Corpus de Crossword (14 page)

“Mike Petri?” she murmured, peering over his shoulder. “What's that all about?”

“Never mind, Miss Nosy. Maybe it's confidential?”

“But who is he?”

Rosco laughed. “None of your beeswax … A guy who wants to talk to me. Didn't leave a number. Said he'll call back tomorrow … And, no, I don't know who Mike Petri is or what he wants … Now are you satisfied?” Then Rosco picked up the crossword Belle had been working on. “Your newest one?”

Belle sighed and nodded. “The wives of Henry VIII … The thematic clues are giving me a really rough time. Plus there are three Catherines and two Annes …”

“Any Russian tsarinas?”

“Ho, ho …”

CHAPTER 18

With Belle ensconced in the
Crier
's morgue, Rosco drove north toward Boston and the offices of Far Yukon Industries. Gordon's secretary had been able to give him a twelve noon appointment, but had also made it abundantly clear that Saturdays weren't normally part of the boss's working schedule. If Rosco were detained—even by ten or fifteen minutes—he'd forfeit his chance for an interview.

That piece of peremptory business out of the way, the secretary had then provided detailed directions to FYI's headquarters, which were situated in a large industrial park in Dorchester on Boston's south side, not far from the Franklin Park Zoo.

Passing through the industrial campus, Rosco spotted what he identified as Far Yukon Industries at the rear of the park. The two-story cinderblock building appeared to house both office and manufacturing space, but unlike other tenants of the complex, FYI had no fleet of matching vehicles parked in its lot, and no trendy logos, signs, or awnings to indicate who occupied the space or what might take place within the walls. The sole marker was an unprepossessing 5245
ENTERPRISE WAY
, painted in small gold leaf letters on a curbside signpost.

Rosco parked the Jeep in a spot marked
GUESTS ONLY
, and tried the door. It was secured, but before he had a chance to press the intercom button, an electric buzzer sounded, indicating the door was now unlocked. He glanced up at a video camera, gave it a slight wave, and entered the building.

It had been clear from the exterior that there were no windows in the building, but once inside Rosco found the effect claustrophobic in the extreme. The front reception area was no more than ten by ten feet. To the left was a desk. A tall and well-proportioned blond woman sat behind it. The only items on her desk were a telephone, a television monitor, and a nail file. On the right side of the small room were two office chairs with a table perched between them. Three back issues of
Cosmopolitan
sat on the table. Directly opposite the entrance was a gray door that appeared to be fashioned out of solid steel. It obviously led to the remainder of the building.

“You must be Mr. Polycrates,” the blond said in a heavy Eastern European accent.

“Yes. I am.” He motioned toward the TV monitor on her desk. “Is there some way you recognized me?”

“Ach, no. The sound of that door chime drives me coo-coo. I try to let people in before they can push that silly button … Besides, you are the only visitor we are expecting. At least the only one who might be wearing a sports jacket.”

“If Mr. Gordon's secretary hadn't given me directions, this wouldn't be a very easy building to find,” Rosco said by way of making conversation. “Far Yukon needs a sign or something out there.”

“Mr. Gordon believes it is better that our neighbors do not know too much about the magnets.”

She said this as if the word
magnets
was synonymous with the testing of nuclear weapons.

“The magnets?”

“We manufacture Muscle Man Magnets. Many people think we are creating force fields. A silly idea, but we've been forced to move our facility twice in the last five years … Other companies have suggested our magnets made a mess of their computers and video and recording tapes, phone service, ee tee cee. Not to mention the rearranging of the molecules in the blood systems.”

“Are you serious?”

She raised her arms above her head and pushed her ample chest toward Rosco. “Do you see anything wrong with me?” She lowered her arms. “People are coo-coo. We make electromagnets. They're as harmless as … well, just look at me.”

“Right.”

“I will tell Mr. Gordon you are here. Please to have a seat.”

Rosco turned, but before he could move anywhere near the chairs, Gordon stepped through the steel door and into the waiting area.

“Mr. Polycrates, I'm Alex Gordon.” He extended his hand.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“Not at all. I'm as anxious to get this mess in Taneysville cleared up as anyone. I was hoping to spend the holidays out there … Ah well, you know what they say about construction work … it takes twice as long as estimated and costs twice as much …”

Gordon was a good deal shorter than Rosco had expected—about five feet eight inches tall, round but solidly built, with a heavy dark brow, dark hair, an equally dark, neatly trimmed beard. The man Belle had recalled from memory hadn't had a beard, nor had he been so broad and bearlike. Rosco wondered whether Alex Gordon had once toyed with bodybuilding and then given up the practice—which could account for his muscled yet boxy appearance.

Rosco judged the CEO of Far Yukon to be in his early forties. His accent was middle American. If he'd been born in Russia, as Big Otto Gunston had implied, there was no hint of a previous speech pattern.

“Let's step into my office, shall we?”

He held the steel door for Rosco and they walked down a twenty-five-foot corridor lit solely by fluorescent ceiling lamps. They cast a sickly hue onto the brown walls; coupled with the gray/black commercial carpeting, the sensation was airless and close.

At the end of the corridor there were three doors. The sound of industrial machinery could be heard behind the center door. On the door to Rosco's right there was a sign reading
MRS. TOLAND
. Gordon turned the knob to his left and motioned for Rosco to enter. On this door there were two signs, one reading
MR. ALEX GORDON—CEO
, and another reading
“ON A VACANT FACE A BRUISE BECOMES AN ADORNMENT.”
The quote was attributed to Maxim Gorki.

After reading the sign, Rosco smiled and said, “Gorki, huh?”

“Yes. My mother claimed we were related to him, but could never produce the documents to prove it … But then, things got a little out of hand during the Stalin era—to say the least. A good many official papers disappeared. So who knows for sure? Maybe it's only romantic family lore … but I like the idea … Have you read Gorki?” Gordon motioned for Rosco to take a seat as he spoke.

Rosco shook his head.

“No? You should. From the early stories like ‘Twenty-six Men and a Girl' to the later novel
Decadence
… His was a real rags-to-riches story. Started out earning his own living at age nine … ended up living in Capri and Sorrento. Not bad for a poor kid from Nizhni-Novgorod …”

Rosco looked around the office as Gordon spoke, noting how spare it was: one large desk with a utilitarian office chair behind it and the chair Rosco was now sitting in. On the desk was the same type of video monitor that sat on the receptionist's desk. Again, there were no windows, and the only item on the walls was an eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photograph of former President Bill Clinton.

“I thought Gorki's real name was … Peshkov or something?” Rosco said, trying to sound as if he were searching his mind for the assigned reading list of some lit class he'd taken in college.

Gordon smiled. “Very good. Not many people know that. Peshkov is my true name. I changed it to something less … well, less foreign sounding … This is America, right?”

“You have no real discernible accent.”

“And I would guess that Polycrates is of Greek origin. Where's
your
accent?”

“Good point. Though I'm a couple of generations removed from the homeland.”

Gordon only shrugged and spread his hands on the desk. The fingernails had been professionally manicured. They also had a decided sheen, as if clear polish had been applied.

“You're probably very busy, Mr. Gordon,” Rosco continued, “so I'll get right to the point. As I told your secretary—”

“Before you get too far, let me tell you that I'm not a Hoffmeyer supporter. I'm backing the incumbent … as I have in the past, and intend to continue.”

“Fair enough. But Milt Hoffmeyer asked … I should say,
hired
me to look into this Taneysville situation. Since you own the property I thought I'd start with you.”

Gordon shifted in his seat. “I purchased that farm eight months ago … No, a little more than that now. Closer to a year … I probably know less about this mess than you do.”

“I'm sure you've heard that the police have cold-cased the investigation until the experts can determine when the victim died … or, to be accurate, was murdered … and who she is.”

No response came from Gordon, but the hands remained splayed on the desktop. At length he said, “I haven't been out to the site in well over a month. I'm not sure what you're getting at …?”

“Do you have enemies, Mr. Gordon? … Assuming that the body was dumped on what is now your property, it's conceivable that you're the target of a hate crime … someone who wants to see your reputation damaged—”

Gordon interrupted. “I don't have any enemies. I make it a point to keep my employees happy …”

Rosco was about to bring up the subject of Gordon's former business partner, but something told him to hold back for a minute.

“… In fact,” the CEO continued, “one of the reasons Far Yukon's plant is built on this model is to enable management and labor to work in close proximity. I'm not viewed as a guy with a fancy car who drifts in once a week to peer down his nose at the peons. I can run every machine in this facility.
And
I put in time on alternate Saturdays—just like my crew.”

Rosco wrote in his notebook, then asked another question. “Do you mind if we discuss your wife?”

“My wife?” Gordon leaned back in his chair, and tapped his fingers together in front of his burly chest. “Let me give you a tip, my friend … Never, and I mean
never,
let a woman get near a contractor. Remember what I said about a job taking twice as long and costing twice as much? Once the ladies are involved that estimate doubles. Even triples. ‘I want the spa facing the window'; ‘We need a Subzero in the master suite'; ‘The ceiling in the foyer should have aged oak beams' …” Gordon laughed. “You get my drift? Women can't conceptualize … their brains are only programmed to rearrange …”

Rosco raised his eyebrows. “I was thinking of your former wife.”

Gordon's eyes narrowed. His dark face turned darker, his brow almost menacing. “She's in California with my daughter. I haven't seen or spoken to either of them for eight years … Eight years. A long time to be legally separated from a child. A situation like mine could never exist in Russia. I would have my child.” Beneath the black beard, the mouth was tight and unforgiving.

Rosco glanced at his notes. He made no attempt to hide his confusion. “Eight years …? I must have been mistaken … I have information that predates that … when your wife was alleged to have disappeared—”

Gordon rose abruptly. “What is this? You come into my office and point fingers at me?”

Rosco also stood. He raised his hands in an effort to calm the situation. “I apologize, Mr. Gordon … I'm just trying to figure this out. I'm sorry if I'm opening a painful chapter—”

“Look, Polycrates, I don't care what's going on out in that hick burb. Or how any of this affects Milt Hoffmeyer. In fact, I hope he loses—big time. All I want is to get the contractor and his crew the hell out of my home so I can walk through the door and slam it behind me—”

“I apologize, Mr. Gordon, but is it possible that your former business partner—?”

“I don't want to discuss him! Not now. Not ever.”

Rosco decided to press the issue. “But couldn't he be considered an enemy? A very serious one?”

Gordon's face grew nearly black with rage. “An enemy to
me?
I'd say you've got it the wrong way around, pal! I'd say the guy who's the mark should be the one bearing the grudge … the guy who was the complete
chump
… the boob … the simp … You know the term
cuckold,
Polycrates? Well, that's me. One of the suckers born each and every minute …”

With some effort, the CEO of Far Yukon began to control himself. “Look, Polycrates, ancient history is ancient history. Water under the bridge. Spilled milk, et cetera … You want to ask me questions about my property in Taneysville, fire away; but my personal life's off limits. Got it?”

Rosco nodded and made a mental note that Gordon, a.k.a. Peshkov, wasn't as sympathetic a character as he tried to appear. “I'm curious as to why you chose the area for a second home. I would have thought a man of your means would have purchased property in, say, one of the more established resort communities. Perhaps, in the Berkshires.”

Gordon resumed his seat and his affable air. “The Berkshires are Boston with more snow. Who needs it? Chichi restaurants, overpriced art galleries … overpriced Italian markets. I don't go to the mountains to buy a Rolex. I can buy one here. Besides, I like forging my own way. Always have.” He laughed. “You been up there? To Taneysville, I mean?”

“Briefly.”

Alex Gordon leaned forward across his desk. “That's where you should be doing your snooping, Polycrates. Me? I'm just a weekend visitor with a home under construction … You want answers to why a body was dumped on the old Quigley site, I'd suggest you ask some of the locals … You met Frank Bazinne yet?”