
“Jersey,” Lyon said. “Did the police know that?”
“Nobody ever askt.”
The molded plastic contour seat was not made for comfortable slouching. Lyon stretched his legs forward, oblivious to the airport bustle surrounding him. There were three car rental agencies in the terminal, he had spoken to each, shown the photograph, and received a negative response from every clerk.
It had been presumptuous of him to think that in one day he could possibly achieve a lead that had eluded the police task force assigned to the case. He glanced up and looked toward one of the rental car booths. A large flight had arrived, and a cluster of businessmen with attaché cases hovered around the counter. No wonder the clerks could not recall one inconspicuous man over a week ago. And even that assumed he had rented a car. Perhaps he had flown out, met someone, never arrived here in the first place. Placing any credence in Billy Coin’s hazy recollection was probably a mistake.
But that was all he had. Lyon closed his eyes and pictured the hotel the day of the hijacking. After dinner Collins had come to his room, they had a drink together and a conversation that lasted five minutes. As he again reviewed the short dialogue, he knew that there were more things he didn’t know about Collins than he did know. His name wasn’t Collins, he was not an army officer, he did not live where his ID said he did. What did he know about the man? Someone was trying to kill him and since he traveled under an assumed name, he must know this. He had also bought a children’s book to give to his grandson, and that grandson was the object of his trip to New England. Yes. Collins had continued on, but how?
The dead ones were part of the milling crowd. Lyon did not believe in vengeance as such, but there had to be a balancing of the scales.
If he could assume that Collin
s came to Newark Airport to rent a car, he would undoubtedly want to cover himself as much as possible, but would have had to use a credit card. The airports would obviously be covered by the man’s pursuers. What would Lyon do in that case?
He’d leave Billy Coin’s bus outside the terminal and take public transportation to the nearby city of Newark. Another obstacle thrown in the path of anyone following.
Lyon left the waiting room and hurried toward the parking lot.
He waited until the customer at the rental agency booth in the lobby of the Newark hotel was taken care of before he approached the clerk. Her name tag said to call her Debbie, but she seemed a little too old and tired to be a Debbie. She gave him a slight grimace which he returned with a smile as he handed her a copy of Collins’s picture.
“It would be a great help if you could tell me if you remember renting a car to this man.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I really can’t help you. I don’t remember.”
“When you rent a car, if it’s not to be returned here, is there a notation on the form where it will be returned?”
“We have to know when and where our cars will come back.”
“Could you look up for me, the day of the sixth, what cars you had signed out for Springfield?”
“Aw, come on, mister. I’m tired. My feet hurt, and my break comes up in five minutes.”
He opened his wallet and slid a fifty-dollar bill across the counter. Bea would kill him. “I’d be most appreciative.”
Her hostess smile returned. “I’m not that tired.” She stooped to rummage through a file cabinet beneath the counter and pulled out a stack of forms that she placed on the counter. Sorting through them quickly, she pulled one from the center of the pack and put it aside. “None to Springfield that day.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll look again.” She flipped through the day’s slips and then shook her head.
The Death in the Willows Page 12
