12
The next morning at Murphysville Police Headquarters it took them less than an hour to trace a good many of the hundred-dollar bills. The newer ones, a good portion of the lot, had come from the Fifth Federal Reserve District in Boston. An unctuous money vault clerk, after telephoning back to assure himself that they were indeed calling from police headquarters, had assured them that the newer money had been recently delivered to the Nutmeg National Bank.
“God almighty,” Rocco said. “That’s the biggest bank in the state.”
“It’s all we have,” Lyon said comtemplatively.
“The bills could have been circulated anywhere in the state.”
“We’ve got a listing of twelve bills in near sequence. I think they came out of Nutmeg in a lot.”
The chief tilted back his chair and sighed.
The main office of the Nutmeg National Bank was in a new building near the Hartford Civic Center. As Rocco and Lyon entered the lobby from Main Street, doors hissed open almost silently as they stepped onto the thick pile carpeting. The Main Street level of the bank was a branch banking floor, with the executive offices in the upper stories. As he walked past a counter, Lyon picked up a folded financial statement and flipped it open as they stepped into the elevator.
A quick scan of the foldout sheet informed him that the Nutmeg National Bank had assets in excess of one billion dollars, 102 branches throughout the state, and over 137,000 depositors. He underlined the last figure and leaned toward Rocco.
“We’re reducing the odds.”
“Christ, Lyon. You’re the only man I know who thinks 137,000 to one is good odds.”
The doors of the self-service elevator opened when it leveled at the fourteenth floor. They stepped into a reception area where a petite blonde with a scrubbed face sat before a litter-free desk.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“We have an appointment with Lehigh Collins,” Rocco answered.
A nearly surreptitious phone call by the receptionist, a ten-minute wait on uncomfortable modernistic chairs, and they were finally escorted down a long hall to a large office and an annoyed Lehigh Collins, vice president.
Collins stood behind his desk and offered a quick handclasp. “Chief Herbert, Lyon. Sit down. I’m sorry I don’t have much time, I have a loan committee meeting in a few minutes.”
Lyon handed Collins a list of the money serial numbers.
“We need your help in tracing some money,” Rocco said.
Collins tapped his fingers on the folded sheet without scanning the numbers. “That’s not my department, Chief.” He reached for his phone. “Security does a good deal of that funny money stuff for the federal people. I’ll be glad to refer you.”
“We’d rather keep it in the family for the time being,” Lyon said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yesterday, ten thousand or more of that money was withdrawn from this bank. We want to know who drew it out.”
“I’m in real estate investments, Lyon. You know I’d like to help out a neighbor, but I’m just not equipped—”
“We would like the request to come from you, without mention of police interest,” Rocco said. “We’d prefer that others in the bank were kept in the dark about the origin of the request.”
“Chief Herbert, you know how I appreciate all you’ve done for Murphysville. In fact, I said that at the last town meeting. Those talks you gave to the third grade on bike safety were excellent. I really can’t help you, but I will refer—”
“Collins.” Rocco’s voice took on the hard but underplayed edge that Lyon had come to recognize. “I was up to your place last week. That fence around the new swimming pool is only three feet high.”
“That fence cost damn near as much as the pool.”
“Town ordinance says four feet. I guess I’ll have to drive up to your place after we leave here.”
Collins glared at Rocco, tapped the list again, took his glasses from his breast pocket, and then smiled. “Extortion, Chief. Out-and-out extortion. What do you want to know?”
“The Federal Reserve says that some of those bills were recently shipped to your bank. They were probably drawn out at the same time, hundreds and fifties—an unusual request, I would think, ten thousand in cash.”
“Not so unusual as to arouse undue interest. We do have depositors who go to Vegas, or perhaps even gamble in town; some just like to keep large amounts of cash around for strange reasons. Some businesses still pay in cash. Some large corporations maintain thousands in petty cash.”
“In hundreds?” Lyon asked.
“Well, that’s true,” Collins said reflectively.
“The thing is,” Rocco asked, “can you trace it?”
Collins thought for a moment. “Not exactly. What I mean is, I’m not sure we can pinpoint cash to an individual account.”
Lyon leaned forward. “You’re on computer?”
“Of course.”
“You can run a few days for any account that withdrew ten thousand dollars or more.”
“We’re the biggest bank in the state. We have hundreds of corporate accounts.”
“I’m not interested in corporations. Tax regulations, new rules on political contributions, auditors; I don’t believe the money would have come from a corporate account. I think it came from an individual’s account.”
“That would narrow it quite a bit.”
“Then you could run your records to find if such a withdrawal was made—in cash.”
“We could run the teller slips first, then match those against individual accounts—yes, it could be done.”
“It has to be done soon. I can’t tell you how important it is,” Lyon said.
“It would have to be at the end of business, sometime tomorrow when I could get free time on the computer.”
“Will you get the list to me as soon as you can?”
Collins shook his head sadly. “If I don’t, I don’t think I could ever drive home without getting a summons.”
Rocco gave a low laugh. “That might be true.”
As they rode down on the elevator, Rocco turned to Lyon with a puzzled look. “Where in hell did you learn about banking functions and computers?”
Lyon was thinking about a large elephant caught in an elevator, and the pathos for children it might engender, and he didn’t answer.
The rally for Mike Mattaloni was being held in the Breeland High gymnasium. Lyon stood under the basketball Scoreboard and leaned against the wall as two men waving chicken drumsticks from the box dinner walked past. Bea was in the center of the gym floor gesturing with a chicken wing at the prospective candidate and other supporters. He looked at the soggy box in his hand and wondered why he always got the backs at these functions.
Rocco Herbert, looking uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit, crossed the floor toward him.
“I’m hungry as hell,” Rocco said. “All I got were backs.”
“Impossible. I got all the backs. Stop in the house after we leave and I’ll feed you a couple of steaks.”
“You’re on.” The police chief stood next to Lyon against the wall and looked appraisingly around the gym. Jamie Martin, also dressed in mufti, was next to Bea, while another Murphysville officer was by the main door. Captain Murdock stood by the punch bowl scowling, as if he disapproved of the whole affair.
“What about Murdock?” Lyon asked Rocco.
“I don’t know. I’ve had some talks with my brother-in-law on the state police, but we don’t have anything conclusive. Murdock’s enforcers, or whatever they are, are well insulated underground.”
“If it’s not him, it could be anyone else in this room.”
“Or outside. How in hell can I protect Bea?”
“I don’t think he’ll try anything without assurance that he can get away.”
“In other words, a calculating nut.”
“Exactly.”
“All right, then it won’t be in the building, but w
e have a hell of a problem when we leave. It must be a good fifty yards to the parking lot. There’s a rise to the right, and the football grandstands to the left; anyone with a high-powered rifle—”
“There’s only one floodlight outside the building.”
“I guess so. I didn’t notice.”
“Knock out the light. It’s my feeling that if he plans to do it, he plans to get away with it. He’d have to be a good distance away, and he’d need the illumination of that light.”
“It’s the start of the convention tomorrow. It has to be tonight.”
“Take out that light, will you, Rocco?”
The chief nodded and slipped out the door. A Breeland officer walked over to Lyon. “You Mr. Wentworth?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a phone call for you on the pay phone in the hall.”
He knew who it would be. It was the same distant and muffled voice.
“I heard the news on radio and television, Wentworth. What in hell’s going on?” Rainbow said.
Lyon gripped the phone tightly. He knew what he had to say, and he didn’t want to say it. “She won’t back down.”
“You took money.” The enraged voice was strangled.
“I said she won’t back down. She says it’s a matter of principle. I’ll give you the money back; just leave us alone.”
“You bastard. She’s a dead woman, Wentworth. She’s dead.”
The dial tone hummed in Lyon’s ear, and he hung up with a cold chill.
Rocco was coming down the polished hall. “I had to break into the fuse box, but it’s done.”
“Our friend just called.”
“Threats?”
“To say the least.”
Rocco looked off into the distance. Lyon had seen that look years before in Korea when the Ranger captain had been ordered to capture an insignificant hill in order that some obscure point could be made at the peace table.
“All right,” Rocco said. “Let’s get her out of here. Martin rides with you. Keep Bea down in the back seat. I’ll follow in my car, and we’ll get more men out to the house. Well, don’t just stand there. Get going!”
“THIS IS A NEW PANTS SUIT AND I AM NOT GETTING ON THE DIRTY FLOOR BOARDS.”
Lyon turned from the driver’s seat, put his hand firmly on Bea’s head and pushed her below the level of the windows. “Come on now, cooperate.”
“I don’t like it one bit.”
They had negotiated the distance from the school entrance to the now darkened parking lot at a half run, with a crouched Rocco shielding Bea, while Lyon and Jamie Martin flanked either side. Rocco gestured from the Murphysville car as it pulled alongside the small Datsun. Lyon started the car as Jamie eased his police special from his holster.
“I think this whole thing is a lousy idea,” Bea’s muffled voice said from the back.
“He’s going to make a mistake, Bea. Somehow and somewhere he’s going to blow it, and we’ll have him. We’re already beginning to bracket him. We know a lot more about Rainbow than he realizes.”
“Like how he’s going to kill me.”
“And more.”
“Like what?”
“That he’s from this state and lives within twenty or so miles of here. He has to be; he reacts too quickly.”
“He lives here like two million others.”
“He’s male, Caucasian, thirtyish, near six feet with a medium build.”
“That narrows it to half a million.”
“Slight Boston nuance to his voice, a certain inflection even though his voice has been muffled. He seems to know us.”
“One of my constituents. That lowers it to one in a hundred and fifty thousand.”
Lyon tried to laugh. “Well, that’s some progress, and don’t forget the French phrase he used on me, les jeux sont fait.”
“That’s the name of a book by Sartre. Translated, it means the bets are made.”
“What did you say?” Lyon’s foot left the accelerator, and he turned toward the back seat.
“I said Sartre.”
“No, the translation.”
“The bets are made, something like that.”
“That’s very interesting,” Lyon said. He turned back to devote his full attention to the road and the onrushing night. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw Rocco in the police car directly behind them.
He was filled with doubts. He should never have gotten involved. Even though attempts had been made on Bea’s life, he should not expose her to further danger.
When they were first married they had gone backpacking on a portion of the Appalachian Trail. A montage of views of his wife on the trail ahead of him: turning with a toss of her head, a laugh, urging him on.
He saw her standing over the grave of their child, her eyes wide and dry, the tears used up as she turned toward him with bent shoulders.
“All right, Wentworth,” heard a thousand times, and he loved her very much.
It was all drawing to a close. He had no doubt whatsoever that Rainbow would make a move—tonight, for it had to be before the convention.
Lyon concentrated on the probabilities and possibilities, trying to put himself in the place of their antagonist.
He must know that there was a heavy guard around the Wentworth house. Any type of frontal assault, even if successful, would be costly without the absolute certainty of success. Bea would be guarded in the morning, and the convention hall would be swarming with security. Granted, anyone can murder anyone at almost any time, but only on the basic assumption that the assassin will himself be captured or killed.
Another car could pull alongside and fire a weapon through the window, but there would be scant chance of hitting Bea. And it must also be obvious that they were being escorted by a police car.
He knew when and how it would happen. He turned to Jamie at his side. “What time is it?”
“Nine twenty.”
“And we left the gym when?”
“I looked at the clock on the wall as we left—exactly nine ten.”
Lyon knew it was a thirty-minute ride from Breeland to Murphysville, which meant they were within minutes of being halfway there.
He swerved the car onto the shoulder of the road. Jamie fell against the door as Bea sat up in the rear seat.
“Out!”
He jackknifed out and wrenched open the rear door. Grabbing Bea by the arm, he dragged her from the car. Jamie Martin was out his side with the pistol held before him as he crouched.
“What’s happening?”
“Run,” Lyon yelled. “Run!”
Grasping Bea’s hand, he pulled her off the shoulder of the road. They stumbled into an adjoining drainage ditch and up a small bank. A wall made of loose stones ran the length of a field, and they clambered over it and lay in the high meadow grass.
“What is it?” Jamie asked again.
“Get your head down.”
Brakes screeched as Rocco’s car stopped behind the Datsun. A door slammed; heavy footsteps sounded as the two other officers stumbled over the wall.
“Down!” Lyon yelled at Rocco.
The chief looked at him for a brief instant and then threw himself prone beside them.
Orange flame illuminated the night sky as the Datsun blew up.
“Thermite, I’d say,” Lyon said over the roar of the burning car.
“What’s going on?” Rocco asked as he peered over the stone wall with the Magnum in his hand.
“He’s made his second mistake, and we have a perfect setup,” Lyon replied.
“Mistake? He came within twenty seconds of blowing you up.”
“I’m curious,” Lyon said. “Did he have it detonated on a time device, or was it engine heat?”
13
The state political convention had historically been held in the Haskell Auditorium immediately across from the state capitol. It was a large, pseudo-Grecian building, utilized for concerts, road-company plays, and other large meetings or perform
ances.
State police ringed the building.
Kim eased the VW camper into a restricted parking area near the main entrance of the building. A state trooper with knife-crease pants and a hat that seemed to sit on the very top of his head walked briskly over to the camper.
“Move it, miss. Can’t park here.”
“Check with Captain Norbert,” Kim replied with a smile.
The trooper looked at her doubtfully and then reached for the radio at his belt. He talked into the set for a moment and then looked back at the camper.
“Captain says it’s all right.” He gave a two-finger salute and walked away.
Kim turned to part the curtain that partitioned the camper and looked into the dim interior. Curtains pulled across the rear and side windows hid the occupants from outside view. Lyon sat at the small table making notes on a yellow legal pad, while Bea, across the aisle, looked toward him with her head slightly cocked. Rocco was stretched uncomfortably along the rear seat looking glumly over his folded arms.
“We’re here, people,” Kim said.
“You know,” Rocco said, “eventually we’re going to have to level with the news media ’bout the car bombing.”
“How did it come out on the news?” Lyon asked without looking up.
“Like we gave it to them. Two unidentified bodies, male and female, were found in burned wreckage. They announced it on the seven and nine A.M. news, and the paper carried it on the front page. They’ll be all over us for an ID of bodies that don’t exist.”
“Another couple of hours, Rocco.”
Bea knocked on the table. “DAMN IT ALL, WENTWORTH, DO YOU KNOW WHO RAINBOW IS?”
Lyon held a finger to his lips. “Shh, dear. Yes, I think I do.”
“Then for God’s sake tell us.”
“I could be wrong. All I have so far is conjecture and probabilities.”
Rocco sighed. “Not enough for an arrest?”
“Not yet. But I think that before the morning is over, we’ll have enough to take him.”
“Since you seem to be running the Murphysville, Hartford, and state police this morning,” Rocco said, “how about giving us our instructions?”
Lyon looked at the scrawls across the yellow pad. “All right, let’s run through it. Registration is almost complete. In a few minutes I’ll be going in. Do you have the field glasses and radio?”
The Wizard of Death Page 13