Corpus de Crossword (27 page)

“Don't answer that, Sean. I've got lawyers who'll handle this guy—”

“Mike Petri was murdered on Saturday morning. Murdered, Sean.” Rosco paused to let this soak in. “Do you hear what I'm saying? Someone threw him off the balcony of his high-rise. You can check that with Boston PD if you want. They have fingerprints of—”

“You've got nothing on me, Polycrates.”

“No? Well, let me mention another fact to Sean here … We've got positive proof that fifteen years ago the same Mike Petri murdered the first ‘Mrs. G' and her friend, then drove the bodies out here—”

Sean's perplexed stare swept from Rosco to Gordon. “But the property belonged to—”

“Come on, Sean, use your head; why do you think Gordon bought into this hick burg?” Rosco was almost shouting now. “Because Petri dumped the remains here, that's why. But, instead of revealing the exact locale of the bodies, he blackmailed his old boss until your backhoe operator …” He stopped and took in a deep breath in an attempt to slow down. “That's who Nikos dug up, Sean. Gordon's first wife! And that's why ‘Mr. G' doesn't want you digging here anymore. His old business partner's probably right under our feet—”

Rosco's speech was stopped short as Gordon's shoulder slammed into his chest, propelling him backwards into the door of Sean's pickup. The force of the blow was so severe that it caused the window to pop out and fall across the driver's seat. Rosco was left hunched over and gasping hard for breath. Then Gordon turned sideways, chopping his elbow into Rosco's side. The sound of ribs cracking reverberated across the landscape as Rosco slumped over the front fender of the truck.

While he struggled to right himself, Gordon began walking toward his Mercedes. Rosco reached for his pistol, but before he could locate it, Sean moved forward, his posture perplexed and troubled as he grasped Rosco's arms from behind. “Okay, fella, let's calm down here … I'm sure Mr. G's got an explanation for this whole mis—”

Before Sean could finish, Gordon spun back on the two men, stepping toward them and swiftly bringing his knee into Rosco's groin. At the same time Gordon's right fist drove into Rosco's jaw, snapping his head backwards and sending a spray of blood splattering across Sean's work shirt. The contractor jumped and released his grip as Rosco collapsed on the ground.

“Good work, Reilly.”

Sean looked down at the unconscious body. “… I wasn't trying … All I wanted to do was—”

“Get that backhoe rolling. We're filling up this hole right here and now … You've got an opportunity to make a lot of money, Sean. Big money. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut.”

Gordon spun on his heel and walked toward his Mercedes. When he returned a moment later, Sean was nowhere in sight. Gordon looked toward the backhoe, smiled once, then raised his right hand. In it was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol; attached to the gun was a silencer. He brought the barrel down to meet the back of Rosco's head, then reached across with his left hand and chambered a round. “Tsk, tsk, tsk … Creatures That Once Were Men—”

“I wouldn't get too carried away if I were you, Mr. G.”

Gordon jerked up his head to see Sean staring down at him. A 30.06 hunting rifle pressed into his shoulder, the scope pointing directly at his boss's face.

“Sean, what the hell are you doing? I'm offering you big money. More than you've ever seen. Don't be stupid.”

Sean shook his head. “What I'm thinking is this: you're just lookin' for another patsy … another fall guy. And I'm afraid that ain't gonna be me.”

Gordon slowly began to raise his pistol.

“Don't even consider it, fella … Unless you'd like to see your head hanging in my den next to an eight-point elk.”

CHAPTER 35

The phone call had been a wife's direst fear. “… hospital …” Belle had heard, “… fractures of the … a contusion where the … will need to continue to assess …” Clenching the receiver, her fingers had turned cold, as had her face and finally her body. The man's voice on the other end of the line had wavered in and out of her conscious hearing, but finally Belle had understood the salient fact: Rosco was going to be okay. He'd been hurt, but he would mend. And Belle could bring him home—as long as the patient had a local physician to follow through on treatment. “Naturally, he's experiencing some discomfort,” the voice had concluded. Belle translated from doctor speak into ordinary English: Rosco was in terrible pain.

As she'd returned the receiver to its cradle, she'd pulled her shoulders back and taken several deep breaths. Then she'd lifted her chin and reached for the phone again. Her eyes had glittered with a combination of relief and rage. Alex Gordon was going to pay big time for hurting her husband.
Kill your own spouse if you want, bucko,
she'd silently ranted,
but leave mine alone
. It hadn't been one of Belle's most rational moments.

Then she'd picked up the receiver and called Sara, whose antique Cadillac would make ideal transport for a “patient” experiencing “discomfort.”

Insisting that Belle was too shaken to concentrate on the road, Sara drove them both toward St. Mary's Hospital near Taneysville. Her back was ramrod straight; her silk-lined kid gloves clutched the wheel. She was outfitted in a fur-collared coat with a matching hat and color-coordinated shoes and handbag, as if she'd anticipated the necessity of impressing her status and might on the emergency room personnel.

Beside her, Belle felt like a complete loser and fashion fiasco. Her hair was unbrushed, her cable-knit sweater tatty, her cotton turtleneck losing its elasticity such that the neck sagged like a wet scarf. She was carrying a
brown
purse; her feet were shod in
black
boots (scuffed); her
blue
jeans were faded. Sara didn't even wear such outfits to garden in. Belle slouched in the seat; concern over Rosco heightened her criticism of herself.

After another few minutes of self-reproach, she reached into her jeans pocket and fished out the crossword she'd received on Monday—the one she'd been doodling with just before Rosco had left to confront Alex Gordon.
“‘Change' of Heart,”
she announced bitterly. “I can't believe I didn't notice how obvious the connection was before!”

“What's that, dear?” Sara's driving technique was as old-fashioned as her automobile. She believed in total focus at all times: no distractions from cell phones, car phones, radios, CDs, or books on tape. No eating with one hand, opening or slurping beverages, reaching into a purse for sunglasses, or squinting sideways at a map. “What did you say?”

“That I should have recognized how this money and metal theme related to Gordon … I mean, it's evident what we're looking at: NICKEL, DIME, PENNY … The words are right in front of me—”

“I see, dear.” It was clear, though, that Sara didn't
see
at all.

Belle grumbled at her own stupidity. “After all, what does Far Yukon Industries produce? Magnets! Which are obviously made from metal. Clearly, he must use copper and nickel in his business. And what did Bartholomew insinuate that Gordon was clandestinely involved in? Money laundering, illicit diamonds, the Russian mob—people who don't fool around when it comes to vendettas or revenge or silencing informers …! If I'd only made these basic deductions earlier, then maybe Al or Tanner could have arrested Gordon, and Rosco wouldn't have—”

“I'm afraid I'm not following your rationale, dear.”

Belle's shoulders slumped. “It's nothing.”

“Nothing? But my dear, you were making a point. About the latest crossword you received …” Sara flicked on her turn signal—she liked supplying other drivers with
plenty
of advance warning—then cautiously eased into the fast lane, pulled around the car in front, and carefully returned to the slow lane. “Another anonymous word game? That brings the total to four, doesn't it?”

Belle mumbled a response. She was still deep into personal blame mode.

“And your mystery puzzler hasn't attempted to contact you?”

“No.”

“I wonder who it could be?”

“I imagine someone who lives in the vicinity, because one had no stamp and another had an uncanceled stamp—meaning the envelopes had been hand-delivered.”

“Unless that's a clever ruse, and only a liaison-type person lives in Newcastle.”

Belle considered the suggestion. “A possibility, I guess … But the crucial point is this: Whoever constructed the crosswords knows all about Alex Gordon, knows that he killed both his wife and his former business partner, as well as the whole sordid situation involving Mike Petri … Our puzzler predicted the fire, tried to reveal Gordon's change of name, even urged me to go ‘west' to Taneysville in the first place—and I didn't see any of it! Even though it's been sitting right in front of my nose—”

“Belle, dear, it's not your fault that Rosco—”

“But that's just it, Sara! If I'd made these connections earlier—”

“But you didn't, dear. At the risk of oversimplification: There's no point in crying over spilled milk. Guilt is an unhealthy emotional state, and it won't help either you or your husband if you're castigating yourself over circumstances that have passed. And that may well have been unavoidable—prior hypotheses or no.”

Belle had no response to those words of wisdom. Sara had no additional advice to dispense. The two continued in pensive silence for some minutes. “Anonymous …” Sara finally murmured. “A strange choice when so much was at stake …”

“Given what happened to Rosco—and what befell Petri before him—I would imagine possessing incriminating information on Alex Gordon would require anonymity.”

“‘Befell'? An interesting word choice, dear girl … Well, I suppose you're right …” Sara mused, “but it still seems odd, doesn't it? A discreet phone call to the police would have served the same purpose if the desired result were to put Gordon behind bars … And then there's the matter of waiting for fifteen years before coming forward—”

“But the body wasn't discovered until two weeks ago.”

“The
first
Mrs. Gordon,” Sara added quietly.

Belle smiled wearily. “Bartholomew's going to have a field day with this.”

“He'll need to be careful if he doesn't want to jeopardize any legal proceedings.” Sara again flicked on her turn signal and changed lanes. Nothing was said until she'd safely guided her aged auto back to the relative serenity of the slow lane. “What other deductions have you made, dear? Do the clues or solutions suggest personality traits? Or whether the constructor is male or female?”

Belle hesitated before speaking. “My only theory is that the person is old. At first I assumed it was a man, but I realize I have nothing to base that on.”

Sara laughed. “And what, may I ask, are you basing ‘old' upon?”

“The clues don't strike me as ones a younger generation would be familiar with. Plus”—Belle glanced at Sara sideways, not sure how she would take her next statement—”the hand's a little too precise … a little fearful of betraying unsteadiness.”

Sara sniffed; her proud jaw jutted higher. “And the crossword you hold in your hand, does it also contain antediluvian references—as well as what you perceive as overcompensation for wobbly, old fingers?”

Belle decided not to take the bait. Instead, she began reading clues and answers. “1-Down:
Mr. O'Brien
… Solution: PAT. Not the hippest use for PAT … 2-Down: I'VE
Got a Secret
… a former game show … When did that go off the air? 3-Down:
Amusement hall,
which is PENNY ARCADE.” She spread the paper across her knees. “18-Across:
Theater where there's no talking?
… NICKELODEON … A modern parlance would use
Cable TV Network
… 29-Down:
F. W. Woolworth, e.g
.… FIVE AND DIME …
Mr. Williams
at both 43-Down and 52-Across, the solutions being ANDY and TED respectively rather than the more contemporary Garcia and Danson …
Burns & Allen, e.g
. at 20-Down … Answer: DUO—”

“I see what you mean,” was Sara's gentle reply. “So, what's your theory?” Then she interrupted her own query. “FIVE AND DIME … NICKELODEON … PENNY ARCADE … I agree with your financial references, but also … also …” She paused. “Read me the other puzzle solutions involved with money.”

“QUARTERBACK … COIN A PHRASE.”

“Curious …” Sara mused, “very curious … Something's piquing my memory, but I'm not certain what it is—”

“Then I'm right in my assessment that the crossword constructor is—?”

“A person of a ‘certain age,' I believe is the expression you're searching for, dear child.” With that Sara wheeled her grand old car into the parking lot opposite the hospital's emergency entrance. “If that darling husband of yours hasn't been receiving the very best of care …! Well, I hope I don't lose my temper, that's all.”

Grunting in pain, his rib cage encircled with tape, his head bandaged, his chin swathed in gauze, Rosco had been gently eased into the backseat of the Cadillac. The pain medication made his voice sound muffled and distant, and his concentration drifted in and out.

The basic components of the story had been supplied by the discharge nurse. They'd involved Constable Lonnie Tucker, an ambulance, a witness, and a man taken into police custody. “Folks are saying it's the new owner up to Quigleys' they've arrested,” the nurse had added before dispensing information Belle felt to be more immediately significant: Rosco's two broken ribs were “gonna make him feel like one sore puppy for a couple of days.” But after all was said and done, that he'd be “right as rain.” Belle had liked the assessment far better than the prior “experiencing some discomfort.”