The Death in the Willows

by Forrest, Richard;

  She was naked. Her frightened, hurt eyes stared up at him as he picked up a still lit overturned lamp. Her arms and legs were tied to the bedposts and a broad expanse of tape covered her lower face and mouth. Burns crisscrossed her body in streaks of red welts.

  Rocco shouldered past him and slashed his pocket knife at the bindings. Lyon tore the bandage from her mouth and pulled her gently against him. Her breath came in short gasps and then she began to cry.

  “In … in closet … Mark, …” she gasped.

  Rocco found the little boy tied and gagged in the closet, released him, and handed her a terry cloth robe that hung there.

  She folded the small boy in her arms as they sat on the edge of the bed swaying and gasping. She looked up at Lyon. “A man, at the door. I thought it was Pops until I saw the stocking over his head. He tied us up. Searched the house.”

  Lyon looked around the room and found that it had been thoroughly ransacked, drawers spilled on the floor, the mattress slashed, holes were even punched in the plaster wall. “I see.”

  “The spools. He kept asking where the spools were. Then he tied me to the bed.…” Her voice trailed off as she looked up at Lyon with wide eyes. “My father …”

  Lyon sat next to her and the small boy and held them both in his arms.

  He closed the door and stood for a moment with his back against it. The IV stand cast a crooked shadow toward his feet. She lay stiff and rigid in the hospital bed with her arms by her side and a blanket pulled deep under her chin. She seemed smaller than he remembered, as if the events of the past hours had wilted her, not only her natural exuberance, but also her stature.

  “Darlene,” he called softly.

  Her eyes opened. Facial lines he’d not noticed before cut tracks of fright. “Who is it?”

  “Lyon Wentworth. May I talk to you?”

  “I don’t want to talk.” Her voice was flat.

  He pulled a side chair toward the bed and sat in it silently. She continued looking at him without movement until her eyes blinked open, glazed from the effects of sedation. She fought to keep them open, as if afraid that the horrors-would return if sleep overcame her. He reached out to hold her hand.

  “It’s going to be all right.”

  “Where’s my baby?”

  “Sergeant Pasquale took him home with him.”

  She sat up and he pushed her back. “The police …?”

  “If I know the Pasquales, your only problem is that Mark will come back to you plump as a partridge.”

  A wan smile flickered briefly across her face. “What happened to my father?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened as if she were assimilating the fact and considering how much she might trust Lyon. “I suppose it was because he had a great deal of cash on him. I know he had several hundred dollars.”

  “No, I don’t think it was that. They found his wallet. Someone was looking for something more important than a few hundred dollars.”

  “Which is why he locked Mark up and tied me to the bed.”

  “Do you have any idea what he was looking for?”

  “He just kept asking for the spools … the spools, and when I’d shake my head no he’d bring the …” She turned away.

  “I know how difficult it is, Darlene, but I want you to tell me about your father, particularly the last few years. We might come across something that will help us catch the man who did this to you and to your father.”

  With her head still turned she began to talk. At first in a hesitating, stumbling manner, and finally the words formed their own images and the dead man began to take on a distinctive shape.

  Nikola (Nick) Pasic, as a very young man during World War II, had been deported by the Germans to work in one of their factories. Released at the end of the war, he had joined the masses of displaced persons roaming Europe. Finally obtaining passage to this country, he had landed in the United States in 1946. He had worked as a dishwasher and finally a waiter in Florida hotels while taking night courses at the University of Miami until he received his degree in accounting.

  In 1950 he married Mary Lungsden, and shortly afterward Darlene was born. Her childhood, and seemingly the Pasic life, had been an average and uneventful one. They had always lived modestly, although Darlene knew that promotions he received while working for for the Hungerford Corporation could have enabled them to move into a more luxurious home. Her father had always been kind to her, although constantly fearful of losing his job and once again becoming a displaced person.

  Darlene had married a serviceman and moved to Connecticut on his discharge. Last year her mother had died, painfully, of cancer, and this year her father had retired early with intentions of returning to Europe.

  “He seemed to change after my mother died.”

  “In what way?”

  “The desire to return to Yugoslavia, for one thing. He’d never mentioned that before. And he didn’t want Mark and me to come to Florida and live with him after my divorce. He got quite upset when I suggested it, even though he had the room with mother gone. I know he loved us, but it seemed as if he were afraid for us to be down there. He sent us money, and I told you about the condominium he bought for us. I didn’t understand it.”

  “When he arrived in Hartford did he have any luggage?”

  “No. He said he’d rented a car in New Jersey, and there’d been a mix-up on his luggage in New York. He was in the process of buying new things.”

  “Can you think of anything he said that was odd or out of character?”

  She thought for a moment. “He was mostly concerned that I had enough money and that Mark and I would be all right. He said he would write us, but not to expect a letter until he got settled, which would be a year or so. Funny … he did say he was going to write one letter right away … to some important people here. I didn’t know what he meant. When I asked about it, he wouldn’t say anything. I’m not much help, am I?”

  “You may have been. Why don’t you go to sleep now?”

  “I think I will.”

  Lyon kissed her on the forehead. Her wide eyes looked up at him and then closed.

  He left the Murphysville police station and walked toward Main Street and the Green. There was nothing he could do for the time being, and he’d left word at the desk where Rocco could find him.

  They were all busy. Rocco on the phone to the state police concerning Nick Pasic’s luggage, and Pat Pasquale on the phone with the Dade County, Florida, sheriff’s office. The youngest officer on the force, Jamie Martin, was sitting in front of the communications console at the front desk looking perplexed.

  The Green was deserted. The white gazebo sitting in its center loomed before him as he walked across the grass and sat on its steps. He looked overhead to see an occasional star as clouds blew past in the path of a strong northerly wind.

  In the ambulance on the way to the hospital, Darlene had told Pat that the stocking man had used her curling iron to burn her.

  A curling iron? A small boy terrified in a closet. The dead in the flaming bus—what was worth such horror?

  He looked over the quiet streets surrounding the Green. The historical commission required that the building facades remain unchanged, and the surroundings were as they had been a hundred years ago. It took little imagination to implant gas lanterns along the edge of the Green and see into the past. Men also killed in those simpler times. They killed, as they always had, for lust, gain, or ideology. Knowledge of which of these motivated the murderer was the primary step in locating Pasic’s killer, and would be the mechanism through which they’d find him.

  The police car jumped the curb and ran across the grass to swivel to a stop directly over a bed of tulips. Rocco and Pat slammed from the cruiser and trooped toward the gazebo steps where Lyon sat.

  “Negative on the luggage,” Rocco said. “The lab was able to identify Pasic’s things from the bus and reconstruct the contents. There wasn’t anything but the usu
al clothing and toilet articles.”

  “Whatever he was carrying could have been burned,” Pat said.

  “I don’t think so,” Lyon replied. “When Pasic talked to his daughter after he arrived in Hartford, he spoke of sending a letter to someone important. I think he intended to write to the FBI or the governor of Florida once he reached Yugoslavia. He was going to tell where the spools were hidden. He’d put them someplace safe.”

  “Florida has some interesting information,” Pat said.

  Lyon leaned back against the gazebo post. “The company Pasic worked for is connected to the Organization.”

  “How the hell did you know?”

  “The man who’s been calling me is willing to pay one hundred thousand for what Pasic had. Who else would pay that kind of money?”

  “Right. Anyway, Nick Pasic, as he’s known, worked for an outfit called the Hungerford Corporation. The Anti-Organized Crime Force in Florida has felt for a number of years that Hungerford is a primary outlet for laundering Mafia money by buying into legitimate business. It was a small local mortgage company until twenty years ago when it was purchased by some fronts. Then it began to grow by large infusions of mysterious capital. Today it’s a major financial institution, loaning money and buying equity interests all over the country.”

  “Who’s behind it?”

  “They can’t prove it, but they suspect Sergei Norkov.”

  “Who’s that?” Rocco asked.

  “The sick old man,” Lyon said. “The financial mastermind behind all the families. Evidently he hasn’t had any formal training, but for a man who picked up his knowledge of high finance on the street, he’s a genuis. The Las Vegas skim was one of his minor innovations.”

  “And Nick Pasic was chief accountant for Hungerford.”

  “Any record on him?”

  “None. He seemingly lived normally with a modest life-style. They did mention one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When they checked Pasic’s house, they found his cars still there and most of his personal belongings, but the house had been ransacked like someone was looking for something important.”

  Lyon stretched. “It all fits.”

  “How about letting us in on it before I book you for loitering in the park?”

  “For whatever reason, Nick Pasic took off from Hungerford with the spools. They obviously contain information that is worth a good deal of money to someone, either recovered or destroyed. They hired a hit man to kill Pasic and destroy the spools.”

  “The killer picked up Pasic in New York and followed him to the boarding gate for the New England Express. He got on and sat directly behind you.”

  “The hijacking was a coincidence that fouled up his schedule. He probably intended just to follow Pasic and pick him up when he left the bus.”

  “When the hijacking occurred he passed the gun to you to stay out of the limelight.”

  “Yes. As I reconstruct it, Pasic left work, taking the spools. The word was put out and he was spotted in New York. Remember, probably every Mafia family in the country was after him. The killer was hired and trailed him to the bus line at Gate Twenty-nine.”

  “And he’s cool enough to leave him in line and go have a drink?”

  “The line at the gate was too short. He’s obviously a man who feels that complete secrecy is important. He was willing to take the gamble that Pasic would board that bus.”

  “The next day he destroys the bus and all the passengers, thinking that he’s getting Pasic and the spools.”

  “Except they weren’t on the bus.”

  “Which he found out later.”

  “But why try and kill you? He knows you can’t identify him.”

  “His initial assignment was to get Pasic and destroy the spools. He knew that I spent the night with Pasic and had become involved in the case. I had to be destroyed in order to preserve the secret of the spools. Later, when the bonus was offered for their return, he kept me alive to help him get to Pasic.”

  “Pasic was tortured before he died. He may have revealed their location.”

  “I don’t think so. Pasic knew he was a dead man whether he talked or not. I think he held out, and that’s why the killer went to Darlene’s apartment after killing her father. He certainly wouldn’t have done that if he had them.”

  “Then they still exist—somewhere?”

  “And they’re our answer. Not only important for what they might contain, but also because when we find them he won’t be far behind.”

  “Hilly fits this situation completely.”

  “He might,” Lyon said, and also thought about the bearded balloonist and economist, Popov.

  12

  “YOU’RE MAKING ME UPTIGHT, WENTWORTH.”

  “I thought you’d rather talk.”

  “I’VE GOT TO HELP THEM FLY THIS THING. LET ME CONCENTRATE.” Bea griped the armrests, braced her feet on the flooring, and pushed back against the cushion. The 727 shivered and then streaked down the runway.

  He reached toward her right ear and adjusted the hearing aid. “Statistics indicate that flying is safer than driving on a highway.”

  “Statistics also say that flying to the moon is safer yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m applying for astronaut training.”

  They were airborne. Lyon looked out the window at the retreating ground and tent-covered tobacco fields surrounding the Hartford Airport, Bradley Field. The plane banked toward the south and Bea gasped. She gasped louder as the retracting wheels thumped into their wells. “What was that?”

  “The wheels.”

  “Do you know that ninety percent of all air accidents occur within two minutes of the airport?”

  The loudspeaker crackled to life with a deep reassuring voice. “This is Captain Nelson. Welcome to Delta Flight seven-six-seven to Miami, Florida. Our flight time will be five hours and eight minutes. The temperature in Miami is eighty-four degrees.”

  The jet reached its assigned altitude and leveled off. The ground had disappeared in a fluff of white clouds. Lyon reclined his seat and leaned back to order priorities. His exact plans on arriving in Miami were still vague, although he did have letters of introduction from Rocco and Pat Pasquale. Also, explicit instructions from Rocco not to make any overt move without help and lots of it.

  “There’s a guy with the Florida Task Force named MacKenzie,” the chief had said. “Gather all the info you want, but no moves without him—agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  There’d been a call early that morning from Pat. In an attempt to locate the spools, whatever they were, his men had searched Darlene’s apartment, the new condominium, and any known place that Nick Pasic had been since his arrival in Hartford. Nothing had been discovered.

  Rocco was to contact the American Express Company and get a list of all the recent credit slips submitted under the name of F. Collins. From them they might be able to track Pasic’s route from Miami to New York.

  Kim and Raven were driving to Florida, and along the way would check with the two major bus companies to see if Pasic’s trip north had been by that means of transportation. They would also check with terminal managers in an attempt to see if Pasic had utilized lockers as a hiding place for the elusive spools.

  Bea plucked at his sleeve, and he turned to see her deeply frightened face. “Croatian terrorists,” she managed to mumble through stiff lips. “A couple of years ago they hijacked an airliner.”

  Lyon thought about that a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “YOU DON’T THINK SO! Here we’re going to be blown to bits any moment, and you don’t think so. Why don’t they have parachutes on these things?”

  “Really, Bea.”

  “Pasic was from Yugoslavia, right?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Those Croatians are fighting for independence and Croatia is part of Yugoslavia?”

  “Yes …”

  “And you’re in deep.”

  “Bea,
stop it. Pasic was from Serbia. Serbia is not part of Croatia. Prior to World War I, the Balkan countries including Serbia, Bosnia, and …”

  Her hand went over his. “No, Lyon. No history lectures. I’ll take your word for it, but now I have to concentrate on keeping the engines running.” She clenched the armrests and closed her eyes.

  The spools could be hidden anywhere. Perhaps they were miniaturized recording spools from a tape recorder. He had seen some that were hardly an inch in diameter. They could be buried, mailed, stuck in some niche. It seemed a nearly impossible task, but they had to be found for they held the answer to all that had happened.

  Bea’s eyes flicked open as the stewardess pushed the bar cart by their seat and leaned toward them. “I’ll take a triple.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but regu …” The stewardess looked at Bea’s pale face and silently arranged the drop table and gave her two ice-filled cups and four small martini bottles. Bea drank the first two quickly, relaxed a bit, and sipped at the second double.

  “That doesn’t look like a Zen martini.”

  “At this point in flight I’d drink vanilla extract if that’s all they had. Speaking of Zen, things are getting heavy between Raven and Kim. Do you think they’ll ever reach Florida?”

  “They’re only stopping at the major terminals: Washington, Richmond, Raleigh, and a few others. They ought to make it in three days. What do you think will happen between them?”

  “I don’t know. I worry about it.”

  “Mixed marriages are more acceptable these days.”

  “Not that. Marriage is still difficult under those circumstances, but Kim is tough enough to make it. I really can’t put my finger on it, only that I somehow feel he’s conned her.”

  “He seems to be a nice enough person, although there is a touch of the con in him.”

  “I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “Kim is pessimistic about the campaign. How do you feel?”

  Her eyes widened as she pursed her lips. “Campaign? What campaign? Am I running for something?”