The Death in the Willows (14 page)

“You said this hulk had a radio.” The voice was cold.

“Under the dash. We use it for communication with the balloon.”

“I don't give a damn what you use it for.” He fumbled with the CB set. “Does it get police calls?”

“Yes.” Lyon's hand inched toward the door handle as Hilly located the police band and tuned it in. “I want to get to the city.”

Hilly didn't answer, but kept one hand on the radio while the other flipped open a button of his jacket.

“Car Nineteen. I have subject vehicle on the south lane near the Murphysville toll station.”

The pickup jerked ahead as Hilly threw it in gear. Lyon pushed down the door handle and levered his body across the seat. “Stay put! Close the door.” Hilly had drawn his revolver from the clip holster at his belt and had it pressed against Lyon's side. He swung the truck in an arc across three lanes. The pickup left the highway and careened down a grassy slope of the divider. As the truck reached the culvert at the bottom, he slammed it into four-wheel drive and drove up the other side into the northbound lanes.

Troopers ran for their cars.

“Goddamn heap!” Hilly snarled. “Why don't you have a decent set of wheels?”

“It's been adequate.”

“Aw, shut up!” The truck vibrated as it approached seventy, and at seventy-five Lyon thought it would literally fly apart. There were now three cars behind them with sirens and flashing dome lights. They were gaining rapidly.

With an abrupt movement of the wheel, Hilly turned the truck toward the road edge, battered through a wire guard rail, and began to push up a brushy slope. In tanklike fashion, it plunged through small brush and knocked down saplings.

As their forward momentum carried them through a heavy mass of foliage, a large tree loomed ahead, only a few feet from the nose of the truck. Lyon braced his legs and threw his hands before his face as they struck the tree. The impact threw them both forward against the dash and windshield.

Dazed, Lyon fumbled for the gun and received an elbow in the midsection.

Hilly lunged from the car and then turned to level the muzzle of the pistol at Lyon's forehead. Several state troopers left their cars at the bottom of the hill and ran toward them with drawn guns.

The gun barrel touched Lyon's head. “You know, Wentworth, you really should get it.”

At the bottom of the slope, Rocco Herbert pulled his car off the highway and wedged it between two state cars. He found Norbert standing in the headlight glare of one of the empty cars.

“What's up?”

“He has a gun and just ran into those trees. My men are after him.”

“Lyon?”

“Still in the truck.”

They began to trot up the hill toward the disabled truck. As they approached it, they saw Lyon slumped against the dashboard. Rocco tugged at the door, which the force of the collision had jammed shut. He cupped his hand against the window and looked toward the still form of his friend. He braced his feet, and grasped the handle with both hands and tugged. With a whine of screeching metal, the door opened and he reached for Lyon's shoulders.

Norbert's flashlight spilled across them as Rocco levered Lyon from the car. As he did, Lyon stood. “Are you all right?”

“He had the gun six inches from me … I thought he was going to shoot. He didn't, but why?”

“I don't know. I did find out that he's an imposter.”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“We've got him, Captain!” Norbert turned his light toward the trees where two troopers, supporting a handcuffed Hilly between them, emerged from the brush.

“Is he clean?”

“Is now.” The first trooper handed a revolver to Norbert.

The captain looked down at the gun and then at Hilly. “Let's see that ID you're so proud of.”

“In my back pocket.”

The second trooper took the wallet from the prisoner's pocket and handed it to Rocco. Rocco glanced at it a moment. “This is what he showed me in my office the day he arrived.”

“All right, Hilly, or whatever your name is. You going to make it easy on yourself, or do you want it the hard way?”

Lyon stood before the one-way glass and looked into the interrogation room at the state police barracks. Flanked by Rocco and Norbert, Hilly sat at a table nervously sucking on a cigarette. The reels of a recording machine turned slowly.

Norbert cleared his throat. “This is Captain Henry Norbert. Also present are Chief Rocco Herbert of the Murphysville force and a man representing himself as Sean Hilly of Long Beach, Long Island.”

“I don't represent anything. That's my name.”

“You have been read your rights. Would you like me to repeat them?”

“I know my Miranda.”

“The police identification you carry and showed to Chief Herbert is a forgery.”

“No, it's real.”

“There's no Sergeant Sean Hilly listed with NYPD.”

“I was on the force until two years ago.”

“You resigned?”

There was a long pause as Hilly stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. “I was kicked off for being on the pad.”

“They bring charges?”

“They let me resign. Otherwise I couldn't get my investigator's license—which I got, along with a permit for the gun.”

“You still misrepresented yourself to Herbert.”

Hilly shrugged. “My client said that would be the best way to get in tight. Who the hell figured some boonie cop would check with New York?”

“What client?”

“Privileged information.”

“Are you dumb or just stupid? We're talking more than a dozen counts of murder one here.”

“Murder? You got to be crazy.”

“A busload of people.”

Hilly shot to his feet. “Like hell! You got me on impersonation, some traffic counts, maybe a little assault on Wentworth; what's this with murder?”

“Someone blew up that bus and now we know who.”

“Bullshit! You're looking for a fall guy, and it's not going to be me.”

“Who's your client?”

Hilly looked blank and then sank back in the chair. “I don't know. I honest to God don't know.”

“That's a dumber answer than before.”

“I got a phone call. The guy said he thought Wentworth was holding some valuable merchandise of his, or else knew where it was. He said that's why Wentworth was carrying a piece on the bus that day. He wanted me to get in tight, stay close to him, and report back.”

“And on the basis of a phone call like that, you agreed? Come on.”

“He followed it up with a typed letter and two thou in cash. Hell, I needed the money. The fuckers are foreclosing on my house.”

“How do you report to this mystical person?”

“I write to him at a box in Tarrytown, New York.”

“What box number?”

“Seven-two-four.”

Norbert made a note on a legal pad. “We're going to check that out.”

“Go ahead. I wrote one yesterday that should get there tomorrow morning.”

“What's this merchandise you're looking for?”

“I don't know. I was just to report everything I saw concerning that jerk Wentworth.”

“You expect us to believe that you accepted money from an unknown client for an unknown job when multiple murder was involved?”

“There wasn't any murder when I took the money. That bus thing happened when I was on my way from New York. Then it was too late. I'd already spent most of the money.”

“Come on, Hilly. You expect me to believe that?”

Rocco left the interrogation room and joined Lyon behind the one-way glass. “Well, what do you think? Is he the guy who gave you the gun?”

“I don't know, but I would be curious to know if he ever wore a beard.”

“I'll ask him when I go back in. You know, Lyon, it all fits with this fink. Suppose he's telling half the truth, and was hired by some unknown client … hired to hit someone. He admits he was on his way to Connecticut when the bus blew up. His story stinks, but it fits.”

“The man who telephones me by name, he would have to be Hilly's client.”

“Right.”

“Find out about the beard, Rocco.”

The large chief nodded and returned to the interrogation room. “You ever wear a beard, Hilly?”

“You're not going to screw me with that bit.”

“We can find out, you know.”

“So, what if I did. I was working narcotics when I was on the force. It made good cover.”

“When did you shave it off?”

“I don't know. A couple of months ago.”

A trooper corporal entered the room and handed Norbert a note. The captain left the room, leaving Rocco to continue the questioning. In a few minutes, Norbert entered the room where Lyon stood. With him were the two highway service station attendants Lyon had talked to the day the bus burned.

“You see that guy in there?” Norbert waved toward where Rocco bent menacingly over Hilly. “You recognize him?”

“That big guy?”

“No. The other one. Could he be the man you saw at the station talking to the tanker driver?”

“I don't know. It was like the other side of the apron. I only glanced at him.”

“Take another look. Did you see him at the service station that day?”

Both men looked through the glass and then simultaneously shook their heads. “Not him,” the first one said.

“Could be this guy,” the second said as he pointed at Lyon. “He was there. I distinctly remember seeing him.”

“Me too,” the second agreed.

Captain Norbert turned red as he faced Lyon. “Wentworth, get out of here! Just get out of here!”

Rocco and Lyon sat at Sarge's place. The booths had been restored and the aura returned to its comfortable seedy ambience. Lyon drank his second sherry gratefully.

Rocco threw down a neat vodka and signaled to Sarge for another. “Norbie's never going to break that guy down. We're going to be stuck with that mysterious client bit until hell freezes over.”

“Hilly fits the mold almost too easily.”

“And that bothers you? Like he was set up?”

“In a way, but perhaps I'm being too suspicious. I have a feeling that the man we're looking for is careful, always careful. He's a devious man who has used disguises before. Also, what is the merchandise they're looking for? Why was a contract put out on the missing man?”

“Maybe Norbie has the answers.”

“What answers? All I have is questions.” Captain Norbert stood scowling by their table. “Can't you pick a better place for a conference than this dive?” He plunked into a chair facing the bar. “I thought the town went for a bundle on the new headquarters, Roc. Which, as I recall, includes a conference room.”

“I don't like the color scheme, we don't serve booze at headquarters, and don't call me Roc.”

Norbert sat rigidly in his chair. “What's the sign outside? Says topless.” He peered toward the bar. “When they come on?”

“A little later,” Rocco said and kicked Lyon under the table. “What's with the prisoner?”

“Initial check with New York says he's what he claims. Ex-cop, licensed private investigator, gun permit in order, bad credit rating, and a wife and two kids on the Island. We've booked him on half a dozen charges. Your wife's on the way home, Wentworth. New York will escort her to the Connecticut line and my men will pick her up from there.”

“Thank you. What about the post box in Tarrytown?”

“Like Hilly says. He's mailed four letters and there are four letters there. We have it staked out, but I'm not hopeful. It's going to be a long case. We have to place him near the bus. It'll take time, but we'll nail him.”

“Motive?”

“He was paid. He admits that.”

“By who?”

“We'll get that information too—eventually.”

“Give me a lift home, Rocco. I want to be there when Bea arrives.” As they walked to the car, Lyon gave a last look over his shoulder. Captain Norbert still sat rigidly at the table—waiting. “How long before Sarge tells him that the dancing girls have been canceled?”

“A long time,” Rocco replied. “A long time.”

10

Lyon Wentworth made drinks badly, but worse, he kept forgetting the orders.

“A pink lady, martini, two stingers, and a scotch and water with twist,” a voice called to the kitchen.

He looked at the array of bottles spread across the kitchen table with their accompanying trays of lemon twists, olives, and maraschino cherries that he had laboriously laid out before the cocktail party started. He reached at the scotch, hesitated, and tried to remember the sequence of the order shouted through the kitchen door. What in hell was in a pink lady? He began to search for his bartenders' guide.

Nutmeg Hill had been transformed. Cars lined the lawn and crowded the drive as a hundred people spilled through the house and out onto the patio where a professional waiter and bartender worked a portable bar. Lyon glanced through the window at the bartender on the patio. He was immaculate in white jacket and tie and held a cocktail shaker over his head which he shook with zest. They should have hired two bartenders.

Through the kitchen door he could see Bea in the living room, moving from one group to another with her head thrown back in laughter. One hand held an untouched glass of ginger ale, while the other was perpetually extended in greeting. A banner stretched across the room printed in wavering block letters that read
OVER THE TOP WITH BEA
. It was the last fund raiser of the campaign, and carefully planned with the utmost cynicism—pour on the drinks before the impassioned appeal for money to finance the final radio and television spots. It was hoped that, as in the past, checkbooks would be produced and checks written. For the unprepared, a supply of blank checks and
BEA WENTWORTH FOR CONGRESS
pens were available.