Death Through the Looking Glass (9 page)

Lyon returned the bow. “Mr. Wentworth to see Mr. Esposito.” They were waved inside with a gesture toward a low shoe rack. The Japanese silently disappeared through a sliding panel at the rear of the vestibule.

“What in hell is this?” Rocco asked as Lyon slipped out of his sneakers and placed them carefully in the shoe rack.

“I think your hood Esposito has an interest in Japanese culture. You're supposed to remove your shoes.”

Rocco grunted as he pulled off his shoes and placed them beside Lyon's. His 14Ds dwarfed the sneakers. “A Japanese butler, yet. I thought all those guys left to become sales managers of electronics companies.”

“Uh huh,” Lyon replied as he stood before a figure-design print on the wall. “Edo period, I should think. Perhaps even an original Utamaro.”

“It is, Mr. Wentworth. Very perceptive.” Esposito had noiselessly appeared through a sliding panel and now stood with his arms folded inside his exquisitely embroidered kimono. “You know a little of Japanese culture?” The considerable bulk of the man was only slightly concealed by the loose folds of the kimono. The heavily jowled face drooped under closely cropped hair.

“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.