Free Death on the Mississippi by Richard; Forrest Page B

never found, they’ll think he took everything,” Lyon said. “You’ll be off the hook.”
    â€œSure, in that case I look like the biggest damn fool in the industry, and only lose my house and personal money because of the notes I signed on.”
    â€œAnd if Dalton is dead?” Sam munched on his sandwich, drank some beer, and looked off into space. “And if Dalton is dead?” Lyon repeated.
    â€œWell, if they didn’t find the money, the cops would think he was killed for the cash he’s carrying. The insurance would cover us for everything else and get the job back on track.”
    â€œWhat insurance?” Lyon asked.
    The construction foreman was still looking off into space. “The three of us, me, Dalton, and Dice, have partnership insurance that pays the other two if anything happens to one of us.” He broke his reverie and smiled crookedly at Lyon. “Yeah, if someone would kill the son of a bitch, it would solve a lot of problems.”
    â€œYou’re the one who’s been chasing around after him with a hammer,” Lyon said.
    â€œHell, that’s not to kill the bastard, only to knock some sense into his skull. If you’re looking for bad guys, Wentworth, start thinking about Bobby Douglas. Dalton’s gone, but so is that damn barge of his, and he sure didn’t take it to the great practical-joke-land-in-the-sky. Who knew more about that boat than anyone else?”
    â€œDouglas was the mate.”
    â€œHe’s the only one who could have made it disappear.”
    â€œWhy would he do it?” Lyon asked.
    â€œHe was jumping Kat Loop’s bones,” Sam said.
    â€œAnd Dalton …”
    â€œHad a piece of that action also. In case you hadn’t noticed, Kat Loops has more than enough to go around.”
    â€œDouglas has a successful tennis career,” Lyon said. “He’s not involved in the business end of the project.”
    â€œHe’d lost it,” Sam said. “Even before he hurt his leg I beat him a set. He was an over-the-hill tennis player, and that kind gets mean.”
    â€œI found it!” Pan said exuberantly from the French doors.
    The segue momentarily confused Lyon, and he wondered if she was referring to Bobby’s declining athletic career. “You mean the phone number?” he finally said.
    She came over to the table. “After a zillion calls this guy finally answered, and as soon as he said hello I knew who it was. I’d swear it’s the same voice that used to call Dalton at night.”
    â€œWhat in the hell is she talking about?” Sam asked.
    â€œDid you know Dalton was into the loan sharks?” Lyon said.
    Sam shrugged. “There are certain things you don’t want to know.”
    Lyon reached for the telephone note that Pan held. “I want to call him.”
    Sarge’s Bar and Grill was considered by all to be the raunchiest of the five establishments in Murphysville that served liquor. It was a beer-and-a-shot sort of place. In this instance, that usually meant that the owner, retired Master Sergeant Renfroe, drank a shot for every beer he served. During the day the bar was a haven for the solitary but serious drinker. Each evening Sarge turned the management over to Chester Noland, who in turn, turned the bar into the most popular gay establishment south of Hartford. It was never determined if Sarge was aware of this or simply didn’t care.
    Each working day at noon, Rocco Herbert ate a large hamburger in the corner booth at Sarge’s. This routine had continued over the years because Sarge charged the police officer a dollar less than his other customers and prepared that particular sandwich from the finest chopped-beef tenderloin.
    Lyon found Rocco at the booth and slid onto the worn wooden bench opposite the police chief. “It’s been four days,” he said without preamble, “and one of Dalton’s irate partners