The Wizard of Death (15 page)

Rocco signaled for another drink. “You know, I'm interested in your technique, Sean. I've been having trouble over in Murphysville with the kids. No respect; they just don't seem to give a damn.”

“Lean on them and they'll learn. Hell, man. You're a big son of a bitch, you'll have everybody in town scared shitless of you in no time.”

“Okay,” Rocco said. “So you stomp the creeps, but I have a more serious problem. Can't convict, and leaning on the bastard isn't enough. Isn't nearly enough.”

Murdock twirled the ice in his highball and looked into the glass. “Use your imagination,” he finally said.

“Hell, I can't do it. I'm too conspicuous, and everyone knows me in town. And I can't trust the men on my force to do it. I thought maybe you had some contacts.”

Murdock shrugged. “Some departments have a cooperative attitude.”

“Like how somebody wiped out Fizz Nichols?”

“Not us.”

“You know it wasn't an accident.”

“Didn't say it was. You want somebody to call about your little problem in Murphysville?”

“Appreciate it.” They drank silently for a while.

“If we help you out, we expect a little tit for tat.”

“I understand. Who do you suppose got to Fizz?”

“Who knows? Something's up. The police commissioner calls me the other day and says any info I have on Rainbow or the killing of Junior Haney, I was to pass on to Ted Mackay.”

“That's political. No way for me to get involved.”

“Don't blame you,” Murdock said and signaled for another drink.

Lyon caught the phone before the completion of the first ring. Bea, Rocco or Pasquale should be reporting in—perhaps Bea first. “Bea?” he asked.

“Robin Thornburton, Mr. Wentworth. I'm Stacey's daughter.”

“I remember you, Robin, although it's been a long time. I understand you've given up a promising career as an infantry platoon leader to become a sculptor?”

“That's the problem, Mr. Wentworth. As soon as I told my father I was turning down the Academy appointment, he's had me jogging every morning and firing rifles every afternoon. It's interfering with my work, and his, too.”

“He's a fine artist.”

“I know he is. I tell him that he's one of the best children's illustrators working today.”

“What does he say?”

“That when World War III starts they'll give him a star.”

“I wonder if there'll be enough time to pin it on.”

“I don't know what to do. He's sending the outline of your book back.”

“Has he had any bourbon?”

“Booze?”

“Exactly.”

“No. He's been on a diet for the past couple of weeks and hasn't had a drop.”

“I'm sending down a case tomorrow. When it arrives, find something to celebrate.”

“I'll try, Mr. Wentworth. As soon as it gets here we'll celebrate, even if it's the conquest of Carthage.”

Lyon stared down at the incomplete manuscript of the children's book on the desk before him. He had to complete it, for his and Bea's sake, for Stacey's sake, and yet recent events seemed to obscure thought and prevent further progress. He put his head on his arms over the typewriter and tried to think.

“COME ON, WENTWORTH! We're out busting our backs and you're taking a nappy-wap.”

Lyon looked up to see Bea and Rocco standing in the door. “I was thinking.”

“You were sleeping.”

He went into the kitchen and felt the percolator and found it still warm. He poured a cup of coffee, yelled over his shoulder. “Report, troops.”

“Pat called from Rhode Island,” Rocco yelled into the kitchen. “He's made a deal with the girls, and when we need them they'll cooperate. If they do, Pat and Rhode Island drop all charges against them.”

“Great.”

“In addition, Captain Murdock tells me that Ted Mackay used clout to have police installations report all information concerning our investigation.”

“Then Mackay knew all about our trace to the hotel, Warren and Fizz?”

“It would seem so. Murdock's also involved in a little excessive police work, and claims that there's a group of senior police officers throughout the state who are acting as vigilantes. Something similar to certain South American countries and their death squads.”

“Is there any tie-in?”

“There could be. It's not much of a step from roughing up criminals to the decision to rectify the political system.”

Lyon looked thoughtful. “Up to now everything's pointed to Mackay. This is a new angle.”

“Mackay might have wanted to know about the progress of the investigation out of curiosity.”

“That's some curiosity.”

“I've got something,” Bea said. “I looked up Mackay's Army record. During World War II he was in the OSS, served overseas, and made a parachute jump into occupied France to operate a clandestine radio.”

“Where does that lead?”

“His cover name during the operation was—”

“Rainbow,” Lyon said.

They stood in the living room like the couple in the Grant Wood painting, although in this instance the husband held a silver cocktail shaker and the wife's eyes were out of focus.

“Get the hell out of here!” Ted Mackay yelled at Rocco and Lyon.

Wilma Mackay turned to her husband with a furtive gesture and plucked at his sleeve. “I thought you'd want to see them.”

“You thought wrong. Chief, you have no authority in this city. And as for you, Lyon, are you some sort of police nut who likes to drag along after Herbert?”

“I'm perfectly willing to get a warrant,” Rocco replied. “I think I have enough for several counts.”

“Counts of what? Jaywalking?” There was a sanctimonious assurance in Mackay's stance.

“Perhaps everyone would like a drink,” Wilma said with a birdlike flutter.

“Get one for yourself,” Mackay snapped at his wife. “And make sure you take a couple of quick shots while you're out in the kitchen.”

“Oh, Ted, I really don'—”

“Go on!”

Rocco waited while Wilma made her way from the room with the careful and methodical steps of the alcoholic.

“Sit down and shut up.” Rocco's tone was quiet, and perhaps that made it even more sinister.

As Ted Mackay sank back in a chair, his eyes flicked across Rocco's determined face. “You can't talk to me like that.” His tone, for the first time, was unsure.

“Yes, I can. Now listen and answer.” Rocco's voice was still at a low register. “A young man named Junior Haney was stabbed to death in a bar. You had met Junior.”

“I meet hundreds if not thousands of people. I'm a politician.”

“We back-tracked Junior and the man who hired him to a hotel in Hartford, and from there to two girls from Providence. Those girls have identified you, Mackay. They know who you are and will so testify.”

Mackay exposed them to his famous smile. “So, I played a game with a couple of harlots. I can give you a list half a mile long of those who have done the same.”

“Then the room clerk was killed.”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

“Yes, it does. There is no one in this state who stood to benefit more from the death of Llewyn and the attempted murder of Bea Wentworth. You had a motive, Mackay—the gubernatorial nomination.”

“This is nonsense.”

Rocco crossed the room to tower over the cringing state senator. “You knew about the room clerk and about Fizz Nichols trailing Rainbow. You're one of the few people who did know, because Captain Murdock told you.”

“I was interested in the case.”

“I'll bet you were. You've heard the name Rainbow before.”

“Yes.”

“You're Rainbow.”

“No, you've got it all wrong.”

“It all points to you.”

“No, it's wrong. I couldn't be. I'm not. I can prove it. Rainbow is going to call me tomorrow.”

11

“Tell them about the pictures.” Wilma Mackay's voice slurred as she held tightly to the doorjamb. “The ones with you and those two …”

“Don't, Wilma.”

“I wasn't supposed to see them, you know,” she said to no one in particular. “They just arrived in a plain brown envelope, like those things do. But that day curiosity got the better of me.”

“After half a fifth, no doubt,” Ted said harshly.

“I think you had better tell us exactly what's been happening,” Lyon said.

“Do that, Ted. But I don't think I want to hear it.” Wilma turned from the room and disappeared down the hall.

“I don't have any choice, do I?”

“Not unless you'd rather we booked you,” Rocco replied.

Ted Mackay seemed to dissolve before them. The strong, photogenic features slackened, the jaw line relaxed, and his shoulders sagged as waves of inchoate anxiety and weakness surfaced to control him.

“I think I'd like a drink. You two?”

They shook their heads as Ted left the room and went down the hall.

Lyon's gaze fixed on the empty doorway, and he spoke without turning to face Rocco. “I'd go after him if I were you. You'll probably find him in the study down the hall.

Rocco hurried through the door. A short scuffle could be heard from the far reaches of the house. Rocco returned, pulling Mackay by the arm, and flung him across the room toward the couch.

The .25-caliber automatic dangled loosely from Rocco's hand. He forced the slide back to eject the live round in the chamber, extracted the clip and put the weapon into his pocket. “He was in the study. The gun was in his hand.” He turned toward Mackay, who had slumped on the couch. “It's not going to be that way, Senator. However, if you tell us all you know, we can help you.”

Mackay looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “She drinks too much; she never used to do that. Sometimes I hit her, and I never used to do that.”

“What happened after the pictures arrived?” Lyon asked softly.

“He called me two days later—that was the day of Llewyn's murder. He said they'd taken care of Randy Llewyn for me. I told him he was crazy, and he laughed at me and told me I didn't have any choice. It was done, and if I didn't cooperate, the pictures would be sent to dozens of people around the state, and the tape recordings—he played part of one over the phone. They made me sick.”

“And you cooperated with him?”

“Yes, I had to; you see that, don't you? He told me that the way would be open for me to get the nomination, that what I'd have to do for them would be minimal.”

“Them?”

“I don't know. He acts like there's a whole bunch of them. A whole band of fanatics.”

“Your contact was always with the same man?”

“Yes, by phone. I got the call at the law office. He wouldn't identify himself to the receptionist, and at first I wasn't going to talk, but in politics you never know, so I took the call. ‘This is Rainbow,' was the first thing he said. That was my Army code name years ago. I didn't know anyone even knew about it, but he seems to know everything there is to know about me. At first he didn't ask for much—a little information here, a little there. Items I'd give out to almost anyone. Then he became insistent about information regarding the investigation of the Llewyn killing. For that, he sent me money—five thousand dollars. A token, he said, and there'd be more, he said.”

“The buy was complete.” Lyon recalled how in the recruitment of espionage agents the passing of money was considered a necessity to ensure the reliability of the recruited. Maybe only a few dollars for expenses, but money had to pass to ensure the compromised position of the man bought.

“And if you get the nomination and win the election, they'll want other things from you,” Rocco said.

“Of course, but I had nowhere to turn. There's no way out for me. They have me.”

“You must know who Rainbow is,” Lyon said.

“No. I don't. I never saw him, only talked by phone.”

“He was able to take pictures and tape-record you and the two women. How could he have known that you were with them at that particular time?”

“I was set up. Like a drunken salesman from Albuquerque, I was had. An envelope marked personal and confidential arrived at the office; inside was a scrawled note that said a couple of friends of Heddy's would be in town soon and would I be interested. It gave a time and place. There were pictures of the two girls dressed in those silly dresses and holding stuffed animals. There were also some pictures where they didn't have on a stitch.”

“Who's Heddy?”

“Sometimes when I go to New York on business I stop in to see Heddy. She lives on East Eighty-ninth Street.”

Rocco looked thoughtful. “And Heddy dresses up for games also?”

“Yes.”

“He must have followed you, found out Heddy's brand of entertainment and decided to use the information. What about the postmark on the envelope, the note—where are they?”

“I destroyed them. I couldn't leave pictures like that around. I have young women working at my office,” Ted said indignantly.

“When is he supposed to call you next?”

“Tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

Lyon looked at Rocco, and the chief nodded. “I'll stay with him, but I think we had better bring Pasquale into it.”

“Not Murdock.”

“You know it.”

At eight in the morning, Wilma Mackay's hands shook as she served coffee to the men assembled in her living room. She had forgotten the cream, and Lyon noticed that when she returned from the kitchen her hands had steadied, and he suspected that another bottle of vodka had been opened.

Ted Mackay, his assurance dissipated, sat on the couch and looked at the living-room phone as if it were an obscene object. Pat Pasquale, earphones around his neck, sat before a recording device and phone amplifier. Rocco stirred his coffee incessantly.