Corpus de Crossword (25 page)

“… Of course, remarks at ladies' functions like these can be extraordinarily catty—no pun intended—so it came as no surprise that a number of
sotto voce
comments had to do with speculation as to when this Gordon fellow will tire of wife number three—”

“Number two.”

“Oh, no, dear … The woman I sat beside is his third wife. She made quite a point of mentioning the fact. Goodness knows why … But her statement did engender several unpleasant jests about when he'll be commencing his quest for number four. Fortunately, she wasn't present to hear them, although I don't imagine the speakers stopped to consider—”

But—”

“Exactly, dear. I also found it unusual that the
current
Mrs. Gordon would take an interest in Newcastle when she obviously resides in the Boston area—Back Bay, I would imagine … However, it seems her mother is a long-time resident of our fair city … The poor dear is in failing health, unfortunately, and now resides at a nearby facility for the elderly—‘managed care,' I believe one calls it nowadays … Oh, my goodness! Look at the time. I must run, dear child. I have a tennis date … you know my Tuesday morning regular … Give that dear husband of yours a kiss from me.” With that, the phone went dead.

Less than a second later, Rosco reappeared, shaved, showered, and ready for the day.

“We're missing one of Gordon's wives,” was all Belle said.

“Come again?”

“He's on his
third
wife, not his second. One of them's still unaccounted for … which
could
mean …” Belle paused, frowned, then shook her head in perplexity. “… which
could
mean that the body your Greeks unearthed … What I mean is, maybe she didn't run off with the business partner … Maybe she—?”

“You're not going to suggest Nikos and Taki dug up an
ex
-Mrs. Gordon?” Rosco also frowned. He looked utterly bewildered. “That's not possible. Gordon only bought the Quigley property a short while ago, and the remains were—”

The phone interrupted the discussion. Like Belle, Rosco started at the sound, then lunged for the receiver. “That better be the insurance company … although they're probably going to tell me the Jeep wasn't even worth three hundred bucks … This is Rosco Polycrates.”

The voice at the other end boomed into the room. “Got some news from Tanner up in Boston, Poly—crates. Don't say I've never done anything for you.”

“I'm all ears, Al.”

“It seems Tanner accidentally discovered a little connection to your buddy Alex Gordon. Through our jumper, Petri … who apparently was once on Gordon's payroll—that would be
unofficially,
of course.”

CHAPTER 33

Belle's gray eyes had turned into slits; her brow was creased in concentration. “Go over that again,” she said as she paced the kitchen. “Tanner told Al—”

“That Petri did ‘unofficial' work for Gordon.”

“What does that mean, Rosco? ‘Unofficial'?”

“He wasn't on Gordon's company books, meaning the work was of a personal nature—”

“But you told me Petri was a dirty cop before he—”

“What can I say? Maybe Gordon was owed money … maybe he needed someone who could do a little ‘persuading.'” Rosco paused. “Gordon made a point of discussing his Russian roots … his real name, the Gorki thing … He also took pains to let me know he was very connected to ‘powerful' people. Maybe he's in with the Russian mob. Maybe he double-crossed the wrong people, and needed Petri to perform a little dirty work of his own. Who knows?”

Belle whistled. “That's a dangerous game.”

Rosco shrugged his shoulders. “None of those thugs would be
my
first choice for soul mates.”

“So you're thinking Petri could have been some kind of bodyguard?”

Rosco studied his notes and shook his head. “No … the dates are too erratic … My guess is that Petri was brought on board for special projects—”

“Like breaking kneecaps—”

“I don't think Russian mobsters are quite that
easy
on their victims.”

Belle looked over Rosco's shoulder. “Wait a minute … Petri and Gordon first connected fifteen years ago—”

“According to Tanner's info …”

“And what happened fifteen years ago?” The look Belle gave Rosco was one that stated an astonished:
How come we didn't figure this one out earlier?

“Gordon's wife and business partner disappeared.”

“Bingo. It matches perfectly.”

“You're not going back to the body buried on the Quigley site, are you? Because if that's what you're thinking, the ages don't jibe. Remember, Abe Jones said he believed the victim was …” Rosco scratched his head as he pondered the situation. “Or do they …?”

Belle waved a hand requesting silence as she reached for the phone. “It's time to call in the big guns.”

Rosco raised an eyebrow. “Big guns?”

“Bartholomew Kerr.”

“The
Crier'
s gossip columnist? What does he know about all this?”

“Are you kidding? Snoop
extraordinaire
and repository of all high society scuttlebutt—whether seemly or not. Preferably not. I don't know why I didn't think to contact ‘Mr. Bizzy Buzz' before. If anyone has the lowdown on Alex Gordon and his happy homelife, or
-lives
in this case, it's Bartholomew. And now that Sara detailed Missus Number Three's local linkage—” Belle's explanation ceased as she punched in numbers, tapped a foot, cradled the phone against her shoulder, and snagged a pencil and pad of paper from a nearby drawer.

Amazingly, Kerr answered his office phone on the first ring—amazing because his adaptable hours often included late-night deadlines that resulted in a late start to his workday. And amazing because mornings weren't Bizzy Buzz's sunniest times. Every one of his callers was well acquainted with his voice mail's curt outgoing message.

Belle expressed surprise and gratitude at finding Bartholomew not only in but answering the line; his response whooshed through the phone line. For a man who appeared so diminutive and frail, he possessed a commanding voice. “But I haven't been
home
yet, dear lady. I'm still operating on
Monday's
long-distant and, I must confess, somewhat
tedious
hours. Theater people and their Monday night shenanigans are just—”

Belle interrupted what she knew from experience was bound to be a lengthy reply. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Alex Gordon?”

“You mean Number One, Number Two, or Number Three …? Forgive me, Annabella. I realize I'm sounding like a shopworn game show host … but I fear I'm a little punchy after last night's festivities at—”

“Which wife was romantically involved with Gordon's business partner?”

“Ah … you want ‘dirt,' I take it.”

“An apter choice of word than you may know.”

A breathy snort greeted this remark. “Oh goody! Do tell Bartholomew all.”

Belle opened her mouth to respond, but Kerr beat her to the punch. “Never mind, Annabella … My lips are sealed. I detect a hush-hush situation in your inquiry. Early morning phone calls involving missing mates of magnet magnates are rife with possibilities …

“So, you want all the sordid details on the perfidious pair … Well, it was Wife Number
One
who absconded with the partner … a sordid little piece of baggage, she was. She'd appeared quite suddenly on the periphery of the Boston social scene—a ‘party girl' would be a kind description. You may ascribe something naughtier if you wish … At any rate, after snagging said husband and propelling him into the gilded limelight of the very rich, she then proceeded to wheedle her ostentatious way into every society magazine, every layout involving home and garden design, every prominent function—”

“How old was she?”

“When she first came to my attention or when she decided to ditch Gordon?”

“Either.”

“Let me think … She wasn't married to Gordon very long before she jilted him … Three years, perhaps; if memory serves—which it may not. Fifteen years is a long time when one's gray matter is so overcrammed with the age's most capricious trivia …” Bartholomew paused and sighed. Belle could picture him: his outsized glasses magnifying his myopic, colorless eyes, his narrow shoulders, his pinched physique, his tiny, restive hands. There was no doubt that Bizzy Buzz, the
Evening Crier
's gossip columnist, was an odd duck, but beneath the posturing and mannerisms, he was immensely loyal. Once a friendship had been formed, it was there for life.

“… But you asked about age, Annabella … In her mid to late twenties, I should imagine. Although it's conceivable she could have been quite a bit older. Expensive spas and pricey cosmetics can take years off a face. Decades, sometimes.”

“Could she have been younger?”

Bartholomew paused again. “Well, it's
interesting
you ask that question, Annabella. Obviously I assumed … we
all
assumed she was well into her twenties when she blew onto the scene … and then with all the media attention focused on the doings of
Mrs
. Alex Gordon … However, now that I think back on it … well, there was a sort of pouty adolescence about her. Nothing remotely innocent, mind you. If anything, Madame Gordon was quite the opposite, a streettoughened—”

“In your estimation, Bartholomew, could she possibly have been in her teens when you first met her?”

“She could have been
anything,
Annabella. The woman invented herself. As far as everyone in the press was concerned, she'd never existed before appearing in Boston … So she could have been a runaway from the Midwest or a thirteen-year-old prostitute from Ukraine who'd latched onto Gordon during a business trip.
Or,
she could have been a late-thirties gold digger afraid of growing old. Names, as you know, are not reliable sources when they can be acquired and discarded as readily as one changes the tint of one's hair.”

Belle was taking feverish notes.
Age?
she'd written.
Nationality? Appearance … history … hair color …? Get height, weight, etc. for Abe
… “What about the man Wife Number One took off with?”

“There, I'm afraid I can be of less help. He only blipped onto my radar screen when the two of them absconded with Gordon's filthy lucre. Prior to the unfortunate love triangle,
she
was the person the media was fixated upon. Afterward, it was all Gordon's show. The wounded husband whose only desire was to await his beloved wife's return, et cetera, et cetera. Gordon's public persona was Mr. Forgiveness himself—”

“I'm gathering from your tone of voice you didn't exactly believe him.”

“Let us simply say that, to date, the dual worlds of commerce and philanthropy have not lauded Mr. Alex Gordon for his altruism—nor for his upstanding professional practices … The word among my cohorts is that Monsieur Alex is most probably involved with money laundering—as well as what a good many other Russian, Ukrainian, and Albanian mobsters have links to, i.e.: the ‘dirty diamond' trade—”

“‘Dirty diamonds'! That sounds dicey—”

“To borrow a phrase: ‘You don't want to know' … ‘Dirty diamonds' … ‘blood diamonds' … at issue, are precious stones that are traded for weapons that promulgate wars in African republics. The losers are quite naturally the general populace. The winners? Well, you can bet your boots it's not your common villager … The Russian mob is heavily involved in the trade, as are the Israelis … I take it you've been apprised that Gordon is an assumed name, Annabella?”

Belle answered a preoccupied, “Hmmm-hmmm …” before continuing with another query. “And Wife Number Two?”

“A rebounder … now relocated to sunny California with their kid. A daughter. I believe that a restraining order was issued …”

Belle again scribbled several pertinent notes.

“… He's not a very nice man, Annabella … A diamond in the rough—if you'll pardon the reference—and I imagine at heart, quite a nasty character.”

“Sara Briephs told me that Wife Number Three—”

“Ah, the darling daughter putting in her appearance at a local fund-raiser … No black eyes—yet, I noticed. No broken arms and so forth, but give it time, Annabella. Give it time. Tigers don't change their stripes—or in this instance, a bear.”

“One final question, Bartholomew, and then I'll let you get back to work—”

“Don't remind me, Annabella! In truth I'd much rather shoot the breeze with our illustrious young puzzler—”

“What finally became of Wife Number One and her lover?”

“I'm afraid I have no answer to that. The lady chose to vanish without a trace. No more photo ops or titillating tales. No topless sunbathing on remote Pacific isles—”

“But you intimated she was a media hound—”

“Of major proportions.”

“Well, wouldn't she have attempted to remain in the limelight with Mate Number Two? Wouldn't her bad-girl status have afforded her
additional
press coverage rather than less? What I mean is: Why would she decide to give up her celebrity status when she'd worked so hard to attain it?”

“A good question, Annabella. Alack and alas, I have no ready response, unless of course there was a chance of a criminal investigation—all that missing money, don't you know? But the lady simply ‘went to earth,' as they're fond of saying in fox-hunting circles. She and her paramour … And now, I'm afraid duty calls … Give my regards to your handsome husband. And, Annabella … let me know if you discover any new ‘dirt' with regards to Mr.—or Mrs.—
Alexei
Gordon.”