Lark (21 page)

“Do you come up with Team B?”

“It's got to be someone on that shift.”

“We had better get out to the Macklin Company,” Lark said. “I want to go back three years, and if it still holds up, we'll need a roster of men on that shift.”

Rose Harris's office was not much larger than Lark's. She was in her early thirties, with coal-black hair and light-mahogany skin that seemed to glow. She wore a no-nonsense beige suit with an off-white blouse and smiled radiantly as they entered. She glanced at Lark's identification and motioned them to chairs.

“I think you had better tell me why you're interested in the Macklin Company. As personnel manager I can only help you so far, and then I must inform senior management.”

“It's conjecture,” Lark began, “but here's where we're at.” In sketchy fashion he briefed her on their investigation of the serial murders.

“That seems awfully tenuous,” she said after Lark finished.

“We'll be a lot more definite after we check your schedules for the past three years,” Horse said.

“Of course. Let me get the records.”

After Rose Harris located several folders of past-duty schedules, she took them into a conference room where they spread the material over a broad table.

She sat at the far end of the table watching them as they worked comparing calendars against their time chart. Occasionally her eyes flicked from Horse to Lark as they checked notes with each other. It took over an hour.

“It fits,” Lark said hoarsely.

Horse grunted.

“I can't believe one of our people is a mass killer,” she said.

“Serial murderer,” Lark corrected. “And we haven't a definite suspect, only a probability that he may work here.”

“You know it's a he?”

“We're certain of it. How many men on Team B?”

“Nearly a hundred and fifty,” she answered.

“Can you get us a list of their names and addresses?”

“Yes, of course.” She started to leave the room. “Naturally I'll have to notify management.”

Lark put a restraining arm on hers. “No, please don't. At least not for the present. I want this confidential between the three of us until we have more to go on.”

She picked up a phone and asked a secretary for a roster of the men on Team B and then walked over to the curtained far wall and pressed a button. The curtain slid back to reveal a panoramic view of the factory floor. The conference room was on the second floor of the office complex that occupied the front portion of the building. The factory behind the offices was three stories high and a busy hive of activity.

They stood in line along the window and looked down at the working men and women.

“The people you're interested in are just finishing today's shift,” Rose Harris said.

They watched workers leave their positions at machines or places along the packaging lines while replacements took their place. The factory floor was divided into three basic areas of approximately the same size. At the far end of the building were the blowing machines into which chemicals were fed. Plastic bottles were created in these machines and, once made, were sped along conveyors to the inspection and packaging area, where they were taken from the belts and placed in cartons according to size and type. When a wooden pallet was filled with sixteen cartons, a forklift carried it to the storage area, where they were labeled before being taken out to the loading dock.

“Exactly what are they making?” Horse asked.

“Plastic bottles that end up containing anything from patent medicine to cosmetics,” Rose Harris said. “I've worked with these people for seven years. They come to me when they want a change of benefits, or to increase their insurance. I guess I've hired nearly half of them, and you're telling me that I know a murderer? That I may have hired a killer?”

“We're only here on a hunch,” Lark said. “They tell us that this type of psychopath can appear perfectly normal and is often the kind of person that astounds his neighbors when he's arrested.”

“It's still hard to believe.”

A nondescript secretary appeared and handed a photocopied list of names and addresses to the personnel manager and just as quickly left the room. Rose handed the list to Lark. “Here are your names.”

Lark turned away from the window facing the factory floor to stare out the far window overlooking the parking lot, where he counted five campers. “It's going to be interesting,” he said.

The computer at police headquarters talked directly to the computer at the State Department of Motor Vehicles. They had it ask its counterpart to provide a printout on the type of vehicle and marker number for all male members of Team B.

There were nineteen campers on the list.

Lark looked at the final printout in disgust. He riffled through the sheets. “There's no way this many people are going to let us voluntarily search their vehicles. There's just no way.”

“Can't we get a search warrant?”

“Even if I can find a judge who had a completely liquid lunch and can barely stand, how in the hell are we going to show probable cause? Not for nineteen?”

“They must pay pretty good money at Macklin if all these guys can afford to buy such expensive toys.”

Lark looked sharply over at his partner. “What did you just say?”

“They must get a good hourly rate at that factory.”

“You're giving me an idea.”

The large officer looked at Lark with dawning realization. “No way, Lieutenant. Don't even think it. Don't even imagine it. I work traffic, not some damn rotating shift in a bottle factory.” He took two steps toward the door before Lark caught him.

“Let's lay it before the chief,” Lark said as he led Horse to the elevator.

Frank Pemperton handed the printout back to Lark. “No.”

“The bastard works there, Frank. I know he's there.”

“Where'd you get this wet dream, Lark? Have you been consulting astrologers or other such nonsense?”

“The shift changes match the murder times, sir,” Horse said.

Pemperton ignored the remark. “In the first place, you can't get search warrants for this many unrelated examinations. In the second place, I can't take men off duty to go out to some factory for an indefinite time.”

“If I had a dime for every hour I've spent on useless surveillance or trying to make a drug buy—”

“That's in the line of duty, and you know it,” Pemperton said. “Now's as good a time as any to make the decision. Since you rule Grossman out of the murders, we're giving up the cases.”

“What?” Lark's cry was in incredulous astonishment.

“It's too big for Middleburg to handle. It crosses several state lines and all the murders but one are outside of our jurisdiction. I'm bringing in the state police.”

Lark leaned angrily over the desk. “You wait a goddamn minute, Frank! Horse and I put this together. We're the ones who made the connection into a serial murder. We're the ones who ruled out at least three other suspects.”

“At some cost, since one of them died on you.”

“It wasn't my fault.”

“I want your files in order, and that's an order. Najankian, you had better wait outside. I have to talk to the lieutenant privately.”

Horse glanced at each of the senior officers and then ambled from the room.

“I want this one, Frank. I want this so much I can taste it.”

“Then you want it too much, because you aren't seeing right. There's two of you, an alcoholic cop on the skids and an overweight traffic patrolman. The state will put thirty men on the case and that doesn't include the other states involved. We're talking two, maybe three hundred guys tracking down every available lead. Think rationally, for God's sake.”

“You owe me this, Frank.”

“Jesus, Lark, how many times do I have to pay you back? Every year it's ‘You owe me this one, Frank.'”

“This is the last. From here on out I'll never ask another favor.”

“I believe that like I believe in the tooth fairy. Why is this so important to you?”

“Because it's keeping me alive.”

Horse sat stiffly on the sofa in Lark's trailer. “I don't really want anything alcoholic, Lieutenant.”

“Nonsense. We have to celebrate the breaking up of our partnership.” Lark searched under the sink for an unopened bottle of vodka. He had decided on martinis. He found a liter of vodka in the far reaches of the cabinet and a small bottle of vermouth. He began to carefully mix a large pitcher of cocktails while talking over his shoulder. “The chief is letting me take a few days in the factory undercover.”

“That's great. You can handle it alone. I'm reporting back to traffic in the morning.”

Lark carefully stirred a huge shaker of martinis as he carefully fed cracked ice into the mixture. He wanted it extremely smooth. “A man's got to do what he thinks right.”

“Then you're not angry?”

“Hell, no! We made a good team, but all things come to an end. That's part of being a cop. Men get transferred, promoted, retire … or they go back on traffic.”

“Glad you see it my way.”

“Of course I do. You've made yourself quite clear.” He poured Horse a water tumbler of martini and raised his own glass in toast. “Here's to us. A hell of a team while we lasted.”

“Skoal,” Horse said, and tossed back half the glass.

Lark gave them each refills. “You know, old buddy, you've got an intuitive sense of deduction. Damned if I can figure it out, but it's there.”

“Pure common sense, that's all,” Horse said as he drank his drink.

Lark refilled the patrolman's glass. “I can understand a family man like yourself not wanting to work overtime.”

“It's kept me sane during the years on the force.” Horse reached for the pitcher and refilled his own glass.

“It's too bad that you're leaving the team right now, when we're on the verge of cracking this thing. It will be Middleburg's arrest of the century.”

Horse shrugged and sipped. “I never thought of myself in that light. All I want is to put in secure time. That's what counts. You know, Lark, you aren't the son of a bitch they say you are.”

“Thanks, Horse. I appreciate the compliment.” Both men drank. It was Lark's firm belief that no man could drink five martinis and remain sober. He roughly calculated that Horse had now consumed the equivalent of seven without effect. He couldn't understand it.

“It's a shame,” Horse said as he looked morosely into his nearly empty glass. “A fucking shame.”

“What's that?” He saw tears welling in the large man's eyes.

“They shouldn't have done it.”

“Done what?” Lark was truly perplexed.

“The Turks. They rode into the villages with drawn sabers and massacred the Armenians.”

“Turks like that live in Turkey?”

“And they killed women and little babies.” The tears were streaming freely down the patrolman's face.

“I hadn't really given it much thought,” Lark said.

Horse looked at him angrily. “You never heard of the Armenian massacres?”

“I thought that was a long time ago.”

“Long ago, but not forgotten. It's written in the blood of every true Armenian.”

“You were born in Hartford.”

“We never lose our heritage.” He stood and swayed back and forth. “Let them ride in here and I'll blow them away.” He drew his service revolver and waved it in the air. “I will destroy!”

“Is that loaded?” Lark asked, and for the first time he hoped it wasn't.

“I'll kill the fucking Turks,” Horse bellowed.

The gun went off and shattered the light over the kitchen sink.

“That answers my question,” Lark said. He grabbed Horse's hand and wrestled the revolver from loose fingers. It went off a second time before he had control of it, and a round plowed into the flooring.

“Where are the goddamn Turks?”

“That way,” Lark said, and pointed toward the bedroom at the far end of the trailer.

“I'll get the bastards! I'll kill with my bare hands!” Horse lumbered toward the rear of the trailer. He careened from side to side in the narrow hall as he made his way unsteadily to the bedroom.

Lark waited until his partner was in the room before he pulled the door shut and wedged it closed with a chair. He heard shattering glass as fists pounded against the wall and the large man flung himself from one side to the other in the cramped space. The trailer rocked on its supports.

Lark weaved his way back into the living area and stopped in surprise when he saw Faby Winn standing in the doorway. “What in the world is going on?” she asked.

“We're having a farewell party, and Horse had three or four too many.”

“Kill Turks!” was the cry from the bedroom as the trailer rocked again.

“Did you get him drunk?”

“Of course not. The man just doesn't have any flolarence.”

“What?”

“No flolarence for alky … booze,” Lark said as he pitched forward onto the floor.

16

“When I first woke up, I was afraid I was going to die, now I'm afraid I'm going to live.” Horse Najankian moaned and laid his head back.

“You were a real cutter last night. I'd say a man like you really knows how to party.” Lark pursed his lips to obliterate a grin.

“Did I—did I do anything unusual?”

Lark concentrated on his driving. “Mmmm.”

“Did you call me in sick like I asked?”

“Oh, sure,” Lark lied. “Tell me about the Turkish massacre again. It sounded very interesting, but I really couldn't get the whole story while your revolver was going off.”

Horse groaned. “I hope I didn't shoot anyone. I'll fix the trailer up, Lieutenant. I know the bedroom's a mess, but I'll make it right.”