The Wizard of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  “Don’t stop on my account,” Lyon said.

  He looked around the room. It was fairly large for that kind of hotel. He was taken aback by the number of stuffed animals that covered the chair, the dresser and the bed. Teddy bears, pandas, stuffed ducks, cats and dogs. A stuffed Wobbly doll sat on the windowsill. Oh, Jesus, he thought, The Whores and the Wobbly. It would never work.

  “Put the money on the dresser, hon,” Penny said as she slipped out of her blouse.

  Lyon found he had three twenties and three ones in his wallet, and hoped he had enough gas to get back to Murphysville. He put the money on the dresser and turned toward the two women, who were busily clearing stuffed animals off the double bed.

  “Come on, baby, take it off,” Penny said as she slipped out of her skirt.

  “Want me to warm you up a little, hon?” Boots asked as she twined her arms around Lyon’s neck.

  Lyon smiled at her and ducked his head under her arms and sidestepped away. He noticed that she slipped the money from the dresser.

  “You want to play or not, baby?” Penny asked.

  “He’s the shy type,” Boots said.

  “I want to talk about Hartford.”

  Boots turned vehemently toward Penny. “He’s a goddamned cop!”

  “He sure didn’t look like one.”

  “I’m not,” Lyon said. “I want to know who hired you for the Hartford trip, and whom you entertained.”

  “You’re a fed. They use the clean-cut type.”

  “No. I promise you. I am no type of law-enforcement officer.”

  “All right, then,” Boots said. “Take off your coat.”

  “I don’t want to party. I want to know about your trip.”

  “Take off your jacket and we’ll see if you’re a cop.”

  Lyon slipped off his jacket and hung it over his arm.

  “Okay,” Boots said. “Now turn around.”

  As they both sat on the edge of the bed, Lyon turned around. “He’s not wearing a gun.”

  “Exactly what do you want, mister?”

  “It’s extremely important to me to find out why you went to Hartford, and who sent you. I know you stayed at a place called the Arriwani Hotel, and that a man called Jones paid for the rooms and that you entertained someone.”

  “If you know so much, why ask us?”

  “Who hired you and whom did you entertain?”

  The two women looked at each other. Boots shrugged. “Information all you want?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Well, you paid your dough. But no party?”

  “No party,” Lyon replied. “Who hired you?”

  “Never did know his real name. Called the bar one day and said he’d really fix us up if we came over to Hartford and did a job for him. Mailed us five hundred in advance.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, just a guy.”

  “He told us to take the bus over to Hartford and go to this hotel where he had a room rented,” Penny said. “He wanted to take some pictures, and then we just had to party one guy.”

  Boots laughed. “We gave out a couple of freebees while we was there.”

  “Like housewives,” Penny giggled.

  “Who was the man you entertained?”

  “We weren’t supposed to know,” Penny said.

  “Mr. X,” Boots added. “Mr. X turned out to be ready teddy.”

  “He was kinda weird in the sack.”

  “You never knew his name?”

  “Rainbow gave us a thou when it was over. We figured for that kinda money it’s better to not ask questions.”

  Lyon spread the photographs on the bed and gestured to the girls to examine them.

  “Hey, this is him,” Penny exclaimed as she picked up one of the photographs.

  Boots took the picture. “That’s him all right. I’d swear to it.”

  “How could we forget?”

  Lyon sank onto the bed. He felt weak and yet exalted. It was over. Finally they had a positive ID on Rainbow. He smiled up at the girls. “And you’ll positively identify this man as Rainbow?”

  “Rainbow? I don’t know about that,” Penny said as she dropped the picture of Ted Mackay on the bed alongside Lyon. “But I sure in hell know this guy.”

  “We balled the hell out of him,” Boots added. “But what a weirdo.”

  “Right. That’s the guy we were paid to party.”

  9

  “ALL RIGHT, WENTWORTH. WHERE IN HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?” Bea sat Indian-fashion on the double bed, her arms folded across her chest, the shortie nightgown far above her knees. Lyon stood in the doorway and smiled at his wife.

  “You don’t really want to know.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Lyon said in a raised voice. He sat in the rocker by the window.

  “HOW MUCH DID YOU SPEND?”

  “I’m not quite sure. Bail for the two guys; then there was sixty to the prostitutes.”

  She reached for the small hearing aid on the night table and adjusted it in her ear. “You’re right, I don’t think I want to know. Rocco wants you to call as soon as you can.”

  Lyon moved tiredly to the phone and dialed Rocco’s home number.

  “Herbert here.”

  “I found the girls in Providence.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?” Lyon found himself speaking into a dead phone.

  “What girls?” Bea asked.

  “You’ll never believe—”

  “Try me. It’s my hide someone’s after.” As Lyon recounted the events, Bea had glasses perched on the edge of her nose and made notes on her clipboard. She looked up as he finished. “Well, outside of Ted Mackay’s secret sexual predilections, which don’t surprise me, we have four people who have seen Rainbow. The motorcyclist, the room clerk, and the girls; but none of them can give you a positive identification.”

  “Not yet, but we’re getting closer. The question now is, what’s the best way to proceed?”

  “Talking with Mackay?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Lyon?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You didn’t … I mean after the interview with those two women … Were they bad-looking?”

  “Not bad for their type.”

  “What’s their type?”

  “No, they weren’t bad. They had a Wobbly on the windowsill.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  Again that day, a woman’s arm twined around his neck.

  When Bea and Lyon entered the study wearing matching terrycloth robes, they found Rocco Herbert in the leather chair with a drink.

  “You want some ice for that?” Lyon asked.

  “Better pour yourselves one.”

  “What’s up?”

  Rocco threw a folded newspaper across the room. The article was on the front page near the bottom, centered under the picture of a beauty-contest winner.

  CYCLIST KILLED IN MISHAP

  Fitzsimmons (“Fizz”) Nichols, 28, of 3 Bracecourt Lane, Breeland, was killed today when his motorcycle was forced off the shoulder of Route 29 by an unidentified vehicle. State police ask that any person or persons viewing the accident phone the Breeland Barracks.

  Lyon dropped the paper, where it was retrieved by Bea. He walked to the window and looked out. Far below, the Connecticut River curved around the Seven Sisters promontory and began its path toward the sea.

  “Well?” Rocco asked as he poured another drink.

  Lyon slowly turned. “I think you had better call Pasquale in Hartford.”

  “Christ! The room clerk.”

  “It could have been an accident,” Bea said.

  As Rocco punched the number of the Hartford Police into the phone, Lyon crossed and sat next to Bea. “You don’t really believe that?”

  “No, but it’s always possible.”

  “You said we had fou
r people who had seen Rainbow; now there are three.”

  “No, there aren’t,” Rocco said as he hung up.

  “What happened?”

  “Warren was shot a little more than an hour ago. During an attempted robbery of the Arriwani Hotel. Once through the forehead with a forty-five.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Nobody saw a thing.”

  “Can you get the hookers in Rhode Island pulled in?”

  “There’s a Lieutenant Troagland over there who went to the last Criminal Justice Seminar with me.”

  “For God’s sake, Rocco, call him. Get those girls in custody. Room 641 of the Penobscot Hotel.”

  Lyon walked through the living room and out the French doors onto the patio above the river. He sat on the edge of the parapet and felt the breeze in his hair. He kicked off his slippers and felt the rock against his toes.

  They passed before him in silent procession like dead characters at the end of a long-ago film. Junior with his last word; Fizz sleeping under the pool table; Warren looking through the mug shots with a lascivious grin; and Llewyn, bright and hopeful.

  All leads pointed toward Mackay, but the girls said that someone had paid them to entertain Ted Mackay … was that Rainbow? Or could there be more than one? The pieces weren’t making sense. The only certainty was that Rainbow, whoever he was, was methodically obliterating his trail by killing everyone who had any means of identifying him. As soon as they got close … Lyon sat up and hurried back to the study, where Bea had just finished telling Rocco about the Providence trip.

  Rocco looked up. “Bea was telling me about Mackay and the girls. Jesus.”

  “We’ve got a leak, Rocco. We’ve got a leak a mile wide.”

  “Rainbow is covering himself. First Fizz, then Warren …” A look of shock came over the big man’s face. “My God, he couldn’t know our movements. Only a few of us knew.”

  “Sergeant Pasquale.”

  “Impossible. I’ve known him for years.”

  “Murdock?”

  “Someone,” Rocco said. “Someone.”

  Sarge’s Bar and Grill had been opened several years before on the outskirts of Murphysville. Master Sergeant Renfroe, one-time company first under Captain Herbert, had come to visit his old company commander and had stayed. Large bottles of pig’s knuckles molded along the bar, and Renfroe scowled if a customer asked for anything other than beer and a shot, although he did keep a bottle of passable sherry hidden under the bar for Lyon.

  “The fuzz is here,” Renfroe whispered as Rocco and Lyon entered.

  “Damn it all, Sarge, I’m the fuzz,” Rocco said.

  “This is foreign fuzz, over in the corner booth.”

  Pat Pasquale sat morosely staring into a short beer.

  “What’s the matter, Pat?” Rocco asked as they slid into the booth.

  “Why couldn’t we have met somewhere else? This beer is flat.”

  “I thought it would be convenient for you. What’s new on the Warren killing?”

  “Nothing. Headquarters calls it a felony murder in the act of robbery.”

  “We know better, don’t we, Pat?” Rocco asked with a bite to his voice.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only us’ns and you knew about the tie-in between the room clerk, Rainbow and Fizz. Now, I’m sure about us, but not—”

  Pasquale rose and leaned across the table. “You shut your goddamn mouth before you even suggest such a thing.”

  Rocco’s hand went across to push the small officer back into his seat. “You listen. You know that Fizz Nichols was knocked off?”

  “Pushed off the road. Happens all the time to those crazy cyclists.”

  “And Warren the same day?”

  “Coincidence.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t like your suggestion, Rocco. I don’t like it one bit, so knock it off.”

  “Pat, are you involved in this?”

  Pasquale’s hands reached across the table and grasped Rocco’s uniform collar. “Listen, you big son of a bitch, I’m not listening to this crap.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lyon said softly. “There could be another answer. Someone else, say in Hartford headquarters, could have pieced things together, seen Pasquale’s reports.”

  “Reports aren’t finished yet. No one saw them.”

  “There must be another reasonable explanation.”

  “Wait a goddamn minute,” Pasquale said. “Are you two playing Mutt and Jeff with me?”

  “Yep.” Rocco grinned.

  “That’s dirty. For God’s sake, you’ve known me for years. The three of us worked on the Houston case together.”

  “Let me bring you up to date,” Lyon said. He recounted the previous day’s trip to Rhode Island, telling Pasquale about the girls and their revelations, and his and Rocco’s conviction that Rainbow was systematically exterminating possible witnesses.

  “What about the hookers?” Pasquale asked.

  “Rhode Island called me at six this morning. They have them in custody.”

  “Did the leak come from your office somehow, Pat?”

  “Anything is possible, but I don’t think anyone besides myself had all the pieces.”

  “That narrows it down, doesn’t it?” Lyon said.

  “Murdock,” Pasquale replied.

  “What do you two know about our Captain Murdock?” Lyon asked.

  “We know him only by reputation,” Rocco said. “He’s the meanest bastard in the state. Hell of a rough guy, but runs a tight town. I think everyone’s scared to death of him.”

  “ALL RIGHT, YOU GUYS, WHAT ARE YOU UP TO?”

  They turned in unison to see Bea standing in the doorway.

  “You want to use the phone, miss?” Sarge asked.

  “Make me a pink lady,” Bea answered and slid into the booth.

  “Last time I was in New York, they even had women in McSorley’s,” Rocco said.

  “And the Yale Club,” Lyon added.

  “I never even saw a pink lady,” Sarge yelled across the room.

  “Give her a beer,” Lyon yelled back.

  “You know, you guys, I’m the one they’re after. I want in.”

  “You’re under guard,” Rocco said.

  Bea looked across the room to where Jamie Martin was leaning against the bar. “He’s a nice boy, Rocco, but this morning I went grocery shopping, and he insisted on carrying the bags.”

  “He used to be a bagger at the A&P before he joined the force.”

  “How’s he going to draw his gun when he’s carrying an armload of groceries?”

  “To tell you the truth, I sometimes wonder if he still doesn’t think that metal thing on his hip is for marking soup cans.”

  “Thanks,” Bea said and grabbed the beer Sarge delivered.

  “Let’s get organized.” Lyon said. “Pasquale, you go to Rhode Island, make a deal with those girls.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Rocco, you’re the one to beard Murdock. You know the approach. And before I talk to Mackay, I want to find out a lot more about our majority leader.”

  “Like what?” Bea asked.

  “What sort of man is he? His law practice, his family, where is he vulnerable and why. I want a profile on the man. I’ve got a feeling he’s our key to this whole thing.”

  “I’ll do that,” Bea said firmly.

  Lyon put his hand on her arm. “No, hon, I’d rather …”

  “Uh-huh, Lyon. This one is mine. Jamie can tag along.”

  “She can get more information than you can—and faster,” Rocco said.

  “Bat your pretty eyes, dear,” Pasquale said.

  “That’s sexist, Sergeant,” Bea said.

  “Use your political clout,” Rocco suggested.

  “That’s unethical.”

  “Come on, Bea, compromise: be a sexy state senator with clout; we need it.”

  “You seem to have given e
veryone his instructions; what about you, Lyon?”

  “Me? Why, I’m going for a balloon ride.”

  10

  The Farquith Inn was far enough from the city of Hartford to provide a sense of intimacy, yet close enough for those who could afford an extended lunch hour. Bea sat in the Antique Room, ordered a gimlet, and waited for Harry Schwartz. Harry was Ted Mackay’s law partner in the firm of Schwartz and Mackay, and, because of Ted’s political involvement, the working head of the firm.

  He slid into the booth next to her, and she felt his knee press against hers. Harry Schwartz was debonair. His hair was styled, his clothes mod without clashing with his attorney image, and his eyes constantly flirted.

  “Hello, darling,” he said and kissed her. “What a delight to have lunch with you. I’ve been hoping for months.”

  “I’m glad you could come, Harry.”

  “I think you should know that I am completely dishonorable at lunch—dinner too, for that matter.”

  “I wanted to talk about Ted Mackay,” Bea answered and looked across the room toward the bar, where Jamie Martin in plainclothes sipped a ginger ale.

  “Spoilsport. Why does everyone want to talk about Ted when I’m the interesting one?”

  “I know you are, Harry, but you’re not the one I might campaign with next month.”

  “Such reserved for us who toil in the shadows.”

  “Honestly, I need your help.”

  “Anything I can do, Beatrice. You know that.”

  She felt his leg press firmly against hers. “There are some people who want to put Ted and me on the ticket, but we just don’t seem to hit it off.”

  “Opposites eventually attract, dearest.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about Ted. I want to get to know him, to understand him. I’ve got to, Harry. I must establish some sort of relationship.”

  He leaned back in the booth as the soup was served. She sensed a subtle change in his manner, a partial dissipation of his facetiousness. “Theodore Rachman Mackay. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. It will all help.”

  “Bea, I can’t tell you how much I want Ted to get the gubernatorial nomination and win the general election.”

  “I’d expect you to be a loyal supporter, Harry.” To her chagrin, Bea found that she was doing all the things she’d said she wouldn’t do. She had returned the pressure of his leg, left her hand under his, tilted her head in a coquettish manner, and kept her hearing aid on.