Death on the Mississippi (7 page)

“A hundred an hour plus miscellaneous fees.”

“For some people it's easy come, easy go.”

“Well, actually she's a little short at the moment,” Lyon said. “I know that Dalton will repay me when it's over.”

Bea looked stricken. “We're paying for chartered airplanes?”

“Dalton's good for it.”

“Sure, like he was good about paying for the bullet holes in our kitchen wall.”

“I've been thinking about those holes,” Lyon said. “Since Rocco fired a tight shot pattern in a downward trajectory, we could cut a larger hole around the little holes and make a door for a cat.”

“I might remind you that we don't have a cat.”

“They're easy to come by.”

“And that the last cat we had ate twelve hundred birds.” A seaplane banked over the house and turned downwind for a river landing. “Your transportation is here, Wentworth,” Bea said. “Have a nice day in Oz.”

Gary Dorset inched the float plane to the base of the promontory below Nutmeg Hill and tossed a line over a dead branch that protruded from the water. He climbed down to the right pontoon wearing a scuffed, leather flying jacket with a large American flag sewn on the back. He waved at Lyon and Pan as they picked their way down the winding path.

“Fine morning for a sortie, hey, Terry?” the pilot called.

“Righto,” Lyon yelled back.

“I'm not so sure I want to fly with him,” Pan whispered. “I think he's flaky.”

“He's just a little eccentric,” Lyon whispered back. “In the morning he likes to play Flying Tiger. In the afternoon he puts on a business suit and flies canceled checks to the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston.”

Dorset leaned forward to take Pandora's hand and help her board the plane. “Don't get your feet wet, Dragon Lady.” He turned to help Lyon. “If I know you, this must have something to do with murder. Who's been knocked off?”

“Would you believe a missing houseboat? We think it's lost somewhere between the two bridges. Pan, show him the photographs of the boat.”

Dorset climbed into the cockpit and let the plane drift into the current as he examined the pictures. “A cake walk,” he said. “We shall find the missing sampan and call the mission a success.” He handed back the pictures and flipped switches. “It's not as if we have to fly the Yangtze with Zeroes diving out of the sun.”

He started the engine and they turned into the current to begin the takeoff run. “I'll take the downstream railway bridge as a starting point,” Dorset continued. “You watch the right side, the lady the left, and I'll fly midstream. Clear!”

Lyon almost yelled, “Tallyho,” but suppressed the impulse.

Flying at near stall speed, they made round trips from one bridge to another and back again without seeing anything that faintly resembled the
Mississippi
. On the third leg, Dorset flew over every estuary and inlet large enough to admit the large houseboat. The results were negative.

One marina, located near the town of Wessex, looked promising. It had metal tracks leading up from the water into a large shed that was large enough to enclose the
Mississippi
.

Dorset flew across the river opposite the large marina shed, banked sharply, and approached the building at a height that was only a few feet above the water. When they were less than a hundred yards from the facility, Lyon saw through its open doors that it contained a twelve-meter sailboat with an unstepped mast. The craft's sleek configurations were far different than the
Mississippi
's square lines.

The seaplane seemed destined to fly directly into the building, until at the last possible moment, Dorset jerked back on the stick and threw the plane into a shuddering climb that cleared the building by inches.

“She isn't on the river,” the pilot yelled over the roar of the engine as the plane fought for altitude. “The houseboat sure isn't here unless …”

“Unless what?” Pan asked.

“Unless it's under the water,” Dorset replied as he threw the plane into a steep banking turn.

The two men glared at each other across the small office as if they represented the Cattlemen's Association and the Sheepherders' Benevolent Society. Captain Norbert, commander of the local State Police barracks, had a natural antipathy toward local law-enforcement officers. In the case of Rocco Herbert, the feeling was exacerbated by the fact that the two men were brothers-in-law.

Lyon slouched in a chair by Rocco's desk with tented fingers as he waited for the mutual antagonism to subside.

“Run that DD twenty-three—forty-one by me again, Herbert,” Norbert said. “Tell me once more why you discharged a three-fifty-seven Magnum in a civilian dwelling.”

“Tell him about the snakes, Lyon,” Rocco said.

“What snakes?” Lyon answered ingenuously.

“I've told you before, Rocco,” Norbert said. “You've got to lay off the damn vodka! This is the last time I'll cover for you. Now, what in the hell have you done about the missing-person report?”

Rocco shrugged. “Not much.”

“So I gather. I didn't see any search efforts when I came in here. I don't see any maps on walls. I don't see any banks of telephones. In fact, I don't see anything going on around here! You locals are all right as school-crossing guards, but when something important comes along you need the professionals.”

“Do you know who's missing, Norbie?” Rocco asked.

“I sure in hell do! He's one of the most prominent developers in the state. As a matter of fact, the wife and I are thinking seriously of buying one of his time-sharing units.” He leaned forward with a prurient glint. “The broad who gave us the sales pitch must have been seven feet tall and built like a brick slammer.”

“Let me get out the crayons,” Rocco said. “Do you remember a call five years ago when we went out to the Willow house on the turnpike to investigate a mass murder?”

“Jesus, do I! We found body parts all over the goddamn place. And I've never seen so much gore. Corporal Hennegan, who was tough enough to face down Mad Dog Majeski, was so traumatized that we had to hospitalize him.”

“And what was the outcome of that carnage?”

“The Medical Examiner told us later that the body parts were from sides of beef, and the other junk was sheep entrails. A lot of good that did for the guys who had already barfed. I know you got the bastard who set us up, and I like to think that the other cons in max security did a number on him.”

“You tell him,” Rocco said. “I've been avoiding it for years.”

“It was plea-bargained down to mischievous mischief and he got off with accelerated rehabilitation,” Lyon said.

“No hard time?”

“Not day one,” Rocco said. “And that's Dalton Turman, the prominent builder and our missing person. That's the guy you want command centers and overtime for.”

Norbert stood, enraged. “Why wasn't I told?”

“He could be dead,” Lyon said.

“So? You've already got his coffin,” Rocco replied.

“I saw a guy on TV make a seven-forty-seven airplane disappear,” Norbert said.

“Houdini made an elephant disappear off a New York City stage,” Rocco added.

“Come on,” Lyon said. “I'm worried about him. I think he's really gone.” Lyon saw the complete lack of compassion on the two police officers' faces.

Rocco picked up a file folder. “The request will have to be instituted by family members with complete documentation.”

“The paperwork will be horrendous,” Norbert said with an unpleasant smile. “If the case ever gets to my office, I'll put Corporal Murphy right on it.”

“I didn't realize he was back from the drunk farm,” Rocco said.

“Occasionally,” Norbert answered. He stood and flicked dust from his spit-shined shoes. “I should have known. Every time I get involved with Wentworth it means trouble.”

“Get yourself ready for the Governor's call,” Lyon said to the State Police captain.

“What are you talking about?” Norbert snapped.

“My wife is presently involved in very delicate negotiations with the Governor. Suffice it to say that he would like her cooperation in certain matters. I do believe that you may expect a personal phone call from the Governor, the commissioner, and your immediate supervisor, the major.” Lyon sat back in the chair and retented his fingers knowing that Bea would ask such a favor from the Governor as readily as she'd join the Nazi party.

“Not the major,” Rocco said. “Even you aren't that much of a bastard.”

“Can he do it?” Norbert asked Rocco.

“I was at their house when the Governor called,” Rocco said. “He was begging Bea, Norbie. Begging. Lyon's got us by the short hairs, and if you're lucky, you won't get a reprimand, and if I'm lucky, maybe he'll tell you about the snakes.”

Lyon intently leaned forward. “Now, here's what I've done so far.” He outlined his conversations with the bridge operators, the follow-up phone calls to the Army Corps of Engineers and the Coast Guard station at Lynde Point. He described the airplane flight and the subsequent automobile trips he and Pan had made.

Rocco spoke first. “I'll assign cars to search the river-bank in Murphysville.”

“State cruisers will handle the rest,” Norbert said. “You know, Wentworth, this joker has probably jacked the thing out of the water and hidden it.”

“There's only a dozen or so places in this area where something that large could be hauled ashore,” Rocco said.

“We'll never find it if someone's sunk it,” Lyon mumbled.

“I'll call Coast Guard Operations in New London,” Norbert said. “They have a cutter equipped with sounding gear and scuba divers trained for just such a search.”

“I'll coordinate that with Army charts,” Rocco added. “The river is considered navigable in this area, so the Corps of Engineers has to keep the channel open. Their charts will pinpoint every spot deep enough to scuttle the damn thing. We're going to find the bastard for you, Lyon, but when we do, it's boom-lowering time.”

“He'll never drive on a Connecticut highway, that's for sure,” Norbert said with satisfaction.

“I'm going up,” Lyon said.

Bea snapped a weed from the garden and stared at the offending vegetation with distaste. “If anyone else made that statement, I'd think mood-altering substances. With you, I think balloons.”

“I need a good panoramic view of the river to give me a clue as to how that boat disappeared.”

“I suppose it would be useless to suggest that we let the police and Coast Guard handle it?”

“So far they've come up with zilch.”

She spotted another weed two rows away and lunged for it. “Might I remind you of your last balloon excursion.”

“I remember that it was a slightly overcast day with a few cumulus and a five-mile-an-hour wind from the north.”

“I am referring to the incident between your balloon and Air Force One.”

“I still say I had the right of way. It's sail over steam, you know.”

“The Secret Service didn't quite see it that way.”

“Those guys have no sense of humor.”

The
Wobbly II
was a large hot-air balloon that stretched over eighty feet from the apex of the bag's envelope to the passenger gondola. Bea's heels were dug into the dirt and her body nearly horizontal to the ground as she strained to hold the anchor rope that kept the inflated balloon earthbound. Lyon climbed into the wicker basket and reached overhead to pull the propane release lever to give the burner a five-second burst of flame. He signaled his wife and she let go of the anchor rope.

The balloon immediately bounced vertically into the air as Lyon coiled the anchor rope neatly in the boot of the gondola. Buoyed by a full complement of hot air, the balloon rose noiselessly without the necessity of further propane burns.

He found the ascent exhilarating as he had countless times before. At twenty-one-hundred feet it began to slow and bob, and he gave a short tug on the burner lever to maintain that altitude. The wind was from the east, and the balloon began to drift slowly along the meandering course of the Connecticut River.

He leaned his elbows on the basket rail while the binoculars hanging from his neck swayed gently in the craft's slight movement. The river, two thousand feet below, curved gently as it wound its way from the Atlantic Ocean to the Canadian border. The riverbanks between the two bridges were largely bracketed by wooded hills that rose abruptly from the shore. There were only a few open fields or launching ramps where the large
Mississippi
could have been winched ashore.

It had been two days since the meeting in Rocco's office. During that time, both the Murphysville Police and state cruisers had been busy. Police cars had driven down every road in the area that led to the river or that ran parallel to the water. Using Corps of Engineers charts, the Coast Guard had made soundings, and on several occasions dropped scuba divers into the water to investigate promising leads.

The Coast Guard was now convinced that the houseboat had not been scuttled in this section of the river, and they had called off their search. State and local police were equally certain that the
Mississippi
had not been lifted ashore, hidden, or trucked from the area.

Lyon was puzzled at the impossible situation. Objects as large and cumbersome as the
Mississippi
did not disappear. It was as if the boat had been dematerialized or snatched from the water's surface by some unknown power.

Was it possible that it had been hoisted aloft? He had read of large work helicopters that were capable of lifting huge loads on steel cables. Could Dalton have arranged …

Basic mathematics precluded the possibility. To fly an object as large as the
Mississippi
would require a machine of impossible size.