Death in the Secret Garden (12 page)

‘Well, be that as it will.' Lyon forced an exuberant enthusiasm. ‘Let's go find us some eagles!'

‘You two go on without me,' Rebba said. ‘I have hose and heels on and am hardly prepared to cavort in the woods. Just make sure you stay within voice range. If Edward should fall, hose or not, I want to be able to come immediately.'

Lyon took the boy's hand and led him down the road. ‘Keep a sharp eye.'

‘Not too far,' Rebba yelled after them from the car.

‘You got a cig, Went?'

‘A cigarette?'

‘You hard of hearing or is English your third language?' the boy asked. ‘A cigarette. A butt.'

‘I don't smoke,' Lyon said as the boy yanked his hand from his.

‘That figures. Where are the damn birds?'

Lyon briefly considered telling the kid that eagles often ate little boys, but he imagined that would be considered bad form in the Big Buddy manual of conduct. He pushed on with bird lore. ‘An eagle can have a six-foot wingspan and fly forty-five miles an hour,' he prattled on, distracted by the memory of his heated phone conversation with Rocco the night before.

‘Mildred did
what
with the gun?' Rocco had exploded after Lyon recounted his interview with the widow Rashish and her young lover.

‘She dropped it in the river from the Hadlyme Ferry.'

‘Jesus! We could dredge for a month and never find it,' the chief had snorted.

‘She and Skee claim they were in the sack together during the time of the murder.'

‘That kid gets around a lot.'

‘You could say that he is sexually active,' Lyon had replied.

‘I think I had better bring them both in for a lean-on party.'

‘Separately?' Lyon asked.

‘God, yes. I don't interview lovers together during murder investigations.'

‘Good luck,' Lyon had said as he hung up.

‘Can we go home now?' the boy asked, bringing Lyon back to the present. ‘I don't see any big birds.'

Lyon saw its shadow on the ground first. He jerked his head up and snapped the binoculars to his eyes. He didn't need their magnification. The huge bird, whose wings seemed over seven feet in length, swooped across the tree tops in an effortless glide. ‘Look,' he said.

‘I see it,' the boy whispered.

They watched in awe as the eagle swooped off the cliffs and dove directly toward the Connecticut River. It pulled up at the last moment and skimmed the surface. Lost its prey, Lyon thought. He glanced down at the silent boy.

Edward looked at the bird through an opening in the trees with complete awe and astonishment. His wide eyes reflected the image of the soaring eagle as it returned to the cliffs. His hand slipped back into Lyon's.

‘Wow.'

By eight the next morning, Lyon had been sitting at his computer for an hour. A small light blinked. His word-processing program was replaced by a dialogue box.

‘You are idle. Do you wish a screen saver?' the box asked.

He wondered how the Pentium chip would react if he shoved a blunt instrument through the screen.

‘I'm going,' Bea said from the doorway.

‘Have a nice day,' he said automatically without turning.

‘I am trying to salvage my career,' she replied. ‘And I would remind you that it was a nice day when they hung the town witch on the green.'

‘Stay away from cat familiars, incantations, and the governor of this state,' he said.

Bea almost chuckled as she left. He watched out the window to see her stride determinedly to her car. Her manner indicated decisions had been made. He hoped they worked.

He ignored the ringing phone until its continued insistence forced him reluctantly to pick up the receiver. ‘Wentworth here.'

‘Guess whose gun fired the fatal shots into those two women?' Rocco said without preamble.

‘Billy the Kid's. Dillinger's. Bonnie and Clyde. How many guesses do I get?'

‘The state lab just called with a three-way ballistics match. There is a definite match with the slug taken from Boots Anderson, killed in the state forest; Barbara Styles, shot in Saint James church; and a third bullet taken from a man's body last year.'

‘A man here in town?'

‘It was plucked out of my rear.'

‘You were shot by Wiff Stamen during last year's First Federal hold-up.'

‘How well I remember. Get down here! I've resurrected the surveillance camera photos from that little incident.'

‘Wait a minute. How did Wiff escape maximum security?'

‘I'm so damn paranoid that I called the warden of Somers Prison. He tells me that Wiff is still as incorrigible as ever, but was present as of this morning's head count. Because of his charming personality, they keep him out of the general population and confined to his own private little box. He spends twenty-three hours a day in his cell and is only taken out in shackles.'

‘You are confusing me,' Lyon said.

‘Get down here fast and we'll watch movies of yours truly getting shot.'

Within the hour Lyon was stretched out on Rocco's worn leather couch. The chief tilted back in his swivel chair and plunked his size sixteens on the desk. Patrolman Jamie Martin cursed under his breath as he attached a VCR to a TV on a wooden table in the corner of the room.

‘How was your interview with Mildred and Skee?' Lyon asked.

‘I don't know what to believe,' Rocco replied. ‘When she talks about her lover, Mildred's shark eyes glaze over like she's describing a large tuna fish. That boy must have real talent.'

Jamie Martin finished his connections and held up a tape cassette. ‘Ready, Chief?'

‘Let's see movies, Jamie.'

‘Right.' The patrolman switched on the sets and shoved the tape into its slot.

‘You are about to see state-of-the-art surveillance film,' Rocco said. ‘Harry Slavit, CEO of the bank, is also the owner of the Murphysville Radio Shack franchise. Mucho bank money has been spent on electronic wizardry.'

‘I didn't know Harry had his finger in that pie,' Lyon said as the edited film began.

The initial camera sweeps of the bank interior made it apparent that robberies were a rarity in Murphysville, Connecticut. There were no armed security guards in the lobby. There were no sheets of bullet-proof glass separating tellers from customers. A chest-high counter with wide openings by each teller divided customer from money handler.

On the right side of the lobby was the platform containing four desks: two for bank officers and two for senior clerks. Harry Slavit's executive office had a glass partition separating it from the rest of the banking floor. On the far left was a comfortable grouping of chairs around a fireplace.

‘It's the handgun we're interested in,' Rocco said. ‘Wiff's damn gun.'

A camera mounted over the front entrance showed a rear view of several customers standing patiently in lines before the tellers. Those photographs captured the routine look of the tellers as they went about a day's ordinary business. The next series of pictures captured the rear view of a man in jeans and a blue work shirt entering the bank. A switch to the surveillance cameras mounted above the tellers showed the newest customer's approach to the counter. He had a handgun clenched in his right fist. His face was covered with a ski mask. He pushed past a customer and shoved the gun in a woman teller's face.

The entrance camera showed an enlarged facial shot of the frightened teller in front of the gunman. Her eyes were wide in terror. Her hands shook as she filled a paper bag with money.

‘She's so damn scared she forgot the dye-marked decoy,' Rocco said in a low voice.

Lyon knew that he referred to a special package of bills that each teller kept in their drawer. This money was primed to explode outside the bank and cover the bandit with red dye.

Another camera shot from above the tellers showed Wiff tearing off his ski mask to reveal feral features. His thin lips were pulled back from blackened teeth. His grimace turned into a triumphant smile. His look announced that he was in command. His godlike bearing had them all cowering before his awesome power. He was enjoying this complete control.

‘That son of a bitch!' Rocco said. ‘He put that teller, Linda, in Middleburg General's psychiatric wing for three hysterical weeks.'

Wiff stuffed the bag of money inside his shirt and turned to wave the weapon at the other customers. They knew from the incident reports that he was screeching in a high falsetto. ‘Everyone on the floor! Bite dirt, scum bags.'

It was time for Rocco's innocent entrance. He came through the front door examining his monthly pay check. Wiff's first shot shattered the door glass to Rocco's right.

Rocco dropped to one knee and drew his Trooper Mk. V Magnum in one fluid movement. The film showed his weapon's recoil as he fired.

Wiff fired a second time almost simultaneously with Rocco's shot. A moment later he threw up his hands and clutched his stomach. He staggered two steps before he fell face forward.

‘Wish I'd killed the scum,' Rocco said. ‘Now you know why Martha makes me wear that damn breastplate.'

In the bank film, Rocco walked carefully over to the fallen bandit and stood over him. He levelled the Trooper Magnum at Wiff's head and knelt to begin handcuffing the man's hands behind his back.

It was at that moment that Rocco seemed to jerk slightly forward. He quickly regained his equilibrium and finished cuffing his prisoner.

Lyon catapulted to his feet. ‘Reverse the film! Take it back to where Rocco makes his entrance.'

‘OK,' the patrolman said as he rewound the film a bit and then started it forward again.

‘What did you see?' Rocco asked.

‘When you were shot.'

‘It was Wiff's second shot. The first shattered the window. The second got me in the rear end.' Rocco stopped stock-still. ‘That's impossible. Everything happened so quickly. I have always assumed it was that second shot.'

‘I think there was a third shot,' Lyon said. ‘When Wiff fired, he … Look at it again.'

They watched Rocco come through the door again. Wiff fired. Rocco dropped to his knee and shot at the robber. Wiff fired again and then fell.

‘I think that second shot of Wiff's went through the large hole made by the broken glass,' Lyon said. ‘There was no way that second shot could hit you in the backside.'

‘The bullet struck a hard surface and ricochetted back to get me?' Rocco suggested.

‘Didn't the state lab guys search for ricochet marks?'

‘Sure, but they could have missed it.'

‘Unlikely unless it passed outside through the window,' Lyon said. ‘But, seconds later, when you were bending over Wiff …'

Rocco nodded. ‘When I was cuffing him I gave that slight jerk. You know, during that whole incident I had an adrenalin rush. You probably could have run over me with a train and I wouldn't have noticed until later. If Wiff didn't shoot me, who in the hell did?'

‘Whoever picked up his pistol,' Lyon answered. ‘Look.' They rewound the film and played it again. Wiff fell face forward and his handgun spun across the bank floor.

‘We never did recover the weapon,' Rocco said. ‘We knew someone picked it up, but we could never find out who.'

They played the film from the beginning to view the bank's customers immediately prior to the attempted hold-up.

‘My God!' Rocco said as the cameras slowly panned around the lobby. ‘It's a damn menagerie of our suspects.'

Skee Rumford was first in line at the right-hand teller's booth. Immediately behind him stood Canon Mead MacIntire of Saint James Church. Mildred and Eddy Rashish were together behind the canon.

To the far left Spook clutched his monthly disability check while Judge Styles glared at the veteran with repugnance.

When Wiff turned and ordered everyone to the floor, a camera showed Rebba Dirk huddled against the writing counter in a far corner. A man and woman, who could not be identified, were also in the lobby of the bank that morning. The four bank employees on the platform seemed out of range for obtaining the spinning handgun.

‘One of those people picked up Wiff's piece,' Rocco said.

‘And shot you with it,' Lyon added.

‘No one reported a third shot,' Rocco said.

‘Including you, who didn't even realize exactly when he was shot,' Lyon countered. ‘Our gun collector has now managed to kill two women with the same weapon.'

Nine

Ashley Towers was on the telephone with the manager of the Middleburg Escort Service. She angrily tapped bare toes against the floor under the phone table.

‘I'm telling you, Baby Dumpling, this story is worth at least ten thou to the tabloids … Just because I know it is. People in that OJ thing got paid millions. I had a congressman in the sack who was the husband of the governor of this state. He went out like a light right in the middle of it … I told you I didn't get paid. He was a regular and I trusted him … Come on, Baby. I know the rules about payment in advance, but he was a congressman … What do you mean, that's even more reason for money up front?… Now, how much can we get from the tabs? I'll even do some dirty pictures for them … What do you mean, nothing? They won't shut you down … Well, in that case, maybe I'll just get a literary agent and write a book.' She slammed the phone down with a flourish that was followed by a flipped finger at the inanimate object.

She began to have second thoughts. You didn't fool with Baby Dumpling that way. The escort service had been good to her. The money was terrific. After the first month, when she had learned the techniques of maximizing her tips, she was earning two thousand, tax-free, a week.

She never considered herself ‘in the business', a prostitute, whore, or call girl. She was an escort who charged a fixed hourly rate which she split with the agency. If men insisted on tipping her an extra two hundred a pop for going to bed with them, she acquiesced without thought of giving any commercial description to the coupling.