Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

“I saw it last night,” I said. “It lit up the whole sky. I've never imagined anything as magical as this in my entire life. This is how I pictured Rome and Florence and Paris all rolled into one.”


We were swept by the human tide up the grand esplanade, lined with columns and dotted with fountains. Each fountain was grander than the one in Central Park. Elegant Spanish or Renaissance-style buildings stood on either side. Some of them had great domes, some of them were adorned with Greek pillars. I'd have loved to see inside each of them, but we were borne forward by the surge around us toward the tower, and by a sense of urgency. A brass band was playing on an outdoor stage. Flags of all nations fluttered in the morning breeze. Even the signs were intriguing, TO THE PLANTATION, TO THE AFRICAN VILLAGE, TO THE WILD WEST SHOW, TO THE TEMPLE OF SCIENCE. How wonderful it would have been to be a visitor here, with time to explore and no worries.

“Where do you think we should start?” I asked Ryan. We had reached the base of the tower and stood beside yet another pool with fountains playing. A breefce sprang up and the spray felt wonderful, as the day had become quite warm. Around us, men were mopping at foreheads with handkerchiefs and women were fanning themselves.

He shook his head. “I have no idea. This whole thing is futile, Molly. How can we possibly find him among these crowds? And I should be back at my theater. There are so many things to do before we open tonight.”

“But we can't just give up and go home,” I said. “What exactly did he tell you he was going to do? Do you remember his exact words?”

Ryan wrinkled his forehead. “He said he was going to make the damned capitalists sit up and take notice, pardon the language, and what better way than destroying that monument to capitalism, the Pan American Exposition. I asked him just how he planned to destroy a whole exhibition, single-handedly. I teased him that he'd need large pockets to carry in enough explosives to bring down even one of the buildings. And he said he'd find a way.”

“Why didn't you tell someone?” I was shocked.

Ryan pushed back a lock of hair in a gesture of annoyance. “My dear girl, I've told you before, I didn't take him seriously. He was always making wild threats and wild promises. He was going to kill the King of England, he was going to blow up the Eiffel Tower in Paris. All talk, Molly. His family thinks he's crazy, you know. He is penniless and quite dependent on them. So why should this fantasy be any different from the others?”

“We have to assume that it is,” I said quietly.

He nodded. “Yes, I suppose we do. Not a comforting thought.”

“So he was planning to blow up one of the buildings,” I said.‘Then it would have to be the tower, wouldn't it?”

“That or the new electricity power plant they've built beside the Niagara Falls,” Ryan said, thinking out loud, “Or my theater. Take your pick. All good targets.”

We walked around the tower, then stood by the fountain, examining the crowd for any sign of Leon. As Ryan had said, it was hopeless. A hundred thousand people must have been at the exposition that day, and there was no reason that Leon would have picked this very day to carry out his plan.

“Let's at least go to the police and give them a description of him. Then we'll have done all we can do,” I said.

Ryan nodded. “I don't see what other option there is. We can't station ourselves everywhere. I hate the idea of turning poor Leon over to the police, but what else can I do?”

“Why poor Leon? The man is a murderer, Ryan.”

“Yes, but also a very troubled person, Molly. I told you his family thinks he is crazy. His father wanted to have him locked away.”

“And do you think he's crazy?”

“Obsessed, I suppose, sums it up. He was obsessed with me for a while. Now he seems to be obsessed with anarchism.”

“I imagine most anarchists must be crazy,” I said.

“Leon isn't a true anarchist,” Ryan said. “As I said, he is obsessed with anarchism at the moment, although he was very good at spending capitalist money when I was paying. He even developed a taste for Havana cigars.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “True anarchists are good at concealing their identity. They behave like you and me until the time comes.” He jumped aside as he was almost mowed down by a group of children who rushed, screaming, toward a clown on stilts.

“Oh, this is ridiculous, Molly. Why on earth did I allow you to talk me into this? It's worse than looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. I've got to get back to the theater. The opening-night curtain goes up in”—he consulted his pocket watch—”in four hours.”

As we made our way back down the grand esplanade, we found that cordons were being set up. Men in uniforms were stationed along the cordons, channeling the crowds to either side. People were starting to line the route, many of them clutching American flags.

“What's this in aid of?” Ryan asked one of the soldiers. “More dignitaries coming today?”