Death on the Mississippi (14 page)

Allcott knew the sailor's frustration. This was a patently ridiculous mission, instigated only because of political pressure. He tried talking to the woman, but his words were lost in the noise of the rotors. He motioned to her and then to the helmet by her side, which contained earphones and a microphone. She nodded and slipped the helmet on as he jacked in his own set.

“We can't see a damn thing down there, Senator Wentworth. We can fly much more effective search patterns at dawn.”

“Keep flying.”

Allcott realized that it wasn't a request. It was a command. Who the hell did this broad think she was? “You know, Senator, it wasn't necessary to call Senator Dodd to call the commander of the Coast Guard who called me. We always provide an adequate search for mariners in distress. At this time of night, this flight just isn't doing any good. We couldn't spot him if we were right over him.”

Bea ignored his reasoning. “If you would please continue searching your side, Commander.” She managed a small smile that quickly faded.

Allcott raised his night binoculars and swept the blackness below. What the hell, he thought. The guy probably burned to death on the island anyway.

Lyon heard the beat of the helicopter off to his right and turned his body in that direction. He instantly knew that without a flare, signal light of some sort, or radio signal, that they would never see or find him in time.

The only piece of equipment he had left was a waterlogged camera in the rear pouch. It had been immersed in the water from the moment he had been dumped overboard. It was all he had, and he fumbled clumsily in the rear pouch until he was able to extract the flat device. He awkwardly turned the unlocking lever and raised the flash unit. In order to fire it toward the sky, he would have to double over with his hands holding the camera raised behind his back while his head and upper body were submerged.

He ducked forward into the water while simultaneously jerking his bound hands to hold the camera upward. He pressed the shutter release and then raised his head to gulp air.

There was no way for him to determine if the flash was operative, but he would try again and again until the helicopter was out of sight and sound.

He ducked again and once more tripped the flash. It might work—after all, the camera was of Japanese manufacture.

“What's that?” Rocco said. “I think I saw something.”

Bea was immediately at his side with her hand on his shoulder. “Where?”

“Off to the right.” He pointed. “Something flashed. There it is again.”

“I see it!” Bea said with excitement.

“Turn the searchlight to the right at nine o'clock!” Rocco yelled.

The searchlight beam danced across white caps below as it swiveled sides below the craft. “What do you have?” the Coast Guard officer asked over the engine sounds.

The flash blinked again. “A few feet to the stern!” Rocco thundered. The light hovered over the spot. “That's it!

“He's facedown in the water,” Allcott said.

“Goddamn!” Rocco said as he stepped out the door of the helicopter.

10

Although he had learned to swim so young that he could hardly remember, Lyon's respect for the water verged on the pathological. He had an inordinate fear of drowning, and any choking sensation truly startled him. The warm lassitude he now felt was not fearful. He had once read that dying was not stressful, that the body released narcotic hormones that eased the passage. He felt himself drifting down a long, warm stream toward a distant light.

They had killed him! Two men, acting without remorse or thought, had nonchalantly tumbled him over the side of a boat. He would not make it easy for them. Somehow, somewhere, sometime, he would find them. He exerted every ounce of his remaining will to move.

“He's coming around,” a faraway voice said.

Something warm and moist brushed his cheek. He opened his eyes to find Bea's face inches from his. “Oh, Lyon,” she said.

“His vitals are steady,” a nearby feminine voice said.

“I think I've been rescued,” Lyon said. Bea kissed him on the forehead and rapidly turned away. He saw small tremors convulse her shoulders. The other bed in the room contained Rocco Herbert. “What's he doing here?”

“Sleeping on duty. What the hell do you think?” Rocco replied gruffly.

“Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” Bea said. “You two ought to be incarcerated for your own protection.”

Lieutenant Commander Allcott pushed past the doctor. “Are they going to live?” The doctor nodded. “Then I can call the commandant in Washington and tell him that we've got two for the price of one.” He glared at Rocco. “You know, Chief, we had two experienced divers standing next to you. They were suited up and trained to make that jump. You almost botched our pickup to the point where we could have lost both of you.”

“How in the hell was I to know that the water would be that cold?” Rocco said.

“Had you been drinking, Chief Herbert?”

“He's been seeing snakes recently,” Lyon said.

Allcott shook his head. “I got a call to make,” he said as he left.

“I found Dalton and the houseboat,” Lyon said.

“Captain Norbert's been waiting in the hallway,” Bea said. “Let me get him.”

Captain Norbert, in full uniform and flanked by two State Police corporals, took up all the space along one wall of the narrow hospital room. “I told you to disappear, Wentworth. I warned you that we needed for you to disappear in society. So now you start lighting fires.”

“Knock it off, Norbert,” Rocco warned.

“If you weren't a victim of something I'd be working on charges now.”

“What fire?” Lyon asked.

“There was an explosion and fire out on Red Deer Island.”

Lyon sat up in bed. “Did you find Dalton's body?”

“We found what was left of somebody hanging on the wall of what was the master stateroom. Some perverted perp had done a knife job on him, but the ME thinks the hanging is what killed him. We're still sifting through the wreckage, but we'll have a positive ID soon.”

“Okay, Lyon, tell us what happened out there,” Rocco said.

Lyon took a moment to orient his still slightly confused thoughts. He attempted to put them in a logical order that would include everything of importance. He started by telling them about his initial suspicions concerning the island, and recounted all the subsequent events.

“Who were those slime?” Rocco asked when he was finished.

“They called themselves Brumby and Stockton when they came out to our house that day. I suspect that Dalton hired them for that particular prank and kept them on to help convert the houseboat. They were either told or discovered that there was a great deal of cash hidden on the boat, and then tortured Dalton to find out where he had hidden it.”

“And then did a number on you when you walked in on them, and finally set the fire to cover their tracks,” Rocco said.

“We bust those guys and we get the money and the killers,” Norbert said.

“But who killed Katrina?” Bea asked.

“That case is closed,” Norbert said. “I've got an airtight against Douglas. He's dead meat.”

“As you can tell, Norbie likes to keep an open and objective mind about the suspects and evidence in a case,” Rocco said to Lyon and Bea.

“If you weren't in a hospital bed, I'd beat your dumb brains out,” Norbert growled.

Rocco swung his feet to the floor and pushed off the bed. “I'm not in bed anymore, liver lips.”

Norbert held his hand, palm open, to the side, and a flanking State Police corporal immediately slapped the handle of a billy club into the captain's grasp. Bea immediately stepped between the two men. “I am a lady, and Rocco is not properly dressed for mortal combat.”

Rocco looked down at the short johny gown that was obviously not designed for a man of his height and girth. He plopped back in bed and pulled a sheet up to his neck.

“Anything else happen of note while I was being murdered?” Lyon asked.

“Our houseguest has gone into emotional orbit and keeps fifty thousand dollars under her mattress,” Bea said.

“That's a little heavy for a bread and butter gift,” Lyon said.

“How about it was Dalton's money, which she forgot to put with the rest hidden on the houseboat, and maybe she was holding out on her partners, Messers. Brumby and Stockton.”

“That's an interesting possibility,” Rocco said.

Norbert growled. “You people don't do police work, you hold seances. I got to go.” He tramped from the room followed by his uniformed entourage.

Bea looked thoughtful. “The only problem with Pan as a suspect is that she says she knew where the money was hidden. Why would Brumby and Stockton torture Dalton and take the houseboat apart if they were in it with Pan?”

“To make it look good,” Rocco suggested.

“There's still Dice and Sam Idelweise,” Lyon said as he swung his feet to the floor. “Let's go visit that island.”

A towheaded resident stuck his head in the door. “I think you should leave now, Mrs. Wentworth. These men need rest.”

Bea sighed. “Thank you, Doctor, but I think they have decided to go island hopping.”

“They can't leave,” the doctor said. “They have possible hypothermia, lung congestion, and they're both covered in bruises.”

“The state cops did it to us,” Rocco said as he pulled on damp pants.

The resident sank back against the wall. “The State Police beat the shit out of you and then dumped you in the Sound?”

“Those guys play hardball,” Rocco said. “Watch yourself on I-ninety-five.”

What remained of Red Deer Island looked like a small Pacific atoll that the Marines and Japs had fought over during World War II. Little foliage remained on what few trees were left, and the houseboat had been reduced to a skeleton of charred timbers that held no resemblance to the past grandeur of the craft.

The young police officer piloting the Boston Whaler ran it up on the small beach as far as he could. Rocco and Lyon gingerly stepped over the gunnels and limped in unison toward the remains of the
Mississippi
. “How did a fire do all that?” Lyon asked.

“It was a hell of a lot more than a fire,” Rocco replied. “There were a couple of explosions that were too powerful to be accounted for by propane or fuel tanks going up. The fire marshal's office thinks there was plastique involved.”

“Oh, that's interesting.” Lyon stepped gingerly through the rubble. He looked down at the ground as if searching.

“Norbie's men and the lab guys have been going over the ground with sieves.”

“Why?” Lyon asked.

“You know that lab work is extensive in any crime like this.”

“I don't mean that. I mean why did they go to the trouble of blowing the thing up?”

“These guys aren't exactly brain surgeons, you know. They spent a couple of days tearing the boat apart, and knew they'd left prints and god only knows what else all over the place. Ten to one they have priors, so they took the lazy way out and torched the whole damn floating castle.”

“You two get over here,” Norbert said with a beckoning gesture.

They stepped gingerly through the wreckage as they made their way to where officers were carefully sifting through debris that had been part of the master stateroom. “Whatcha got?” Rocco asked.

“Show them.”

They stood in a small circle around a kneeling technician. A plastic sheet had been spread over the mutilated decking, and centered on it was a small metal box approximately eight inches by four. It had evidently been wrapped in heavy paper that, although charred, had been carefully removed and placed to the side.

“There's writing on the paper,” the technician said. “I can't make it out, but we'll be able to raise it in the lab. I'd guess from the configurations that it's an address.”

“Cut the lectures and find out what's in the box,” Norbert demanded.

“We might get latents from the exterior,” the tech said in pique.

“We might get a letter of reprimand in our personnel file if we don't do what the captain orders,” Norbert said.

“I'm doing it, okay?” He bent over the small box with a pair of tweezers and gently raised the lid. “Beautiful, just beautiful,” he said.

Lyon bent over the tech's shoulder and peered into the box. Resting on a bed of cotton gauze was an unburned human finger. It wore a wide gold wedding band. “Can you get prints from it?”

“Can I get prints? Wow, can I get prints,” the tech said as he slipped the box and finger into an acetate evidence bag. “This baby is perfect.”

“Dalton was an army officer, so we know his prints will be on file,” Lyon said.

Rocco and Lyon walked to the end of the island and sat on a fallen log. A brisk wind ruffled their hair, and white-caps danced in the distance. The island was still a barren place, as if its soul had been wrenched away. Confused birds circled overhead and occasionally alighted on charred branches.

“Just before those guys dumped me overboard they made a joking reference to taking a walk on Narragansett Bay,” Lyon said.

Rocco looked at him sharply. “That's interesting. Seems that I remember your friend in Cranston, Rhode Island, as having a past interest in that type of aquatic sport.”

Captain Norbert walked past the log where they sat and stood with his feet at the edge of the water. He looked out over the Sound toward the distant tip of Long Island. “This place wouldn't make a bad spot for a summer place. I'd bulldoze off the crap that's left and throw up an A-frame. 'Course, you'd need a satellite dish for the old TV.”

“It's a bird sanctuary, Norbie,” Rocco said.

“So, let the birds stay as long as they don't do-do over the barbecue. This place will be all right once we find all the body parts.”