The Death in the Willows (16 page)

“Then there are no leads at all?”

“They thought they had one, but it fizzled out. An airport limo driver thought he recognized the photograph.”

“Did they follow up?”

“Of course they did.”

Lyon stared at the ceiling. “If you get me the name of that limo driver, I'll start there.”

“You'll start nowhere.”

“What?”

“In the first place, what makes you think you can do something the combined forces of Connecticut and New York can't do?”

“Sometimes I have an intuitive sense about things.”

“Like the time you were the only junior officer ever to argue with General MacArthur at a staff meeting.”

“I was right, wasn't I? The Chinese did cross the Yalu.”

“And you received the fastest discharge on record. And besides, I can't protect you if you leave Murphysville.”

“That explains why you had Officer Martin wandering around the cocktail party last night with a flat beer in his hand.”

“I'm shorthanded because of vacations. Play it cool and we'll turn up something.”

“As long as we had Hilly there was a chance, but I'm not seeing any forward movement.”

“It's not your problem.”

“Yes, it is,” Lyon said softly. They peopled his dreams and haunted his everyday thoughts, and always would until it was over and he had fulfilled his responsibility to them. “I'm going, with or without your cooperation.”

Rocco looked at him steadily. “I was afraid you would. I'll get the name.”

The homogeneity of the borough of Queens was a startling thing to Lyon. The streets of identical row houses, each with small front plots fenced by low chain link fences with three steps to the stoop, had an antiseptic quality that he felt sure must affect the dreams and aspirations of the occupants.

The cab stopped midway down a block. “Here you are, buddy.”

He paid the driver and walked through the gate of number 3333, crossed the tiny yard, and climbed three steps to ring the bell. A vacuum cleaner ceased its whining hum as the door opened to the extent of the chain lock.

A gaunt, slightly jaundiced face of a woman of middle age peered through the opening. “Whatcha' want?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Coin. Billy Coin who works for Carter Limousine.”

“He ain't here.”

“They told me he was off today.”

“Who you collecting for?”

“I'm only trying to locate Mr. Coin.”

“He's at the neighborhood.”

“Isn't this his home?”

“The neighborhood, the neighborhood. Don't you understan' English?” She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead with a tired gesture.

Lyon turned from side to side to look down the rows of identical yards. “It seems to be a fine area.”

“The bar. The local, you know? Henny's around the corner on the boulevard. Go in all the way to the back. You can't miss him, mister, you sure can't miss him.”

The door was shut with a note of finality and Lyon retreated down the walk and turned toward the boulevard. His empathy for the woman behind the chain lock filled him with an ennui that he attempted to dissipate by striding quickly toward the main thoroughfare.

The opaque front window of the “local,” or Henny's Bar and Grill, contained two beer signs, a sloppily printed
ERIN GO BRAGH
, and a large paper cutout of a green shamrock. Lyon entered and coughed at the overwhelming smell of stale beer.

A half dozen men and one lone woman sat at the bar with draft beers and an occasional shot before them. Half looked at a wall TV playing “The Price Is Right,” while the other half looked across the bar at faraway places unseen by others.

Lyon ordered a sherry and asked for Billy Coin.

“In the back. You can't miss him.”

A gargantuan laugh echoed from the rear of the premises and Lyon followed the sound. A pool table under a wide hanging lamp dominated the room. A fat man, the owner of the laugh, held a cue stick in triumph while his opponent, a smaller man in overalls, uttered low curses.

“D-fucking-vastation,” the fat man bellowed. “You're dead, Charlie.”

The thin man scratched his final shot and hung his cue in the rack with a disgusted snort and went to the bar. Billy Coin laughed again in short guttural snickers.

“Mr. Coin, may I speak to you a moment?”

“Play pool?”

“Only a little.”

“Rotation. Dollar a ball.”

“Mr. Coin, I really …”

“Listen, buster. This is my day off. This is my time away from the old lady. So I have a couple of pops and shoot some rotation, right?”

“I guess.” Lyon took the first cue from the rack and chalked as Billy Coin racked the balls.

“Dollar a ball and I break.”

“Please do.” He watched the fat man remove the triangle and sight. “I wonder if you'd look at a picture I have, Mr. Coin?”

Lyon's remark coincided with the shot. The cue ball slithered to the side and hit limply to the right of the number one ball. Coin turned to him with a reddened face.

“D-fucking-pressing. Can't you keep quiet?”

“Of course.” Lyon saw that he had a good shot at the first two balls if he banked properly with a little English. He handed the glossy print of Collins to Billy Coin and lined up his shot. “Have you seen this man?”

“Take your turn,” the fat man said impatiently.

As best Lyon could remember, the last time he had shot pool was years ago in an officers' club in Seoul when the liquor ran out. He took the shot.

The cue ball slonked the two ball into the far right pocket, spun, and hit the one resolutely into a side pocket. He turned away from the table with satisfaction.

Coin's jaw dropped and his voice lowered four octaves. He lay the end of his pool cue along the top of Lyon's hand. “We don't like hustlers in Henny's, buddy. Last guy tried that got his fingers busted.”

Lyon knew that his shot was one of astronomical luck, perhaps the first piece of true luck he'd had since the whole thing started. “Continue the game, Mr. Coin. A dollar a ball, or shall we double our bet? Or would you rather just talk to me a few minutes?”

The fat man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and signaled for a drink.

“We'll call it a draw and talk.”

They sat in a secluded booth where Coin looked at the photograph. “I already told the cops that maybe this was a guy I had on a trip. I couldn't be sure. You know how many trips I make a day to the airport and back? Plenty. Now, the airlines like us to watch out for the screw-fucking-balls in case they're possible hijackers.”

“You work out of the East Side Terminal?”

“Make the run to Kennedy. Cops checked it out, what more can I tell you?”

“I understand they did a thorough job.”

“You talk funny for a cop.”

“I'm not.” With dejection he realized that his slender lead had been well investigated. New York had probably mounted a thirty-man task force to check out rental agencies, airports, and bus terminals. And he had developed nothing further than they had. He had to do more. “Mr. Coin, the day you saw this man on your bus was twelve days ago. You were working the seven-to-three shift. He probably boarded the limousine in the morning. Would you tell me about that day? From the first thing you did when you got up that morning.”

“Crazy. Why should I?”

“Or finish our game.”

“Get me a drink and tell me what you want to know.”

Lyon got the fat man two doubles and had him relax in the booth. Slowly, softly, he led him through the day: his awakening, dressing, what he had for breakfast, the drive to work. It was a stumbling, seesaw affair, and perspiration popped out across the man's forehead as he tried to recall the day and all its minor events.

“… second trip of the day. Musta' been about ten in the morning. He was first on. Real nervous, ordinary-looking guy. Never would have noticed him if he weren't shaking so bad. Dropped his book, picked it up. Sat right behind me. I remember that because on the Pulaski Skyway he had a coughing fit and I wanted to throw the bastard through the window.”

“What?”

The fat man opened his eyes. “I told you the whole bit. He got off. He left. O-fucking-kay?”

“Pulaski Skyway?”

“How else can you get to Newark?”

“You work out of the East Side Terminal.”

“That day I filled in for a guy at the West Side and took runs to Newark all day. Cross the fucking meadows and back again.”

“Jersey,” Lyon said. “Did the police know that?”

“Nobody ever askt.”

The molded plastic contour seat was not made for comfortable slouching. Lyon stretched his legs forward, oblivious to the airport bustle surrounding him. There were three car rental agencies in the terminal, he had spoken to each, shown the photograph, and received a negative response from every clerk.

It had been presumptuous of him to think that in one day he could possibly achieve a lead that had eluded the police task force assigned to the case. He glanced up and looked toward one of the rental car booths. A large flight had arrived, and a cluster of businessmen with attaché cases hovered around the counter. No wonder the clerks could not recall one inconspicuous man over a week ago. And even that assumed he had rented a car. Perhaps he had flown out, met someone, never arrived here in the first place. Placing any credence in Billy Coin's hazy recollection was probably a mistake.

But that was all he had. Lyon closed his eyes and pictured the hotel the day of the hijacking. After dinner Collins had come to his room, they had a drink together and a conversation that lasted five minutes. As he again reviewed the short dialogue, he knew that there were more things he didn't know about Collins than he did know. His name wasn't Collins, he was not an army officer, he did not live where his ID said he did. What did he know about the man? Someone was trying to kill him and since he traveled under an assumed name, he must know this. He had also bought a children's book to give to his grandson, and that grandson was the object of his trip to New England. Yes. Collins had continued on, but how?

The dead ones were part of the milling crowd. Lyon did not believe in vengeance as such, but there had to be a balancing of the scales.

If he could assume that Collins came to Newark Airport to rent a car, he would undoubtedly want to cover himself as much as possible, but would have had to use a credit card. The airports would obviously be covered by the man's pursuers. What would Lyon do in that case?

He'd leave Billy Coin's bus outside the terminal and take public transportation to the nearby city of Newark. Another obstacle thrown in the path of anyone following.

Lyon left the waiting room and hurried toward the parking lot.

He waited until the customer at the rental agency booth in the lobby of the Newark hotel was taken care of before he approached the clerk. Her name tag said to call her Debbie, but she seemed a little too old and tired to be a Debbie. She gave him a slight grimace which he returned with a smile as he handed her a copy of Collins's picture.

“It would be a great help if you could tell me if you remember renting a car to this man.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I really can't help you. I don't remember.”

“When you rent a car, if it's not to be returned here, is there a notation on the form where it will be returned?”

“We have to know when and where our cars will come back.”

“Could you look up for me, the day of the sixth, what cars you had signed out for Springfield?”

“Aw, come on, mister. I'm tired. My feet hurt, and my break comes up in five minutes.”

He opened his wallet and slid a fifty-dollar bill across the counter. Bea would kill him. “I'd be most appreciative.”

Her hostess smile returned. “I'm not that tired.” She stooped to rummage through a file cabinet beneath the counter and pulled out a stack of forms that she placed on the counter. Sorting through them quickly, she pulled one from the center of the pack and put it aside. “None to Springfield that day.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'll look again.” She flipped through the day's slips and then shook her head.

“I'm sorry. The only sign-out that day to anywhere in New England was one to Hartford, Connecticut.”

“None to Springfield …” Then he wondered about a man who lied about his name: would he tell his real destination? He was going somewhere in New England, somewhere where the bus stopped. “May I look at the Hartford one?” She turned the form so that it faced him. He scanned the details and saw that a Floyd Collins had checked out a red Plymouth Volare, marker number New Jersey S34543, for Hartford and used an American Express Card to cover the rental. “Can you tell me if this car has been returned yet?”

“In a sec.” She punched some numbers into a small computer terminal. “No, it's still out. Due back the day after tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

The man at the far end of the hotel lobby, with the newspaper in front of his face, lowered the paper. He waited until Lyon left before carefully folding the paper and walking toward the rental car desk.

11

“THIS IS AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY.”

Lyon spread the city of Hartford street map across the card table in his study and used a straightedge to mark it off into squares. “It's the only futility we have left.”

Bea took the Magic Marker from his hand and made a rapid calculation. “If I take the population of the city and divide it by one car for every four people, that means there are forty thousand cars in Hartford. And that doesn't even consider the possibility that it could be parked in some garage.”

“Garages are usually filled with people's own cars. Visitors park in the drive or street.”

“It's such a slim lead. We could spend a week looking for a car that we're not even sure belongs to the right man.”