Death Through the Looking Glass

by Forrest, Richard;

  “A little. I had occasion to pass through on my way to Chosen.”

  “Ah, yes. Korea.”

  “The rest of us called it FECOM,” Rocco said.

  Esposito looked toward the chief and then back to Lyon.

  “My associate, Mr. Herbert,” Lyon said.

  Esposito bowed. “Yes, we all must have associates. Do come in for tea, gentlemen.” He led the way through the panel into a series of rooms decorated in Japanese style. At the rear of the house he stopped before a low table.

  “A perfect example of a shoin,” Lyon said as he began to examine a shelf of books next to the long windowsill.

  “Yes, a writing room. Perhaps you would like to see the garden?”

  “I would be honored.” Esposito pressed a small panel above the windowsill, and floodlights immediately illuminated the walled garden at the rear of the house. The area, perhaps a quarter of an acre, was covered with pure white sand raked in concentric circles around a composition of black rocks. “I saw a hira-niwa like this at the Ronji Temple,” Lyon said.

  “An exact duplicate.” Esposito sat cross-legged on the tatami. Rocco looked decidedly uncomfortable as he twisted his legs from one position to another at the low table. Tea was unobtrusively served.

  “I am not unaware of you, Mr. Wentworth. You’re one of our local authors. Children’s literature, I believe.”

  “Yes, The Cat in the Capitol, the Wobbly series; I’m working on a dolphin story at the moment.”

  “Ah, admirable. I work with the haiku myself. In Japanese, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I understand you own a string of porn shops and flesh rubs,” Rocco said abruptly.

  “You have the impatience of the Occidental, Mr. Herbert. Yes, I am the proprietor of what I prefer to call houses of illusion.”

  “A Japanese Esposito?” Rocco asked.

  “I am of Italian heritage, Mr. Herbert. To be more exact, Sicilian. I find that an interest in Oriental culture is a diversion from the exigencies of day-to-day business.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Esposito turned from Rocco. “I can only assume, Mr. Wentworth, that your associate Mr. Herbert has been brought along as what certain of my associates would call insurance.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Interesting. It might be educational to pit him against Mr. Koyota, the gentleman who ushered you in. Mr. Koyota is half Mr. Herbert’s size, but highly trained in the martial arts. He’s of samurai lineage.”

  “About my acquisition of Mr. Giles’s interest in the venture …”

  “Yes. Most interesting, your obtaining that. Perhaps Mr. Herbert was persuasive, or did Mr. Herbert remove the problem?”

  “I don’t think I care for that implication,” Rocco said.

  “It was ungracious of me,” Esposito said, as Koyota silently entered and slipped him a note. He glanced down at the slip of paper for a moment and then up at Lyon. “Mr. Wentworth, I see your wife is our secretary of the state. I should have put the two names in apposition. You did not identify yourself as a police authority, Mr. Herbert. Or should I say Chief Herbert?”

  “We didn’t think it was necessary,” Lyon said.

  Esposito stood. “I believe I would rather talk to Mr. Wentworth alone, Chief Herbert. From unfortunate prior experience, I find business discussions in the presence of police officials most unpleasant.”

  “I can imagine,” Rocco replied.

  “It’s all right, Rocco. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Lyon followed the robed man through a sliding panel into a large room containing a solarium roof and a glistening swimming pool.

  “You may join me if you wish, Mr. Wentworth.” He carefully folded the kimono and laid it on a teakwood bench. He stepped from the side of the pool and sank into the warm water. He immediately bobbed to the surface and hovered there with slight motions of his arms. “Mr. Giles’s portion of the endeavor was not assignable. He, more than anyone else, would know that.”

  “He’s not around to amplify on the situation, Mr. Esposito.”

  “Yes; a pity. He drew up the papers himself, structured it in such a way that it actually became a tontine.”

  “I didn’t know they were still legal.”

  “For all his other faults, Mr. Giles was an excellent attorney. But I’m afraid I can’t go into further detail.” He swam lazily along the length of the pool as Lyon walked the edge.

  “If I understand the term, upon the death of one or more members of a tontine, the remaining shares go to the survivors.”

  “A convenient arrangement.”

  “What’s the transaction?”

  “Please, Mr. Wentworth. Business details of that nature must be kept in strict confidence. However, I can tell you that it is completely legal.”

  “How many other partners are there?”

  “More than myself, let me assure you.”

  “It does give you a motive, doesn’t it, Mr. Esposito?”

  With outstretched arms the bulky man began to float on his back. “Yes, doesn’t it?”

  The study was crowded, which made it difficult for Lyon to pretend not to hear Rocco’s conversation with his wife. Lyon had wheeled a bar cart into the room to mix drinks. He poured a jigger of vodka for Rocco.

  “Yes, dear,” Rocco mumbled into the phone as he kept his back turned from the others in the room. “I know I don’t get overtime, but it’s a murder investigation.… At Lyon’s house.… Kim and Robin.… I know they’re not on the force.…”

  Lyon poured a second shot into Rocco’s drink.

  “I know your brother’s working on the case, but …”

  On further thought, Lyon decided that three would relax Rocco even more, and he poured it heavy.

  The large police officer replaced the phone on the cradle, mopped his brow, and turned to the others with officious authority. “All right, let’s get to work.”

  “I think it’s exciting,” Robin said as she sat cross-legged on the floor against the blackboard propped next to the Wobbly doll.

  Bea glowered.

  Lyon passed drinks around, tossed his off, and went to the blackboard. “O.K., we have three sets of suspects: Karen Giles and her pilot lover; Sal Esposito; and the other members of the tontine.” Everyone shivered as he wrote the names with squeaking chalk.

  Kim jumped to her feet. “I can write more legibly.”

  “The State Police are over Karen Giles like a tent,” Rocco said. “I’ll check out Esposito’s alibi, if he has one, with Hartford.”

  Lyon sat on the edge of the desk and stared at the blackboard and at the large map tacked over the fireplace. He knew it was an open-ended problem, beginning with the business tontine, however that was arranged, and ending with Giles’s murder—however that was arranged. It could be attacked from either direction, and preferably from both simultaneously.

  “I was with Norbert when they went through Giles’s papers,” Rocco said. “I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Now that we know he was involved with Esposito, will you double-check it?”

  “Right.”

  “It would seem to me,” Bea said, “that if we knew when and how the murder was committed, we might have something to go on.”

  “Exactly,” Lyon responded and took the chalk from Kim, who shook her head and retreated to her drink. “I saw a plane go down in the sound in the morning. The plane was not found until the following day—in a different location. There are several possibilities.” He began to list them on the board.

  “I didn’t really see the plane go down in the morning.”

  “How much sherry have you had, Wentworth?” Bea asked.

  “Dr. Rhine did some interesting work on extrasensory perception at Duke,” Robin said.

  Bea sniffed. “With missing airplanes?”

  “I think it was marks on cards.”

  “Two: I saw an entirely different airplane.”

  “It was never
found.”

  Lyon drew a line through the second alternative. “Which brings me to the third possibility: the plane went down when I saw it, but Giles wasn’t in it.”

  “Someone killed Giles later, and then placed the body in the plane—which would explain the phone call.”

  “A strong possibility,” Lyon said.

  “Wait a minute, Lyon,” Bea said. “You said you were positive of the compass bearing when you saw the plane go down.”

  “The compass could have been tampered with,” Kim said. “Wasn’t it stolen from the beach?”

  “Yes, it was. And unless the police in Lantern City can locate the stuff that was ripped off, there’s no way to tell how accurate the reading was. Then there’s the time problem concerning when the plane took off.”

  “The killer could have flown it to another airport and then taken it up again later,” Robin said.

  Bea looked hopeful. “That should be checked out.”

  Lyon drew a circle on the map. “The murderer had to land the plane, kill Giles at the lake house, move the body, and then fly into the water and escape. He had to keep the plane either in Connecticut, lower Massachusetts, or Rhode Island.”

  “What about Long Island?”

  “Couldn’t get over there and back fast enough.”

  “I could check out the airports,” Robin said. “There can’t be more than thirty or forty in that circle.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Bea said. “Take the pickup and drive very slowly.”

  The early visitor to Nutmeg Hill stood planted on the front stoop. The black Cadillac in the driveway behind him matched the color of his suit, although some lighter material woven into the fabric gave it an iridescent quality. Lyon wondered whether it was to be magazine subscriptions or aluminum siding. He ruled out magazines because of the Caddy and replaced them with Food Freezer Plan. He smiled. “Yes?”

  “You Wentworth?”

  “Yes,” Lyon replied, although he didn’t consider the question the best opening remark for a door-to-door salesman.

  “E. sent me. He wants you should steep yourself in the culture of the land of Nippon.”

  “Tell Mr. Esposito that it’s an area of great interest to me, and sometime again I may take a trip to the Orient.”

  “E. says now.”

  “What?”

  An extended finger poked Lyon in the sternum. He involuntarily stepped backward. The man followed him into the hallway, reached into his breast pocket for an oblong envelope, and jammed it into Lyon’s hand. “E. says he’s worried about crime in the streets and wants you should go to Japan … tonight.”

  Lyon opened the envelope and saw the airline tickets: Hartford to San Francisco to Hawaii to Tokyo—one way.

  “E. says he’ll send you return tickets in three months.”

  “Well, that’s very nice of Mr. Esposito, but I really couldn’t take …”

  “Don’t be funny, Wentworth. E. isn’t asking; he’s telling.”

  “It’s not convenient for me to fly to Japan tonight.”

  “Like I say, E. is worried about street crime. He’s taken a liking to you and don’t want you should accidentally get your knees busted with a baseball bat.”

  “There’s very little street crime in Murphysville.” He heard the small click of the phone in the kitchen.

  The extended finger pressed Lyon against the wall. “You aren’t listening, pal. E. feels that a crime wave could happen to you. You might fall off that wall out there and break a leg in three, four places. If you never done that, let me tell you, you stay in the little white room for six, seven months.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Jesus! You mentally retarded or something?”

  Lyon pushed the offending finger away from his chest. “You go straight to hell! Get the hell out of my house!”

  “Your choice, buddy. Makes no difference to me—the easy way, a nice trip; or the hard way, a trip to the hospital.”

  “Get out of here!” Lyon grabbed for the man’s shoulder and was surprised when it became immobile, and then his face was being pressed against the wall and his arm shoved up his back. He involuntarily groaned as his head was pressed hard against the plaster.

  “The plane leaves at six tonight, buddy boy. You be on it, or by six tomorrow you won’t be walking around on those pins. Understand?”

  Lyon’s arm was yanked further up his back until the excruciating pain made his knees buckle. He sagged toward the floor.

  “LET HIM GO!” Bea stood at the base of the hallway with a meat cleaver raised over her head. “YOU HEARD ME!”

  “Don’t threaten, little lady.” The man took three strides toward Bea, parried the cleaver blow and twisted the implement from her hands. It clattered to the floor. His hand lashed out and struck her across the face, knocking her back against the wall.

  Lyon staggered to his feet and lunged. His body was knocked sideways, and he fell to the floor as an open palm came crashing against the base of his neck.

  “Games are over,” the quiet voice said from the doorway.

  The man whirled to face Rocco. “You want some, big bastard?”

  “Try me.”

  The two men met at the middle of the hall. Rocco’s turn at the last moment threw the other man off balance. The chief’s rapid chops hit under the other man’s neck and across the larynx as his foot crashed on the goon’s instep. As his opponent fell, Rocco’s knee came up into the solar plexus. He knelt next to the gasping man, twisted his arms back and cuffed them.

  Lyon struggled onto all fours and shook his head. He saw a frightened Bea by the hall door and staggered to his feet. He lurched toward her. “Are you all right?”

  She put a hand to her cheek, where a red welt was beginning to appear. “Yes, I’m O.K., but you look a little glassy-eyed.”

  “Our friend is carrying a piece,” Rocco said as he drew a .32 from the prone man’s shoulder holster.

  “I got a license. A legal right to carry it.”

  “Let’s see it.” Rocco undid the cuffs and propped him against the wall. “Take it out of your wallet, nice and easy.”

  “I’m a licensed private investigator and have a gun permit.”

  “You were a licensed investigator,” Bea said. “The secretary of the state just this minute revoked your license.”

  “Here’s my permit.” He handed Rocco a card from his wallet. Rocco glanced at it and handed it to Lyon.

  Lyon looked at the name Gabriel Respampte on the permit and wondered if Gabriel had an interest in Far Eastern culture. He handed the card to Bea.

  Bea glanced at the permit and ran a tentative finger across the red slash on her cheek; then she took a step into the hall lavatory and flushed the toilet. “He had a permit.”

  Rocco took the pad from his pocket. “Carrying a gun without a permit.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  “Driver’s license and registration.”

  Mumbling, the man handed Rocco two cards. “All in order.”

  Rocco continued writing in his pad and, without looking at the documents, handed them to Lyon, who gave them to Bea, who flushed the toilet. “Driving without an operator’s license, improper registration.”

  “You can’t hold me on those charges!”

  Rocco continued writing. “Attempted murder, two counts; extortion, two counts; carrying a concealed weapon; counts of assault, battery, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, trespass, mischievous mischief.…”

  “Knock it off, pig. My lawyer will get me out in two hours.”

  “As soon as bail is posted.”

  “Isn’t Judge MacElroy deep-sea fishing today?” Lyon asked.

  “In Florida,” Rocco replied, and kept writing. He put the pad away and, bunching the man’s shirt front, lifted him to his feet. “How were Esposito and Giles involved?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Rocco cuffed the man’s hands and propelled him out the
front door. There was a short scuffle outside, and Rocco reappeared at the door. “Do you have some water?”

  Bea filled a bucket in the kitchen sink and handed it to Rocco. They heard the splash of water as it was thrown over the fallen man, then another crash. Rocco again appeared in the doorway. “Gabriel is terribly clumsy. Could I have some more water?”

  “Wait a minute, Rocco,” Lyon said. “Enough is …”

  Rocco shrugged. “There are two other partners in the tontine. Giles, Esposito, and two others. That’s all he knows, but I’m putting my money on Esposito.”

  8

  Lyon parked the Datsun down the street from the school crossing. As if by mutual agreement, the children appeared along the walk and moved toward the patiently waiting Rocco, positioned in the center of the street. The little girls moved in small, serious clusters, while the boys hung back, engaged in the conspiratorial formation of secret clubs that would engulf them for the summer. Rocco raised his hands to stop traffic. As they moved across the street, some of the boys took furtive glances up at the towering police officer with the revolver strapped to his hip.

  There was a low tap on the car window, and Lyon turned to look into a wooden salad bowl that was thrust under his nose. Several coins and two rumpled bills lay in the hollow of the bowl. He looked up at the two white-robed figures with begging bowls, standing obsequiously by the car.

  “For the Kingdom of the Blossom, sir. A contribution assures you of a place by His right hand.”

  Although an exact determination was difficult because of their robes and the fact that the man had had his head shaved and the girl was turbaned, he placed them at about Robin’s age. “I’m afraid I don’t contribute to just any guruism,” Lyon said and smiled at his witticism.

  The robed figures bowed politely and began to flow down the street. He wondered what lack of love, what Weltschmerz or inadequacy had bent them toward their Kingdom of the Blossom … which made him think of Robin—which he didn’t want to do.