The Wizard of Death (14 page)

“That's unethical.”

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

“You seem to have given everyone 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.

“You don't understand. I didn't say I was a supporter of Ted. I said I wanted him to get elected.”

“Are we playing word games?”

“As Ted says, let me clarify my position. With Ted governor, our law partnership has to be dissolved, which is something I've been wanting to do for the past year and a half.”

“I think I see a skeleton through a crack in the closet door.”

“Not a full-fledged one; perhaps a few flecks of bone, but not a whole skeleton.”

“What are we getting at, Harry?”

“Let me bracket the man for you. Ted grew up in the east side of Hartford, where the plaza is now.”

“I remember the area from when I was young. The slums along the river were torn down for an urban renewal project.”

“That's the place. He worked his way through Boston College working nights as a presser in a laundry. He came out of World War II a captain and thought he saw gold at the end of the tunnel, and that the best way to obtain the sheckels was to get a law degree. I've seen the old profit-and-loss statements on how he did when he practiced alone in those early years. The truth of the matter is, he averaged less than six thousand a year.”

“I thought all lawyers were filthy rich.”

He squeezed her hand. “Some of us are, dear, but the way they're turning them out of law school these days, we're all going back to six thousand a year. Anyway, he finally managed to get himself elected to the school board. This is where I come along, a bright young Jewish lawyer looking for a handsome goy beard to round out a firm. I saw a good thing in throwing in with Ted. He's good-looking, articulate, and has a foot in the political doorway. With Ted active in politics and my holding down the fort at the office, we'd have a good thing going, and we did—until Ted got too greedy.”

“You're not trying to tell me that Ted's on the take?”

“Of course not. We're watched pretty closely in this state; you have to attain national office before you become so obvious. No, Ted began playing all the ends against his middle. Nothing overtly dishonest, no flagrant violations of the canons of ethics; a few well-placed calls to the Public Utilities Commission, suggestions that certain clients hire our firm if they had any expectation of favorable legislation. What I call gray lobbying.”

“You went along with it.”

For the first time Harry Schwartz averted his eyes and stared across the crowded dining room. When he continued, his voice was faraway and low. “That's right, I went along with it. And now I've got a son who dropped out of law school and lives in a commune up in the Canadian woods. Does that make any sense to you?”

“I think so.”

“I found I didn't need all the money, Bea. For a long while, I thought I did, but Ted's gotten worse in the last year. I want out, a graceful out, and that's why I want him elected and why I will deny everything I've told you.”

“We've all seen it happen. The edge of the ethical line is awfully narrow, and one day the big opportunity comes along, and it's easy to cross over.”

“And I want our relationship severed before that big score happens down the road.” He smiled. “Now, as for you, dearest, your best bet is to get on that ticket with Ted as lieutenant governor, then maybe you'll luck up and become governor by default when they hang him. In the meanwhile, maybe I'll luck up this afternoon.”

Harry suggested an after-the-meal drink at the motel down the road. Bea declined, pleading a massive headache.

The face of the woman who opened the door of the Dutch colonial was slightly out of focus. Ted Mackay's wife blinked in the bright sun and her eyes narrowed. “Is that you, Beatrice?”

“Hi, Wilma. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop in.”

“Oh, Ted's not here. He said he'd be late tonight.”

“I want to see you, Wilma.”

Wilma Mackay blinked, and then a hesitant smile began and quickly disappeared. She stepped aside and waved Bea inside. It was two in the afternoon, and yet Wilma had to hold to the edge of the sofa with both hands as she fought to keep her eyes aligned on Bea.

“How nice of you to stop in, Beatrice. I see you so seldom lately. Perhaps you'd like a drink? Not that I usually do in the afternoon, but this is a special occasion, isn't it?”

“Thank you, Wilma. Anything that's easy.”

Wilma Mackay disappeared into the rear of the house and returned with two orange blossoms. She seemed more relaxed as she handed one to Bea and sank on the sofa.

The woman sitting before her exhibited a pattern that Bea had found becoming much too prevalent among the housewives of her acquaintance. It seemed to start as husbands became more successful, children grew, and the preparations for the evening cocktail hour started earlier and earlier, until finally the pretense was dropped and the vodka drinking began early in the day.

They chatted amiably, Bea taking the part of the slightly younger woman asking advice of the older. Children—Wilma's were now in college and seldom home. The house—how difficult to keep help these days (Bea cringed). They had another drink, and Wilma's face dissolved even further, the facial lines seeping apart, the eyes squinting to keep Bea in focus.

“That's a nasty bruise you've got on your arm,” Bea said.

Wilma tried to pull her puffed sleeve down over the black welt on her upper arm. “I—I fell.… I—Ted did it. He's so angry these last months, and my skin bruises so easily, sometimes he even—” She stopped quickly, realizing even in her present state that she had said too much.

Bea understood that there wasn't a great deal more she could find out. Ted's wife had established that recently he had exhibited a proclivity for violence, and his law partner had indicated that ambition and monetary success had become intertwined and an integral part of the man's personality. Everything she had learned pointed to the fact that Mackay was capable of instigating everything that had happened.

“I don't get out very much. My balance, you know. I have trouble with my inner ear,” Wilma said as she drained half the glass.

“Yes, so I've heard. It will be difficult for you if Ted is nominated and elected governor, all those functions.…”

“Ted and I have already talked about it. His sister will act as hostess. I'm not up to it.”

“That's very considerate of him,” Bea said.

She didn't stay long; it wasn't necessary. As she was leaving, Wilma offered her another drink and, when Bea declined, made herself another.

Sergeant First Class Buck Kincaid had fought in two wars as a personnel clerk, but had doctored his own records to award himself a Purple Heart and two Bronze Stars. The assignment to the Army reserve unit was his last, and in three years he would retire.

Bea stood in the armory doorway and watched the sergeant's eyes as they slowly surveyed her body. She realized she was standing with the light to her back, which would clearly outline her figure through the thin summer dress, and she stepped quickly into the office.

“Nice, but you like them heavier,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” he said with a slow smile.

I'm not about to play that damn game again today, she thought to herself. “I'm Senator Wentworth,” she snapped, and slapped her card down on the desk before Kincaid. “From the State Investigating Committee.” If he didn't inquire into that too closely, she was in good shape.

He snapped to attention, his face turning to that compliant but stern look career enlisted men cultivate. “Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?”

“The committee is investigating conflict of interest between members of the legislature and the federal government. Since some of our representatives are active reserve officers, I wish to see their files. You have them here?”

“Yes, ma'am. We have a duplicate of everything the Department of the Army has except for the efficiency reports.”

“I'll start with Senator Mackay's. I believe he's a reserve colonel.”

“Yes, ma'am. He's commander of the unit.”

The 201 file was bulky, with the current material toward the front and everything dated. She found what she wanted near the rear of the file: a personal letter of commendation from General William “Wild Bill” Donovan of the OSS to First Lieutenant Theodore Mackay for his activities during the period March 1 to August 4, 1943.

She put the papers back into the file, slipped the letter of commendation into her purse and gave the file back.

She sensed the sergeant's eyes on her back and legs as she left the office. She couldn't help smiling a little.

For the third time, Captain Sean Murdock's foot pounded into the naked man's groin. The man clutched himself with both hands, groaned, turned his head, and lay in his own vomit.

“Read the rest of the arresting report,” Murdock said to the uniformed sergeant seated at the desk in the interrogation room.

“Substances later identified as controlled drugs were found on subject's person.”

“Not drugs?” Murdock asked with wide eyes and false incredulousness.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.

“You don't mean you were going to sell drugs to the impressionable youth of Breeland?” the captain asked the prone man.

There was a groan from the floor in reply.

“My, my,” Murdock said and kicked the man in the teeth.

“Subject resisted arrest and was subdued by Officers Miller, Hattigan and myself,” the sergeant continued in a monotone.

“Injured as a consequence,” Murdock said, and kicked the man again with his steel-tipped shoe.

“You're going to kill him,” Rocco Herbert said softly from the corner of the room.

“No I'm not,” Murdock replied. “The bastard already has bail posted. But I'll tell you something. I seriously doubt that he'll peddle his junk in Breeland again. Will you, buster?” His foot crunched on the man's fingertips, and Rocco heard a bone snap.

Rocco was nauseated. He had heard of Murdock's tactics over the years but had not realized half an hour ago when he sat in the captain's office that he'd be a witness to them.

“In most places you bust them and they're out on bail by dinnertime, having cocktails at some fancy restaurant. Here in Breeland we make sure they aren't ready for any fancy meals for a long time.”

“What about lawsuits?” Rocco asked.

“You got to have the prosecuting attorney in your pocket and full cooperation from the force.”

“You really find it works?”

“Hell, yes. Come on, I'll show you. We've got a candidate in the fridge right now.”

It had started out as a routine interrogation, with Rocco observing. Then the captain had forced the suspect to undress for a search, and then the first kick.

“He's passed out, Captain,” the sergeant said.

“Dress him and throw him out. Come on, Rocco, I'll buy you a drink.”

The City Hall Bar and Grill was across the street, and it took two drinks before Murdock began to talk about his dogs. His Great Dane bitch had just whelped, and the event was the source of a seemingly endless number of anecdotes.

“Cutest damn things you ever saw. Long damn legs, can hardly stand up. Hot damn, I love those dogs!”