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.
The bridge operators, their logs, and other sources all agreed that the only two large vessels seen on the river the night of the disappearance were a sailing ship and a coastal tanker. Neither craft was large enough to have winched all or part of the Mississippi aboard.
If the houseboat hadn’t been sunk, hidden along the waterfront, or trucked from the area, what had happened to it? Arthur Conan Doyle wrote, in “A Study in Scarlet,” that, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
There was one improbable possibility to be explored.
Lyon excitedly snatched the walkie-talkie clipped to the gondola’s side and switched it on. “Hello, chase car. Wobbly is ready to descend.”
The other radio crackled a moment before Bea’s voice transmitted clearly. “Glad to hear it, Wobbly. The State Senate would very much like to go into session this afternoon.”
“I see a large open field directly beneath me on your side of the river,” Lyon said. “I will pull my ripping panel for a rapid descent. Over.”
“Don’t, Wobbly!” Bea shouted. “Don’t pull the panel … Uh-oh, you’ve already done it. You are about to drop in on Victorian Acres, Wentworth. Lots of luck. Out.”
Lyon glanced at the corner of the basket to make sure that the bottle of champagne was intact. Due to the haphazard nature of balloon landings, it was age-old custom for descending balloonists to offer wine to those in their landing areas. Most people were pleased at the diversion.
When the balloon broke one hundred feet and continued a rapid descent, Lyon saw men and women playing volleyball in the field below. He instantly realized why Bea was concerned, and he gripped the sides of the basket tightly. He hoped the champagne would assuage their feelings.
The balloon basket made a bumpy landing and Lyon levered a small propane burn to keep the gondola upright. He popped the champagne cork and leaned over the basket with wine foaming over his fingers. “We balloonists have an ancient landing rule,” he said as he held up the bottle.
“We have rules too, creep,” the largest man in the group of naked people said.
“Start shucking clothes, corn pone,” his feminine companion added.
6
The Governor’s voice was unctuous. “It’s only because of past favors that they came to me with the information first.”
“What was said?” Bea asked. His gratuitous offer of confidential information meant that she was probably on the brink of utter disaster.
“Unimpeachable sources inform me that your husband was seen cavorting in the nude with that bunch at Victorian Acres.”
Bea hadn’t seen Lyon cavort since the twist went out of fashion, but then she had refused to drive the chase car inside the confines of the nudist camp. “Cavorting, Governor?”
“You know there’s been talk of sexual orgies out there.”
“There’s a rather complicated explanation for what happened,” Bea said.
“I’m sure there is, Senator. Perhaps we can discuss it over lunch tomorrow?”
“Yes, we’ll do that.” She had already replaced the phone in its cradle when she realized that she had neglected the obvious question. Who had observed Lyon’s antics within the fenced, guarded, and heavily wooded colony? She sometimes felt that she wasn’t nearly tough enough for cut-throat politics. “Lyon, have you been cavorting again?” she called out. “One of the Governor’s spies saw you at Victorian Acres in an orgy.”
He wandered into the room. “It was volleyball. Volleyball is evidently de rigeur, the same as taking off your clothes. Someone’s in the drive, it must be Gary Dorset.”
“Please, no more expensive plane rides.”
“I’m not going up,” he said as he went to the front door. He saw that Dorset was driving a Jeep with a large FOLLOW ME sign on its rear. That was a good omen. When the pilot got out of the Jeep, he carried a leather briefcase and wore his going-to-the-Federal-Reserve banker’s suit. That was a bad omen.
Pan, Lyon, and Bea sat quietly in the study while Dorset opened the briefcase that straddled his knees. He carefully pulled out an invoice. “As I understand it, you want an aerial map of the area you outlined for me? Good aerial photography requires a stable platform, so I’ll have to take the two-engine Cesna. We’ll also need an experienced copilot to operate and load the cameras. There are extra costs for the camera rentals, film, developing, and so forth.”
“Do you have any numbers?” Lyon asked.
“It’s all included in the estimate,” Dorset said as he handed the bill to Lyon.
“Do it,” Lyon said. “I need that aerial map as soon as possible.”
Dorset strode to the door. “I fly at dawn!”
Bea looked at the pilot’s estimate. “Do we have to do this?” Lyon nodded. “We’ll have to sell my soul to pay for it. I wonder what state senator souls go for these days.”
“Don’t be Faustian, dear,” Lyon said.
“Faust? You’re talking Faust and the devil! I’m talking really serious trouble—the Governor.” She started up the stairs. “I have to get ready for work. You two, spend no more money!”
Lyon smiled after her as she left and then turned to Pan. “Did you find Dalton’s address book?”
She held up a dog-eared red volume. “I found this in his desk at the resort office. There may be another one on the houseboat. I’ve gone through it and put a mark next to the people I know, but there’s a whole bunch of other names that don’t mean anything to me. None of them say gravel-voice man who calls us in the middle of the night.”
Lyon pointed to the telephone. “I want you to call all the names in the book that you didn’t mark off. Will you recognize the voice of the man who called at night?”
“You don’t forget the sound of the man who threatens your husband.”
The dusty van with the words
“Pranko Construction Company” lettered on its sides came to an untidy stop at the front door. Sam Idelweise erupted into the house with a hammer raised in his right hand. “I know you’re keeping the bastard here, Wentworth! I want him and I want him now!”
“I thought you threw your hammer at him the other day.”
“Hammers are the only thing we have plenty of. Now produce him!”
“He’s not here, but you’re welcome to look.”
“I will.” Sam pushed past Lyon and nearly knocked Bea over as she came down the stairs.
“I don’t suppose that Sam and his hammer are here to fix the holes in the kitchen?” She climbed into the Toyota and rolled down the window. “I thought not. Listen, if Dorset’s aerial pictures aren’t good enough, we can sell the house and get NASA to satellite-map the Eastern seaboard for us.”
Lyon looked thoughtful. “If Dorset’s pictures do the job we shouldn’t need anything more.”
“Oh, my God,” Bea said as she threw the car in gear. “He really considered it.” As she drove down the drive she looked in the rearview mirror and saw a man with a hammer standing on Nutmeg Hill’s widow’s walk. Somehow, facing the Governor didn’t seem quite so appalling as it had earlier.
Lyon served a thick roast beef sandwich and an ice-cold bottle of Lowenbrau to the dejected man sitting on the patio. He joined him with a smaller sandwich for himself and an iced tea.
“He really isn’t here,” Sam said.
“No, and he hasn’t been,” Lyon replied. “Pan has been staying with us and she’s now in my study making phone calls.”
“Yeah, I saw her. It’s been four days now, that’s a little long for one of his tricks.”
“He and the boat are gone. The authorities and Pan and I have searched the area and can’t find a trace.”
“That’s not all that’s missing. He’s raped Pranko Construction. He’s scooped up every dime there was, no matter who it belonged to.”
“I thought there wasn’t any money,” Lyon said. “I was under the impression that the company had financial difficulties.”
“He cleaned out the escrow accounts that held unit-deposit money, the payroll accounts, FICA and withholding tax accounts, you name it and he took it.”
“How much did he get?”
“Dice can tell you better than I can, but it’s way over a million. I had to lay off the rest of the crew yesterday, and I got this bad feeling that the paychecks are going to bounce. It’s going to be sheriff time, little guys with briefcases from the state labor department time, big guys from the IRS time.”
“I understand the position you’re in,” Lyon said.
“Do you, Wentworth? Do you really? You understand that I lose my house and everything I own, and then I go to jail? If I’m real lucky the federal people get me before the state people since federal pens are usually better. If I’m really lucky I get sent to Danbury.”
“If Dalton is never found, they’ll think he took everything,” Lyon said. “You’ll be off the hook.”
“Sure, in that case I look like the biggest damn fool in the industry, and only lose my house and personal money because of the notes I signed on.”
“And if Dalton is dead?” Sam munched on his sandwich, drank some beer, and looked off into space. “And if Dalton is dead?” Lyon repeated.
“Well, if they didn’t find the money, the cops would think he was killed for the cash he’s carrying. The insurance would cover us for everything else and get the job back on track.”
“What insurance?” Lyon asked.
The construction foreman was still looking off into space. “The three of us, me, Dalton, and Dice, have partnership insurance that pays the other two if anything happens to one of us.” He broke his reverie and smiled crookedly at Lyon. “Yeah, if someone would kill the son of a bitch, it would solve a lot of problems.”
“You’re the one who’s been chasing around after him with a hammer,” Lyon said.
“Hell, that’s not to kill the bastard, only to knock some sense into his skull. If you’re looking for bad guys, Wentworth, start thinking about Bobby Douglas. Dalton’s gone, but so is that damn barge of his, and he sure didn’t take it to the great practical-joke-land-in-the-sky. Who knew more about that boat than anyone else?”
“Douglas was the mate.”
“He’s the only one who could have made it disappear.”
“Why would he do it?” Lyon asked.
“He was jumping Kat Loop’s bones,” Sam said.
“And Dalton …”
“Had a piece of that action also. In case you hadn’t noticed, Kat Loops has more than enough to go around.”
“Douglas has a successful tennis career,” Lyon said. “He’s not involved in the business end of the project.”
“He’d lost it,” Sam said. “Even before he hurt his leg I beat him a set. He was an over-the-hill tennis player, and that kind gets mean.”
“I found it!” Pan said exuberantly from the French doors.
The segue momentarily confused Lyon, and he wondered if she was referring to Bobby’s declining athletic career. “You mean the phone number?” he finally said.
She came over to the table. “After a zillion calls this guy finally answered, and as soon as he said hello I knew who it was. I’d swear it’s the same voice that used to call Dalton at night.”
“What in the hell is she talking about?” Sam asked.
“Did you know Dalton was into the loan sharks?” Lyon said.
Sam shrugged. “There are certain things you don’t want to know.”
Lyon reached for the telephone note that Pan held. “I want to call him.”
Sarge’s Bar and Grill was considered by all to be the raunchiest of the five establishments in Murphysville that served liquor. It was a beer-and-a-shot sort of place. In this instance, that usually meant that the owner, retired Master Sergeant Renfroe, drank a shot for every beer he served. During the day the bar was a haven for the solitary but serious drinker. Each evening Sarge turned the management over to Chester Noland, who in turn, turned the bar into the most popular gay establishment south of Hartford. It was never determined if Sarge was aware of this or simply didn’t care.
Each working day at noon, Rocco Herbert ate a large hamburger in the corner booth at Sarge’s. This routine had continued over the years because Sarge charged the police officer a dollar less than his other customers and prepared that particular sandwich from the finest chopped-beef tenderloin.
Lyon found Rocco at the booth and slid onto the worn wooden bench opposite the police chief. “It’s been four days,” he said without preamble, “and one of Dalton’s irate partners was just out at the house prepared to do a little joker bashing.”
“Sarge makes a great hamburger,” Rocco said as he pushed his empty plate aside. “I don’t know how he does it.”
“Neither do I,” Lyon said, knowing that any order he placed would be served from the ordinary stock of meat and therefore barely edible.
“You know, you did Norbie and me a big favor by forcing us to start the investigation of Dalton’s disappearance. We both had great files to show the troops that arrived this morning.”
“Who’s interested in Dalton?”
“The legions have descended. You can start with the FBI, backed up by IRS auditors, surrounded by state tax and labor people with a dozen collection lawyers in tow. He’s become a very popular fellow all of a sudden.”
“Why the FBI?”
“They’re treating it as a possible kidnapping, but that doesn’t stop them from playing it both ways. In case he is still walking around, they’ve put his description into the computer network, are running checks on any credit-card charges he might make. I suggested they start contacting all the joke shops in the country.”
“What do you mean by joke shops?”
“Most larger cities have them. The kind of places that sell exploding cigars and sneezing powder, all that good stuff that people like Dalton lo
ve.”
“I think he’s a little more advanced than exploding cigars.”
“You never know,” Rocco said. “He might need a quick joke fix one day.”
“Have you ever heard of a man called Angie Carillo out of Providence?” Lyon asked.
“Boots Carillo, sure. He’s Rhode Island mob. All the mob connections in this state are controlled out of Rhode Island. Carillo runs a lay-off bank and things like that.”
“How about loan sharking?”
“He bankrolls, but wouldn’t be personally involved unless it was big numbers,” Rocco said.
“Pan found his telephone number in one of Dalton’s address books and called him. She’s positive that he’s the one who called them at night. I thought I’d drive up there and interview him.”
“You’re out of your living mind,” Rocco sputtered. “How in the hell do you think he got the name Boots?”
“All those guys seem to have weird nicknames like Fats, Scarface, or Needle Nose,” Lyon said.
“It’s street rumor that in his early days, Carillo disposed of his victims by fitting them with cement overshoes. These functioned very poorly when you tried to walk across Narragansett Bay.”
“It’s only a short drive.”
“No way,” Rocco said. “No Boots Carillo and no trips to Rhode Island. Got it?”
“No trip to Providence, got it,” Lyon repeated.
It took Lyon an hour and a half to drive to Providence, Rhode Island. It took another twenty minutes to backtrack to suburban Cranston where Carillo lived. It was dusk when he arrived at 112 Hutchinson Street, which was a modest stucco house on a quiet thoroughfare not far from Roger Williams Park. Except for minor variations in their tiny front yards, or the addition of an upper-story window dormer, the houses on the street were nearly identical. Constructed on a narrow lot and separated from its neighbor by a concrete drive that led back to a small garage, number 112 had a ceramic pink flamingo standing in a small concrete pool in its minuscule front lawn.
Lyon walked down the short walk and rang the door chime. The first bars of “Ave Maria” echoed through the house interior. When the music-chimes stopped, he rang for an encore. The door was finally opened on the third rendition by a portly man with an astounding shock of gray hair who appeared to be in his late sixties. He carried a spatula in one hand and a long-handled fork in the other. His clothing was obscured by a gigantic white butcher’s apron with the words “Greatest Granddad in the World” stitched in red script.
Death on the Mississippi Page 6